At the kitchen gate, there are beggars—among them, a child, the dirtiest, most unwashed child Joan has ever seen. He is so filthy, the other beggars make a small space for him and put on a show of holding their noses. Burned bread, bread that has not risen properly, or a mouse-nibbled loaf is doled out in pieces to the beggars in exchange for their prayers. She sees the child cannot reach the day’s offerings and lets him in. A hag with a single jutting tooth hisses at Joan. She says, “Well, if I had known that I should roll in pig shit to be favored, I would have done.”

It is late. The cook is dozing in his chair before the fire. She sets a plate before the boy, a dish of beef numbles covered in lamprey sauce. The food is steaming hot, but he eats with his fingers, swallowing pieces whole without pausing to chew, and when she gives him a napkin, he is shy to take it, so he wipes his hands on the front of his shirt instead.

Before he goes, she offers him a pear, washed and sliced. She watches as he sticks out his tongue, touches a crescent-shaped white piece to its tip, and bites down slowly, chews slowly, because now that he is full, he can taste; he can savor. He smiles at her and puts the rest in his pocket. Who knew the world could grow such sweet things?

But the door no sooner closes, the unused napkin folded and restored to its neat pile—another day’s work finished—than she hears a cry.

Outside she follows the trail of dropped pear slices to a yard where a guard has pulled down the boy’s trousers and is whipping him. The boy sobs, which makes the guard strike harder. “Thief!” he snarls. The boy’s bottom is already scarlet. “Come out of the kitchens, have you? What else have you stolen? What else?”

But the guard’s wrist is suddenly in her hand. And when he resists, thrashing like a caught fish, when he tries to strike her with his other arm, she squeezes until she hears the compression of sinew, of hard muscle against the threshold of bone underneath. She watches him writhe, shrinking closer and closer to the ground, until…crack. He shouts, a high-pitched yelp that echoes. Only then do her fingers unfurl; she lets him go, and he drops, nearly fainting.

The boy has pulled up his trousers. He is still crying as he runs away—though, not one to waste food, he retrieves the pear slices he dropped when the guard grabbed him, shoving each piece into his mouth.