The candle had burned low, its pool of light shrinking across the desk. Katelijne sat alone, elbows on the oak surface, her gaze fixed on the folded scrap before her — Joseph's note. The edges were smudged, softened by the touch of her fingers. She had read it too many times to count, yet still her heart gave a small, unsteady beat each time she saw his hand.
Beside it lay her rosary, beads glinting faintly in the wavering light. Two small objects, harmless in themselves, yet together they seemed to hold the weight of all she could not say. Devotion and desire — each whispering its claim.
If she were brave, she thought, she would choose one path and be done with it. Instead, she lingered between them, caught in a half-light where neither prayer nor passion could wholly claim her.
A draught stirred the flame. She started, hastily folding the note and tucking it into her gown. The rosary she left on the desk — a sentinel of all that bound her.
From below came the faint clatter of dishes, her mother's voice calling orders to the servants. Life continued, measured, proper, as though nothing had shifted. Yet within her, everything had.
Katelijne rose and crossed to the window. Outside, the city lay hushed beneath frost and starlight. Somewhere beyond the roofs, Joseph would be awake too — waiting, perhaps, as she was.
A soft knock came at her door. Katelijne turned, startled — it was late. When she opened it, Edwin stood in the threshold, shoulders tense, his expression drawn tight with thought. The candle he held threw restless shadows across his face.
'You're awake,' he said quietly.
'So are you.'
He managed a thin smile and stepped inside. The warmth of the room caught the frost on his coat; it melted into droplets along the seams. He placed the candle down beside her rosary, glancing briefly at it before turning to her.
'I spoke with Father today,' he said. 'He's troubled about a contract. The figures with the Meulens shipment don't tally. I meant to finish the ledger tonight, but—' He hesitated. 'I've a meeting with the artists tomorrow. I'd rather not miss it.'
Katelijne's lips curved faintly. 'Then I'll finish it for you. I've balanced worse sums in Father's accounts.'
Relief flickered in his eyes, tempered by something heavier. 'Thank you. You always rescue me.'
'You'd do the same.'
He nodded, but did not leave. Instead, he leaned against the desk, gaze settling on her face. 'There's another matter. I heard talk tonight — Floris. He was seen again at the harbour taverns. Not alone.'
Katelijne's chest tightened. She forced her tone light. 'You needn't protect me from rumours.'
'They're not rumours,' Edwin said flatly. 'You deserve truth, however ugly. But be wary of Joseph too. He's not of our world. To him, risk is a game.'
His words struck harder than she expected. 'You think I don't know that?' she said softly.
He sighed. 'I only want you safe. Father believes Floris a steady match, but I've seen how his kind can wound.'
For a moment, they stood in silence, the air thick with things neither dared say. Then Katelijne touched his arm. 'I'll look at the ledgers,' she said. 'And I'll be careful.'
Edwin nodded, though unease lingered in his eyes. 'Goodnight, sister.'
When he had gone, Katelijne sank into the chair again, staring at the ledgers, the rosary, the hidden note — three worlds balanced before her, waiting for her to choose which one to lose.
The candle burned low, its wax pooling across the rim of the brass holder. Katelijne drew the ledger closer, the familiar scent of ink and vellum grounding her even as her mind whirled.
Columns of numbers marched neatly across the page — sums, weights, prices, all carefully inked in Edwin's precise hand. But near the bottom, a faint smudge caught her eye. The figures for the Meulens shipment — tin from Bruges, if she recalled correctly — didn't match the totals recorded in her father's household accounts.
She frowned, dipping her quill. Something was wrong.
Slowly, she began to trace the pattern: a repeated charge here, a false weight there, each small enough to go unnoticed alone but together amounting to a considerable loss. The name beside each entry was the same — Floris van den Berg.
Her breath stilled.
She flipped through the previous pages, heart thudding faster. Again and again, Floris's hand appeared, woven through her father's dealings. Always neat, always profitable — until now. If these figures stood, the De Wael family would owe the van den Bergs far more than was right.
Katelijne set down the quill, staring at the ink-stained evidence. Floris wasn't merely careless; he was clever. His father's name would never appear on the disputed ledgers, and no one would question an error that favoured so powerful a house.
Anger flared, hot and sudden. The image of Floris at the tavern — his hand on the woman's waist, his mouth against her neck — rose in her mind, and bile followed.
Her family praised his ambition. Her mother adored his manners. And yet here was the truth, scratched in ink: deceit dressed as trade.
Katelijne tore a scrap of paper from the back of the ledger and began to calculate the true totals, her mind sharpening with purpose. For the first time, her fear gave way to clarity. She could fix this — protect her father's name, protect Edwin's position.
Morning light crept through the shutters, thin and grey. Katelijne rubbed her eyes and straightened the pages she'd worked on through the night. Her head ached from sleeplessness, but her mind was clear — clearer than it had been in weeks. The false accounts were there in plain sight. She'd seen the pattern, found the proof.
A soft knock broke her focus.
'Come in,' she said.
Edwin stepped through, his face drawn tight. He looked as though he hadn't slept either. The sight tugged at her heart — her careful, composed brother, always balancing too much between their father's expectations and his own quiet truth.
'You're up early,' he said, glancing toward the open ledger.
'Late,' she corrected. 'I couldn't rest. I was looking at the Bruges shipment — there's something wrong. The figures… they don't add up. Floris's name is everywhere, but the weights and prices are false. It's clever, but I'm certain of it.'
Edwin crossed to the desk, scanning the columns. His brows furrowed. 'You're right,' he murmured. 'If Father hadn't delayed payment, we'd have lost a fortune.'
'I... I suspect it's not a mistake,' she said quietly.
He closed the ledger, fingers pressing hard against the cover. 'Then Father must know. At once.'
Katelijne hesitated. To accuse Floris — her suitor, her family's ally — was to risk everything. Her mother's hopes, her father's trust, their standing in the guild. Yet to remain silent would mean watching their honour stolen piece by piece.
'I'll tell him,' Edwin said after a long moment. 'He'll believe me sooner than you.'
She met his eyes, gratitude and fear warring within her. 'Be careful. The van den Bergs won't take kindly to being exposed.'
Edwin gave a faint, humourless smile. 'You think I haven't learned caution? I'll say it was a clerical error, a misunderstanding — enough to make Father look closer.'
He reached for the ledger, but paused. 'There's more, isn't there? You look as though you've seen a ghost.'
Her throat tightened. She thought of the barn, the dance, Joseph's kiss. The weight of her choices pressed hard.
'Only the truth,' she said at last.
Edwin studied her a moment longer, then nodded. 'Then guard it well, Katelijne. The truth burns if you hold it too long.'
When he left, she leaned against the desk, the ledger still warm from his hands. The candle's stub smoked faintly.
Truth, yes — and before nightfall, she would face another.
When the door closed behind Edwin, the chamber felt smaller, airless. Katelijne sank to the edge of her bed, staring at the ledger, at Joseph's folded note beside it, at the rosary gleaming faintly in the thin light.
Two paths. Both perilous. Both hers to choose.
She reached for the rosary first. The beads were cool, smooth, familiar — the rhythm of safety, of obedience. Her mother's voice echoed: A wife's virtue is her shield. But as she turned the final bead, her mind filled instead with Floris's laughter in that tavern, the woman on his lap, her father's trust hanging by a thread.
Then her fingers brushed the paper. Joseph's hurried scrawl, the ink smudged where his hand must have trembled. Tomorrow. By the chapel. One last time.
Her pulse quickened. It would be folly to go again — reckless, dangerous — yet the thought of not seeing him, of letting that joy fade into silence, was more unbearable still.
Katelijne rose, crossing to the window. Beyond the rooftops, the cathedral bells tolled midday. She pressed the letter to her heart, breath unsteady, decision already forming like a secret flame.
One more meeting, she whispered. Then I will decide.