The kitchen fire had burned low, the last coals sighing beneath a film of ash. A thin light filtered through the high window, more fog than daylight, turning the pewter bowls on the dresser dull and cold. Katelijne stood by the table, sleeves rolled, slicing the rind from a loaf left from breakfast. The rhythm steadied her hands, though her thoughts were elsewhere — on the Guild summons rumoured through the merchant quarter, on her father's heavy silence at supper, on the strange hush that had settled over the house since Carnival ended.
A quick knock broke the stillness. Not from the front — too timid for that — but from the side door leading to the yard. The maid had gone to market. Katelijne wiped her hands and opened it herself.
A boy of twelve stood on the step, cap crushed between his fingers, his face pink from the cold.
'Message for Mistress Katelijne,' he whispered, glancing over his shoulder as if afraid he'd come to the wrong door.
She felt her breath catch. 'Who sent you?'
'Didn't say, miss. Said it were private.'
He held out a folded scrap, the wax seal half melted, the edges damp from fog. She recognised the hurried hand at once. Joseph.
Her eyes flew across the words:
Mistress Katelijne,
I heard your father's name spoken at the Silver Pike. The Van den Bergs mean to take his trade entire — ledgers altered, ships falsely claimed. I have proof.
Trust no bargain they offer.
— Joseph
I did not forget you.
The letters blurred. For a moment she could only stare at the page, her heart thudding like a hammer against wood.
'Where did you see him?' she asked quickly.
'Down by the dockyards, near the cranes. Said he'd wait awhile, if I was quick back.'
She pressed a coin into his palm. 'Go to the back gate. Wait there till I send word. Tell no one you came.'
The boy nodded, eyes wide, and vanished into the fog.
From the hall came the slam of the front door and the sound of boots striking the tiles. Katelijne slid the folded note deeper into her sleeve and moved toward the noise.
Jeroen stood just inside the threshold, cloak still on his shoulders, the damp glinting on the wool. He looked older than the day before, weariness sunk deep into his bones. Margriet had risen from her chair by the hearth, needle fallen to her lap.
'They've summoned me before the Guild at first light,' he said. The words came level but tight. 'Discrepancies in the port tariffs. Repeated, they claim.'
'You've kept those books yourself,' Margriet said quickly. 'You'll show them the truth, and it will be done.'
He shook his head. 'The accounts were tallied through Van den Berg's factor. I trusted his numbers and signed below them. Now those same figures are in question. The Guild means to examine both our records, but it's my name they'll weigh.'
'There will be an explanation,' she said. 'A clerk's mistake—'
'No. A pattern,' Jeroen cut in. 'Rumour's already at the Exchange. They say De Wael's profit rests on borrowed coin.'
He crossed to the fire, pressing a hand to the mantel. 'I thought Floris eager, not reckless. We've traded these past months — his ships carrying my goods, my credit securing his charters. If he's been altering tariffs, he profits while I bear the stain.'
Margriet reached to steady him, her voice thin with hope. 'Floris is proud, but not deceitful. He'll explain.'
He gave no answer. The rain against the shutters filled the silence.
Moments later, the knocker sounded — a single, deliberate strike. A servant opened the door, and Floris van den Berg stepped in from the fog, cloak speckled with rain, concern shining smooth as polished brass.
'Master De Wael,' he said, bowing. 'Forgive my intrusion. I came the moment I heard.'
'Then you know the Guild suspects deceit in the port ledgers,' Jeroen replied.
Floris spread his hands. 'A wretched mistake. My clerk miscopied several entries. I meant to correct them before the tally, but gossip outran the truth. I swear, sir, I never meant to bring shadow on your name.'
'You understand what's at stake?' Jeroen's voice was quiet, held in check. 'Thirty years of honest trade, and now this.'
Floris bowed his head. 'Then let me set it right. I'll bring the ledgers from my father's office, the clerk with them. The Guild will see our accounts matched line for line, and the matter forgotten.'
He glanced at Jeroen, his voice smooth with practiced remorse.
'You have my word, sir. I'll not let this shadow linger beyond tonight.'
Jeroen inclined his head, courteous but cold. 'Then I will expect you before nightfall.'
Floris smiled — the kind of smile meant to reassure and impress in equal measure.
'You shall have your proof before the Guild meets at dawn.'
He bowed to Margriet, offered a polite nod toward the passage where Katelijne stood half-hidden, and turned toward the door.
The sound of his boots faded across the tiles, then the soft thud of the door closing behind him.
Only when the echo was gone did anyone breathe.
Margriet exhaled. 'You see? A foolish error, nothing more.'
'Perhaps,' Jeroen said. He removed his cloak with deliberate care, each fold neat, his control restored by habit. 'But I'll have our own books beside his before the Guild reads a word. The spring contracts — Edwin kept those journals, did he not?'
'In his room,' Margriet said quickly. 'Second shelf, the leather spines.'
'I'll fetch them.'
He left the hall. The fire popped. Katelijne lingered by the doorway, the pulse in her wrist beating against the letter hidden in her sleeve: I have proof. Trust no bargain.
⸻
Jeroen returned sooner than expected, empty-handed except for a single sheet of paper, its edge smudged dark with charcoal.
He stopped by the fire, staring at it as though it had spoken. 'This was lying between Edwin's journals.'
He turned the sheet toward them. A young man's head, half-turned, alive in light and shadow — not a study from life, but from truth.
Margriet drew in a sharp breath. 'Oh.'
'This is Edwin's?' Jeroen asked quietly.
Katelijne hesitated. The line, the weight, the restraint — it could only be her brother's hand. 'Yes,' she said softly.
'Since when?'
'Some months. After supper, when the house is quiet. He means no harm — he simply draws.'
'Simply,' Jeroen repeated, as if the word itself offended him. He looked again at the portrait, the intimacy of its gaze. 'A merchant's son has better uses for his hands.'
Margriet stepped closer, her frown tightening. 'Peaceful, you say? It looks far too … personal. Why would he hide this?'
'Because he feared you'd think it folly,' Katelijne said. 'He's gifted. You've seen it in his designs — the curve of a hull, the balance of a room. This is the same eye, only freer.'
Jeroen studied the drawing a moment longer, sorrow flickering beneath his composure. 'And yet he hid it.'
'Because he thought you would not understand.'
The room fell still. Outside, the wind pressed at the shutters; inside, only the fire crackled and her mother's breathing quickened. Somewhere a floorboard creaked — the sound of the house itself holding its breath.
The latch clicked. All three turned.
Edwin stood in the doorway, fog still clinging to his coat.
He froze when he saw the sketch in his father's hand, colour draining from his face.
'So,' he said quietly. 'You've found it.'
'You might explain,' Jeroen said, voice low. 'Are my ledgers now your sketchbook?'
'They were mine to keep,' Edwin answered. 'I hurt no one.'
'You've hurt your name,' Margriet whispered. 'If word spreads that a De Wael son trades figures for charcoal —'
'It wasn't meant for you to see,' Edwin cut in, trembling.
'Then why hide it?' Jeroen pressed.
'Because you'd never understand!' His voice cracked. 'You call it folly, yet it's the only thing that feels true. You deal with men like Floris van den Berg, and I'm the shame?'
'Enough,' Jeroen said sharply, though the anger thinned into sorrow. 'You speak without knowing.'
'I know deceit when I see it.'
He turned to Katelijne, hurt raw in his eyes. 'You showed them.'
'I didn't,' she said. 'Father found it himself.'
'And you told him,' he said, disbelief tightening his jaw.
'He already knew,' she whispered.
A long silence. Then Edwin drew a steadier breath. 'You wanted a merchant,' he said, his voice low but sure. 'I'm not him.'
He hesitated in the doorway, one hand braced against the frame. 'It's Katelijne who has the head for trade,' he added softly. 'She sees patterns where I see only numbers. If anyone should carry your name in the Guild, it's her.'
Then he turned and left, the door closing softly behind him, like a final breath.
⸻
Silence filled the room. Jeroen stood motionless by the fire, the sketch limp in his hand. Margriet sank into a chair, weeping quietly. The smell of rain drifted in through the open hall, sharp as metal.
Katelijne couldn't bear the sound. She slipped from the room, the air in the corridor cold against her skin. The letter from Joseph still pressed against her sleeve — Van den Berg uses your father's name … I have proof.
Outside, fog gathered thick around the gate. The boy waited where she'd told him, stamping his feet for warmth. When he saw her, he straightened, wary.
'You said there'd be more coin, miss.'
She pressed another piece into his palm. 'You shall have it. But you must take me to him — the man who sent the note. The one with the parrot.'
The boy's eyes widened. 'Down by the dockyards still, I think. I can show you.'
'Then quickly,' she said, drawing her cloak close.
Behind her, the house loomed dim and silent — her mother's tears, her father's shame, Edwin's empty place. Ahead, only mist and the faint promise of truth.
She followed the boy into the fog, the sound of her steps swallowed by the street.