Morning crept pale and raw across Antwerp. The revels had burned themselves out, leaving only smoke, mud, and a city nursing its hangover.
From the loft above Willem's stable, Joseph watched the light slide over the rooftops — thin, pitiless, draining the colour from everything it touched.
The banners that had streamed like fire last night now hung in tatters, their paint running down the walls in greasy streaks.
Below, someone cursed at a stubborn latch. A moment later Isabelle's voice carried sharp and clear:
'Get up, Joseph. The city's awake, even if you're not. Rik's counting coins and Joos is stealing bread. Come make yourself useful.'
Joseph groaned, dragging himself upright. His back ached from the hard boards, and his clothes still stank of smoke and wine.
Pietje fluttered on the beam above his head, feathers puffed, eyes bright with mischief.
'Fool! Fool!' the bird announced, bobbing.
'Too early for sermons,' Joseph muttered, rubbing his face. He fished a crust from last night's pocket, but Pietje snatched it first and began hammering it to crumbs.
The yard below was already a bustle of noise. Rik sat cross-legged on a barrel, plucking a slow tune that sounded like a hangover's lament. Joos leaned against the wagon wheel, one eye swollen and purpled, claiming victory in a fight no one remembered. Sander crouched with a scrap of parchment on his knee, charcoal scratching fast as he sketched the wreckage of Carnival — a half-collapsed scaffold, a child chasing ribbons through puddles.
And Isabelle, as ever, was the centre of it all: sleeves rolled, hair unpinned, eyes sharp as she sorted their takings into neat little stacks.
'Twenty-seven silvers,' she said, tapping the coins into her palm. 'And six copper for the children's tricks. Enough for food, rent, and perhaps a new boot sole between us.'
'Luxury,' Rik sighed.
'You'll need new teeth before you need new boots,' Joos grumbled, rubbing his jaw.
'Hush,' Isabelle said. 'You both play better when you've eaten. Sander, fetch bread from the baker before he sells the fresh loaves to real customers.'
She looked up as Joseph clambered down the ladder, eyes narrowing at the sight of him.
'You look like you've seen a ghost.'
'Only Carnival's face in daylight,' he said, forcing a smile.
'Carnival's face never changes,' she replied. 'It only grows uglier once the torches die.'
She slid the silvers into her apron. 'Eat, then help Willem mend the wagon shaft. He says there's room for us in the yard till week's end — maybe longer if we draw a crowd again tonight.'
'Another performance?' Joseph asked.
'If Willem has his way. The guilds liked the noise, and the merchants like anything that fattens their sales. We'll keep the stage while they keep paying.'
That made sense. They had worked too hard to claim a pitch in the city's heart to let it go after one night. Antwerp meant coin, warmth, and — perhaps — another chance.
Isabelle mistook his silence for complaint.
'Don't start. We're lucky to have a roof and an audience. Fools without a stage are just beggars in bright cloth.'
Joseph nodded, though his thoughts had already drifted elsewhere. What if she answered? What if, even now, the boy was finding her? What if her reply came before nightfall?
Rik struck up a brighter tune, trying to lift the gloom. Pietje whistled along, off-key. Joos began to sing, his voice cracked but cheerful, and for a moment the courtyard filled with the echo of last night's triumph.
But Joseph couldn't shake the weight pressing behind his ribs. Each laugh jarred against it. Isabelle's eyes found him again.
'Still brooding?' she said lightly. 'The fool who thinks too much is no fool at all. You'll ruin the act.'
'Maybe the act's already ruined.'
She studied him, one brow raised. 'Because of her?'
He stiffened. 'Her?'
'Don't bother lying. You've been staring into shadows since the crowd dispersed. I've seen that look before — in Amsterdam, in Bruges. It always ends the same way.'
'You don't know what you saw,' he said, too sharply.
'No,' she agreed. 'But I know what I see now. A man chasing ghosts, while his purse empties and his wits run thin.'
He tried to laugh it off. 'I thought you said fools shouldn't think.'
'Then take your own advice,' she said, turning back to her coins.
Joseph busied himself with the wagon, though his hands shook on the hammer. The rhythm of the work did nothing to quiet his thoughts. Each strike seemed to drive the doubt deeper: What if the boy never found her? What if she tore the note unread?
⸻
By midday, the sun had thawed the frost into filth. Carnival's banners lay in rags across the square; even the drunks had slept themselves sober.
The troupe split to their errands — Rik to the smith, Joos to beg a free meal from the tavern maid, Sander to plaster new posters for tonight's play.
Bram appeared from the kitchen, sleeves rolled, a bucket in each hand.
'If you're headed toward the Markt,' he called, 'mind your purse. The beggar lads are thick there today — fighting over bits of paper they found by the fish stalls. Willem near chased them off with a broom.'
'Paper?' Joseph asked too quickly.
Bram shrugged. 'Looked like scraps from your posters. Or maybe letters. Hard to tell. They were shouting about a lady's name. I didn't stay to listen.'
He grinned and hefted his buckets. 'Best get your fool's face washed — you're famous now.'
Joseph managed a thin smile, though his pulse had quickened. 'Thanks, Bram.'
When the boy vanished into the stable, Joseph's heart was still thudding. Scraps of paper. A lady's name. The thought would not settle.
⸻
He wandered toward the Grote Markt. Pietje rode his shoulder, muttering scraps of yesterday's applause — 'Pretty fool! Fool!' — as though mocking his restlessness.
The square looked smaller by day. The scaffold was gone, the torches doused, the air sharp with the scent of fish and brine. Merchants shouted prices, their cries clipped and practical. Carnival's dream had been swept into gutters, leaving only the city's hard face beneath.
He leaned on a wagon rail, watching the market churn. Part of him wanted to laugh at his own foolishness — believing a glance could bridge the gulf between a jester and a merchant's daughter. Yet the image of her eyes beneath that pale mask refused to fade.
A woman brushed past him, her basket clattering. 'Mind yourself, player.'
He nodded absently. His gaze had caught on a movement near the fruit stalls — a flash of ragged cloth, a quick darting figure weaving through the crowd.
A boy, small and thin, slipping between legs like a fish in a net.
Joseph's breath snagged. The same patched coat? The same sharp eyes? He couldn't be sure.
'Boy!' he called.
But the child vanished behind a cart piled with onions, too quick to follow.
Pietje squawked, 'Lost! Lost!' and Joseph almost laughed.
He waited there longer than he should have, scanning the crowd, convincing himself he was only watching for pickpockets. Yet every shout, every burst of laughter made his pulse leap.
At last he gave up and ducked into the shadow of the cathedral wall. From there he watched Antwerp move — brisk, indifferent, alive.
No one spared a glance for a fool without his motley.
'You'll freeze before she finds you,' a voice said behind him.
He turned. Willem stood there, pipe in hand, smoke curling from his beard.
'You've the look of a man waiting on something that won't come,' the innkeeper said. 'Take a word from an old sinner: Carnival's full of false promises.'
Joseph smiled thinly. 'I'm waiting on no one.'
'Aye,' Willem said, puffing. 'And I'm the Pope in Rome.'
He tapped ash from his pipe. 'Your sister says we play again tonight. Don't be late. She'll have my head if you wander off chasing saints or whores.'
Joseph laughed despite himself. 'I'll be there.'
'Good lad.' Willem clapped his shoulder and ambled off.
Joseph lingered a little longer, the cold biting through his sleeves. Somewhere across the market a parrot's cry echoed — not Pietje's, just a trader's shout twisted by distance — but it pulled a smile from him all the same.
He reached into his coat and touched the charcoal-stained corner of his last scrap of parchment.
No answer. No sign. Only the ache of wanting.
By the time he turned back toward the inn, the streets were thick with afternoon crowds — apprentices hauling barrels, women haggling, children darting after crumbs.
Among them moved a line of beggar boys, eyes bright, hands outstretched. One of them glanced up at him and grinned — a gap-toothed flash — before vanishing between stalls.
Joseph's heart thudded once, hard. The same grin? The same boy? He couldn't tell.
He waited, but the child did not return.
'Fool,' Pietje croaked softly on his shoulder.
Joseph sighed. 'Aye. Waiting fool.'
He started back toward Willem's, but with each step his pace slowed, his gaze dragging again toward the market. The day had grown no warmer, yet something within him burned — stubborn, foolish hope that refused to die with Carnival's fire.