A long time ago, her uncle had told Joan a story about the Dauphin. She wonders if the Dauphin, too, thinks of it every time he steps through a door. How, seven years ago, His Majesty had entered the bishop’s palace on a visit. All was at peace, the morning quiet; only the murmur of pleasant conversation could be heard, when a strange noise creaked down the length of the hall. The next moment, the floor wasn’t where it was supposed to be. The Dauphin did not have time to stand, much less to run. He found himself dropping through the air into darkness, where just before, sunlight had splashed across the flagstones. Later, he told his courtiers, who told their wives, who whispered among themselves and were overheard by the servants, that it felt as though the devil had taken hold of his soul and was flying with him to the pits of hell. The sensation had been so clear, so vivid. He had seen the skirts of his robes flutter around his poulaines as he plunged through empty space, like a small animal in the maw of a great beast. He could smell sulfur and smoke. He heard the screams of men and women coming far above him and also, he believed, below him, the sick, splintering lurch of crumbling wood and shattered stone, the squelch of a marble pillar falling across heads and shins.

It is well known. Even the best palaces, the finest châteaus and towers can fall apart, and it is not always hurricanes, earthquakes, or Englishmen that are responsible. One day a room is a room, and the best builders will claim it is sound; the next, the ceiling collapses like a failed jelly. However, many considered the incident a miracle, as the Dauphin was one of only three who lived to tell the tale. So, like any survivor, His Majesty is still a little hesitant, as if he does not trust the floor to hold his weight, though he is a thin man, his clothes the heaviest part of him. He does not stride across the chamber but takes small shuffling steps. Because he walks slowly, his courtiers, too, are forced to pace themselves behind him, and Joan nearly laughs aloud to see the flashes of impatience on their faces, the measured intake of breath, the steady count to five, the gradual exhalation.

Suddenly, at her side: a hiss. The Dauphin has paused in his journey across the chapel and, with unexpected swiftness, as though he meant to surprise their plan, looked up at them. “Kneel, Joan, kneel!” le Maçon whispers. He nearly elbows her arm.

She drops to her knees. Her hands are flat on the cold stone. The chapel is silent. A moment passes, then another, and she peers through the balusters of the alcove, as if through the bars of a cage, to the Dauphin below.