The noon bell from St. Andries drifted thin across the harbour mist. Joseph sat on a bollard near the moored barges, watching cranes swing and gulls dive between the masts. The smell of tar, brine, and smoke clung to the air. Pietje hunched on his shoulder, feathers ruffled, muttering, 'Fool, fool,' as if impatient for purpose.
He was thinking of her when the crowd split — a boy weaving through, followed by a figure in a dark cloak. Katelijne. She crossed the quay quickly, her hood half-fallen, cheeks flushed from the cold. Seeing her struck him like sunlight cutting fog.
'Joseph,' she said, breathless. 'Thank God I found you.'
He stood, startled. 'You shouldn't be here. If anyone sees —'
'Let them,' she cut in. Her voice trembled, but she held herself steady. 'It's Edwin. My father found his drawings. There was shouting … and now he's gone. I've looked everywhere. They said he came toward the docks.'
Joseph shook his head. 'Not yet — but I'll find him.' He hesitated, then added quickly, 'Before that — you must know — I didn't leave without seeing you. The night you waited, the tavern locked its doors. I fought to get out, but it was past midnight before I reached the square. I swear it.'
Her eyes softened, relief breaking through her worry. 'I thought you'd changed your mind.'
'Never,' he said quietly. 'Whatever else I've done, I'd never walk away without a word.'
The wind caught her cloak; she pulled it close. 'Then help me now. Please. He won't know where to turn.'
'He will,' Joseph said. 'Half the men who've lost themselves end up here. I'll ask through the taverns and wharves till I find him. You'll have word before night.'
She nodded, though fear lingered. 'Be careful. If Floris learns you've meddled —'
'Then I'll make sure he doesn't,' Joseph said, a thin smile flickering. 'Meet me at St. Andries after dusk. I'll send the boy if there's news sooner.'
'Thank you,' she whispered.
He wanted to touch her hand but didn't. The boy tugged at her sleeve, reminding her of daylight and duty.
Katelijne turned to go, her cloak vanishing into the fog. Joseph watched until even the sound of her steps was gone.
He drew a long breath, squared his shoulders, and started toward the nearest tavern. The search for Edwin De Wael had begun.
By mid-afternoon, the fog had thickened to a greasy pall that blurred mast and sky into one grey wall. Joseph had crossed half the dockfront by then — taverns, counting-houses, even the fish sheds — asking after a young man with fine clothes and an unsteady step.
Each answer led him farther down the quay, toward the rougher inns where daylight rarely reached. At the King's Net, the landlord squinted over the rim of his mug.
'A De Wael, you say? There's a lad matching that in the Mariner's Rest. Came in an hour past noon. Drinks like he's paying penance.'
Joseph thanked him and moved on. Pietje gave a rasping squawk from his shoulder, as though echoing the unease tightening Joseph's chest.
The Mariner's Rest crouched against the waterline — windows filmed with grime, laughter sharp with desperation. Inside, the air reeked of stale beer and salt sweat. It took a moment to spot Edwin: alone at a corner table, coat undone, ink still smudged on his cuffs, staring into a cup gone empty.
Joseph crossed the room and sat opposite him.
'You've a gift for hiding,' he said gently.
Edwin lifted his head, eyes glassy. 'Then you should have left me to it.'
'Your sister's worried sick.'
'She shouldn't be. I'm free now, aren't I? No ledgers, no signatures — just another fool in a tavern.'
Joseph reached for the cup before Edwin could pour again. 'This won't set you free.'
Edwin gave a short, humourless laugh. 'You sound like her. Or him. You all want me to paint within your lines.'
'Then paint outside them,' Joseph said. 'There's room in the world for that — more than Antwerp allows.'
A voice cut in from behind: Isabelle, hands on her hips, the troupe at her shoulder — Rik, Joos, even Bram's absence felt near.
'Heard you were chasing ghosts,' she said. 'We found one first.'
Joseph met her look; she nodded slightly.
'Come with us, Edwin,' Joseph urged. 'Paris. We've a wagon, coin enough for the road, friends who won't flinch at charcoal on your hands. You can start again there — paint what you see, not what the city tells you to.'
For a long moment Edwin stared into the dregs of his cup. Then he rose, unsteady but resolute.
'Paris, then,' he said. 'Before I lose my courage.'
The evening bells had begun their slow toll across the river when Joseph reached the chapel garden. The last of the light bled through the fog, turning the gravestones to soft, uncertain shapes. He waited beneath the yew, cloak drawn tight, Pietje shifting restlessly on his shoulder.
Katelijne came through the gate moments later, her cloak hooded, a lantern hidden beneath its fold. The faint flame caught her face for an instant — pale, exhausted, but resolute.
'You found him,' she said at once.
Joseph nodded. 'He's safe. Isabelle and the troupe took him in. He was drinking himself hollow when we found him, but he's sober now — frightened more than anything. We'll take him with us when we leave at dawn.'
'Leave?' The word came sharp, almost a plea.
'Paris first,' Joseph said. 'He needs distance — somewhere he can paint without shame chasing him. He's got real talent, Katelijne. Not the sort you hide behind ledgers.'
Her eyes glistened. 'My father will think he's ruined.'
'Then let him. Some ruin makes way for truth.'
They stood in silence a moment, the mist rising from the grass, their breaths clouding between them. She looked at him then — properly — and the weight of everything unsaid passed between them.
'And you?' she asked softly. 'Will you go too?'
'I have to,' he said. 'Someone must keep an eye on him. He's your brother, and he's my friend now. Paris might give us both a chance to start clean.'
Her chin lifted, brave though her voice trembled. 'Then it seems Antwerp will lose two fools instead of one.'
He smiled, though it faltered. 'If I must leave, I'll take the thought of you with me. That's more than I ever dared ask.'
'You'll come back?'
'When the road allows,' he said. 'When I can stand beside you without shame.'
For a moment, neither moved. Then she stepped closer, close enough that the warmth of her breath reached him through the fog. 'Then go,' she whispered. 'Before I ask you to stay.'
Joseph bent, brushed his lips to her gloved hand, and released it.
She watched him go until his figure disappeared beyond the gate, swallowed by mist and bells.
Dawn broke thin and colourless over the river. Mist drifted between the masts, softening the clang of chains and the shouts of early labourers. The troupe's wagon waited near the quay, its wheels half-sunk in mud, horses steaming in the cold. Bundles of props, crates, and cloaks were piled high, a patchwork of their wandering lives.
Edwin stood beside it, pale and hollow-eyed, his satchel slung over one shoulder. Charcoal still marked his fingers. He looked more a boy than a merchant's heir, yet there was a steadiness about him that Joseph hadn't seen before — the calm that comes after a storm has already passed through.
Isabelle checked the harness, her movements brisk but not unkind. 'Your things are packed with the canvas,' she said. 'No one will question a player's baggage.'
Edwin managed a faint smile. 'You think of everything.'
'Someone must,' she replied, tightening a strap.
Katelijne approached from the wharf, cloak drawn close, the fog beading on her lashes. Edwin turned as she reached him, and for a heartbeat the weight between them held — brother and sister, both changed overnight.
'You shouldn't have come,' he said softly.
'I couldn't let you go without a word.' Her voice caught. 'Father will forgive, in time. Mother too. They'll see you were meant for this.'
He shook his head, though his eyes softened. 'No. But perhaps they'll remember me kindly when they look at the ledgers and find them balanced.'
She tried to smile, failed, and instead pressed a folded scrap into his hand — a lock of thread from her embroidery, wound with blue silk. 'For luck,' she said.
Joseph waited a short distance off, giving them space. When Edwin joined him, the troupe was already climbing aboard. The horses stamped, impatient.
'You'll keep him safe?' Katelijne asked.
'I swear it,' Joseph said. He hesitated, the memory of their night in the chapel garden still bright behind his eyes. 'When the time is right, I'll come back.'
Katelijne nodded once, unable to speak. The wagon jolted forward, creaking into the mist. She watched until its outline blurred with the river fog, until even Pietje's cry faded into the dawn.
Only when the sound was gone did she turn for home — the city waking behind her, the world she'd known already changed.