The bell above the door chimed as Katelijne followed her mother into the dressmaker's shop. Warmth pressed close at once — the air thick with the mingled scents of beeswax, wool, and dyed silk. Bolts of fabric rose in towers along the walls, colours spilling like a painter's palette: crimson and gold, midnight blue, a green deep as forest shade. Pins gleamed in little trays, and the steady rasp of shears against cloth marked the seamstress at work behind the counter.
'Ah, Mistress De Wael,' the shopkeeper exclaimed, bustling forward with a smile that bordered on reverence. 'And young mistress Katelijne. What a happy day. Word runs fast — I hear we may soon be fitting gowns finer than any yet made in this street. Perhaps even a wedding dress?'
Margriet's cheeks glowed, her laugh warm and unguarded. 'You hear correctly. My daughter will have the best Antwerp can provide. We must begin at once — gowns for visits, for feasts, for her new station. She will need a trousseau fit for Floris van den Berg's bride.'
Heat flushed Katelijne's face, though not from pride. 'Not yet,' she said quickly, her voice low, almost swallowed by the rustle of fabrics being unrolled. 'No betrothal has been made.'
'Not yet?' The shopkeeper tilted her head, eyes bright with curiosity. 'But they say Master Hendrik himself toasted the match only last week, and that Floris was seen buying pearls at the jeweller's stall on Meir. Such things are not done idly.'
Katelijne's pulse thudded. 'People say much during Carnival,' she murmured, forcing her gaze down to the plain grey wool stacked on the lowest shelf.
'Aye, but people also watch,' the shopkeeper pressed, lowering her voice as if confiding a secret. 'And all Antwerp has eyes for the van den Bergs. It would be folly to think such talk baseless.'
Margriet gave a delighted hum, already fingering a bolt of sapphire silk. 'You see, Katelijne? Even the street knows. It is as good as settled.'
Katelijne trailed her hand over the grey cloth, soft beneath her palm, wishing she could vanish into its plain folds.
Margriet moved eagerly from bolt to bolt, her hands lingering on each fine weave. She held up a length of deep crimson brocade, its pattern picked out with golden threads. 'This, at least. It would suit you beautifully — bold, but dignified. The colour of a prosperous household.'
Katelijne managed a smile, though it felt brittle. 'It is… heavy. Perhaps too much for summer.'
'Then this one.' Margriet turned to a pale velvet, smooth as cream. 'Soft, but rich. You will need gowns for every season, my child. For visits, for feasts, for the guild hall when you stand at Floris's side. Nothing plain will do.'
The shopkeeper, still hovering, chuckled. 'Plain? Never. Not with the van den Bergs. Why, I hear Lady Aleydis insists even her serving girls wear lace on Sundays. Imagine what she expects for a daughter-in-law.'
Katelijne's stomach knotted. She traced the hem of her sleeve, stalling. 'Perhaps we should wait. There is time yet, surely. Father has not—'
'Your father will be wise,' Margriet interrupted gently but firmly. 'He knows what is best for you. And so must you.'
Katelijne looked down at the table of fabrics spread before her — silks that gleamed like treasure, velvets that swallowed the light. Each one felt less like a choice than a chain, their sheen heavy with expectation.
'This grey wool,' she said suddenly, her hand tightening on the bolt she had touched earlier. 'It would serve me well enough for errands. Practical, simple—'
Margriet sighed, almost indulgent. 'You have always been modest, Katelijne. But this is not a season for modesty. You must shine.'
The shopkeeper laughed again, quick to side with Margriet. 'Ah, the young are shy, but it will pass. Once the betrothal is sealed, you'll see how gladly she wears her finery.'
Katelijne lowered her eyes, wishing she could deny it — but the words clung, heavy as the fabrics crowding the table.
The bell over the door jangled. Cold air swept in, carrying the bite of the street, and with it came Lady van den Berg and her daughters.
Aleydis entered first, her chin lifted high, her fur-lined cloak spilling behind her. Clara followed close, a step quicker, her eyes darting over the displays with sharp appraisal. Last came their mother, moving more slowly, her face composed in a smile that did not quite reach her eyes.
'Ah, Mistress de Wael,' Lady van den Berg said, her voice smooth as polished wood. 'I had not thought to find you here. How fortunate.'
Margriet all but glowed. 'Fortunate indeed. We are discussing fabrics for Katelijne's new gowns. Carnival has been lively, and the seasons will turn before we know it. A daughter must be well-prepared.'
Aleydis's gaze flicked to the bolts of velvet and brocade. 'Well-prepared, of course. Especially with changes soon to come.' Her lips curved. 'Rumour travels faster than carriages.'
Clara gave a little laugh, feigned sweet. 'Antwerp will be pleased when such news is formal. A wedding always brightens the city — and the van den Bergs know how to make an occasion shine.'
The shopkeeper, eyes alight with mischief, clapped her hands together. 'There now, I said as much not moments ago. Antwerp will soon have a bride to admire, will it not?'
Katelijne's cheeks burned hot. She managed a polite curtsy, murmuring, 'No such thing has yet been settled.'
Lady van den Berg's smile sharpened, though her tone remained smooth. 'Settled or not, child, we all see which way the tide flows. My son speaks warmly of you. It is a comfort to know he chooses well.'
Margriet's eyes shone with delight, as though each word were blessing. She pressed her hand to Katelijne's arm with a proud squeeze.
But Katelijne could only feel the fabric's weight beneath her palm — silk and velvet and brocade — suddenly suffocating, as though every thread bound her tighter to a future she no longer wished to wear.
Aleydis drifted nearer to the counter, running her hand over a bolt of crimson velvet. 'Red suits a bride,' she said idly. 'Though not every girl can bear it. Some fade beside strong colours, don't you think?' Her glance slid deliberately to Katelijne.
Clara leaned close to the shopkeeper, her voice pitched just high enough to carry. 'Of course, Katelijne is fair. Fair hair, fair skin — it makes a gown's cut more difficult. Too much detail, and she will be swallowed. Too little, and she may appear plain.'
The shopkeeper tutted sympathetically, though her eyes gleamed with relish at the sisters' assessment. 'Nonsense, every girl has her strengths. A skilled hand can draw them out.' She tilted her head, studying Katelijne as though she were already standing on a dais in bridal white. 'A long train, perhaps. A fitted bodice. Pearls at the wrists.'
Margriet clasped her hands together, glowing. 'Perfect. Floris has such a fine eye, he will want her clothed in the best. The van den Berg name deserves nothing less.'
Aleydis's smile sharpened. 'And she will deserve nothing less in return — if she proves steady enough. Our family is not a place for faltering hearts.'
Clara added, sweet as syrup, 'Or for wayward fancies. A wife must keep her husband's honour above all, must she not?'
Their words stung, each one a needle pricking through velvet. Katelijne forced her hands still against the fabric, though inside her pulse beat hard and wild.
Lady van den Berg had remained silent through her daughters' prattle, her gloved hand resting lightly on a length of pale silk. Now she spoke, her tone measured, her gaze fixed directly on Katelijne.
'Marriage,' she said quietly, 'is no gown that may be altered once the stitches are set. It binds more tightly than any seam. A girl may come to it with dreams, but she must live with its weight.'
The shop had hushed. Even Aleydis and Clara fell still at their mother's words.
Lady van den Berg went on, her voice calm but edged with steel. 'If you are to join our house, Katelijne, you must be more than fair face or clever stitch. You must be steadfast. My son will need a wife who carries his name as firmly as his chain. Wavering brings ruin — to both households.'
Margriet gave a brisk nod, as if the lecture were blessing rather than warning. 'My daughter understands, mevrouw. She has been raised to honour her place. She will not falter.'
The shopkeeper, eager to smooth the moment, fluttered with a bolt of satin. 'And such a face will shine all the brighter in fine Antwerp silk. Shall I set some aside for fittings?'
Margriet beamed. 'Yes, yes, of course.'
Katelijne said nothing. Her throat tightened, her fingers clenched in the folds of cloth until the knuckles whitened. Lady van den Berg's words pressed down like a yoke, heavier than pearls, heavier even than Floris's hand on hers.
Inside, she wanted to scream: she was already faltering, already slipping beyond the neat stitches they tried to bind her in.
When at last the bolts of fabric were bundled and the final curtsy exchanged, Margriet swept from the shop all but glowing, her talk already full of colours and trimmings, of sleeves and trains that would dazzle the guild hall.
Katelijne followed, her steps heavy on the worn boards. The winter air outside struck her like a slap, sharp and clean, yet it did not clear the weight pressing on her chest. Behind her eyes the shop still lingered — Lady van den Berg's steady gaze, the shopkeeper's eager whispers, her mother's shining pride.
And then, sharper still, the memory she could not shake: Floris in the tavern, his chain glinting in the firelight, a woman sprawled across his lap, his hand moving freely over skin that should have shamed him. Everyone else expected her silence, her virtue, her obedience. Yet he drank, laughed, pawed at another as though his honour were beyond question.
Her jaw tightened. They praised him as a match of promise, a man of standing. But all she saw was deceit wrapped in velvet. The pearls at her wrist felt suddenly like shackles.
Margriet hurried on, still speaking brightly of gowns and veils. Katelijne kept her eyes on the frozen cobbles, her stomach churning. They all thought her future lay glittering before her. But she knew the truth: Floris already soiled it with every careless touch he took for granted.