The inn had never seemed so still. The hearth was a pit of grey ash, a thin thread of smoke curling toward the rafters where last night's laughter still seemed to echo faintly, a ghost of noise and heat. The benches were littered with overturned cups, dice, and a stray feather from Pietje's tail. Someone had dropped a crust of bread into a puddle of ale; it lay there, bloated and forgotten.
Joseph sat alone near the embers, elbows on his knees, the faint warmth of the fire against his hands. He turned a coin over and over between his fingers — one of the few they had earned — its dull gleam catching the dying light. Around him, the troupe slept in odd corners: Rik sprawled across a bench, boots still on; Joos snoring softly in the shadow of a barrel; Sander curled up beside his parchment like a dog guarding a bone. Only Isabelle's pallet was empty.
He hadn't slept. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Bram in the alley — the innkeeper's hand fisted in his collar, words hissed low and sharp. When Joseph had stepped into view, they'd sprung apart, Bram laughing, pretending to wrestle for sport. But the tremor in his voice had betrayed him. And when Joseph looked into the cap at the night's end, the truth had been there too: nearly empty.
Now, with dawn seeping pale through the shutters, the unease had only deepened. He'd trusted Bram before, but something had shifted. The man's grin was too wide, his promises too quick. And Isabelle — she'd brushed off Joseph's questions with that infuriating calm, as though he were a child fretting over spilled milk.
The door creaked. A sliver of cold light cut across the floor. Isabelle stood there, cloak thrown over her shoulders, eyes sharp even in the half-dark.
'You look ready to bite someone,' she said.
Joseph didn't rise. He only lifted his gaze to her, weary but alert. 'You were out early.'
'Later than you, I expect,' Isabelle replied, shutting the door behind her. She crossed the room with unhurried grace, skirts brushing the rushes. 'Bram's gone to square things with the landlord.'
Joseph's jaw tightened. 'Square things? That what you call it?'
She stopped beside the table, one hand on the back of a chair. 'I call it keeping the peace. You'd rather he left the man fuming and barred us from half the inns in Antwerp?'
'He's the one who made the bargain,' Joseph said. 'And whatever it was, it wasn't the one he told us.' He flicked the coin in his hand onto the table. It landed with a dull clink. 'You call this a night's earnings?'
Isabelle's eyes followed the coin but she didn't reach for it. 'You think Bram pockets a few pennies, the world collapses? He takes risks for us — books the plays, charms the patrons, smooths over the trouble you cause.'
'He charms himself into their pockets,' Joseph shot back. 'The rest of us are fools for the applause.'
The air between them crackled, the kind that came from too many shared years and too many unspoken grievances. Isabelle gave a low laugh, not kind. 'Ah, there it is. The moral indignation. Tell me, Joseph — was Katelijne's virtue enough to make you this pious? Or was it the silk beneath the motley that did it?'
He stared at her, stung. 'Leave her out of this.'
'Hard to, when she's all you see. A merchant's daughter who plays at being free for one night. She'll wake to her pearls and her father's house. You'll wake to a draft and an empty purse.'
Joseph rose then, sudden enough that Pietje gave a startled squawk from the rafters. 'You think I don't know that?' His voice was low, trembling with anger. 'You think I need you to remind me where I stand?'
'Someone has to,' Isabelle said, though her tone softened at the edges. 'Because when the dream ends, I'll be the one holding you upright again.'
Joseph looked at her — at the defiance, the glint of worry she tried to hide — and for a moment the fight drained out of him.
'Then tell me the truth,' he said quietly. 'Did Bram cheat us?'
Isabelle didn't answer.
The silence between them stretched, thick as smoke. Outside, a cart rattled past, and somewhere below, a drunk sang the last line of a tavern tune before trailing into laughter.
At last, Isabelle spoke, her voice quieter now. 'I don't know,' she said. 'About Bram. He plays too close to the edge sometimes, I'll grant you that. But he's never left me short before.'
'Then you're luckier than the rest of us,' Joseph muttered.
Her eyes flicked to him, sharp. 'You think I don't pay my share? You think the roof over our heads is paid with your pretty speeches?'
He met her gaze squarely. 'I think you trust the wrong man.'
She laughed again, though there was no mirth in it this time. 'And you trust the right one, do you? A merchant's daughter who'll drop you the moment her father glances her way?'
'You don't know her.'
'Don't I?' Isabelle stepped closer, chin lifted. 'I know the look. I've seen it in every woman who's tossed a coin into our cap and thought herself kind for it. She looks at you and sees a story, a game. A man beneath her, yet exciting because he dares to smile at her. You think she'll still smile when her mother catches wind of you?'
Joseph's jaw clenched. 'You speak like you've never known kindness.'
Something flickered in her expression — pain, quick and hidden. 'Kindness is a coin we don't get to keep,' she said. 'And you, Joseph… you keep mistaking it for love.'
He exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand through his hair. 'You're bitter.'
'And you're blind.' Her voice trembled, anger or something like it threading through. 'You think I don't see where this road ends? Bram will charm himself into ruin, you'll chase a dream that can't be yours, and when the curtain falls, who's left sweeping the floor?'
'You?' Joseph asked.
'Someone has to,' she said, her mouth twisting. 'Someone always does.'
For a moment, the fight drained from her. She turned away, resting a hand against the wall as though to steady herself. 'You think I don't want you happy,' she said, barely audible now. 'But I know what this world does to fools who reach too high.'
Joseph's anger wavered. He wanted to answer, but the words died in his throat. The truth was too tangled — pity, affection, guilt.
'You sound afraid,' he said finally.
She looked over her shoulder, eyes gleaming. 'I am,' she whispered. 'But not for me.'
For a long while, neither spoke. The fire had burned low, the last embers whispering beneath the grate. From the corridor beyond, came the faint sound of Rik humming under his breath — a tuneless, weary thing.
Joseph sank onto the bench, the fight bleeding out of him. Isabelle still stood by the window, her back to him, shoulders rigid. The flicker of the lamp haloed her hair, making it almost gold.
'You were right about one thing,' he said quietly. 'Bram's not the only one playing close to the edge.'
She gave a short, brittle laugh. 'So you do see it.'
'Aye,' he said. 'But I can't stop. When I'm with her… I forget who I am supposed to be. The fool, the beggar, the stray you dragged in from the road. She looks at me and doesn't see any of that. For a breath, I get to be someone else.'
Isabelle turned then, her face softer, unreadable. 'And what happens when the breath ends?'
He didn't answer.
She crossed the room, sat opposite him. Her movements had lost their sharpness, her tone the bite it carried moments before. 'You think I don't understand what that feels like? To want something you can't have? To look at someone and know they'd never choose you — not in daylight?'
Joseph looked up, startled. Her eyes met his, fierce and aching all at once.
'You kept me alive, Isabelle,' he said. 'I owe you everything.'
'Don't owe me,' she said quickly. 'Just don't let me watch you ruin yourself.'
The quiet between them settled again, fragile as glass. Joseph reached across the table, his hand brushing hers. She didn't pull away, but she didn't look at him either.
'We've seen worse nights,' he murmured.
'And better,' she said, the faintest smile tugging her mouth.
For a moment it was as it had always been — two souls bound not by blood or love, but survival. Yet something unseen had shifted between them, a space widening that neither could close.
A shout came from outside, Bram's voice rising in drunken laughter. Isabelle's smile faded.
'Go on,' she said, standing. 'Check he hasn't gambled our supper away.'
Joseph rose, but before he turned to go, she added quietly, 'And Joseph — don't make me right about her.'
Joseph stepped into the yard, the cold air biting the heat from his skin. The moon hung thin and pale above the rooftops, throwing long shadows across the cobbles. Bram's laughter carried from near the gate — too loud, too desperate.
He stood with the innkeeper, their faces half-lit by the lantern swinging overhead. The man's hand was fisted in Bram's collar, jerking him close.
'You'll get your coin,' Bram hissed. 'Tomorrow, once the others—'
The innkeeper shoved him hard against the wall. 'I've heard that before. You think I'm a fool? My purse is short, and so will your leash be if I don't see silver by dawn.'
Joseph froze. The innkeeper's tone was not play. Bram's grin came a beat too late, splitting his face like a crack in glass.
'All in good fun,' Bram said when he noticed Joseph. He straightened, clapping the man's arm. 'A jest, that's all. My friend here's got the temper of a priest with an empty cup!'
The innkeeper's eyes slid to Joseph, cold and appraising, before he spat on the ground and stalked away.
Bram brushed his sleeve, trying to laugh again, but his hands trembled. 'You heard him — nothing but talk. Come on, we'll drink what's left before Rik hides the bottle.'
Joseph said nothing. He watched Bram walk ahead, shoulders hunched against the wind, and felt the night press heavier around them — as if even joy had a price waiting to be paid.