He is still watching her, expressionless, like she is a part of the wall. The big beetle, the courtier named La Trémoille, leans forward to whisper into his ear, but the Dauphin raises a hand, flicks him away. From above she hears le Maçon chuckle.

The Dauphin scratches the side of his nose as another would scratch his head when trying to figure out a problem. He turns. A last glance over the royal shoulder and then he moves on. The doors of the chapel close with a rattle behind the last ambling courtier in his train.

Joan rises to her feet. Her eyes do not leave the space where the Dauphin stood. “What now?” she asks, dusting herself off.

Le Maçon smiles. He has known the Dauphin long enough to perceive when his master’s interest is piqued. His expression says, Did you see how he swatted away that purple beetle? That is a sign in our favor.

He gives his beard a little scratch. “What else?” he says. “We wait until His Majesty summons you.”

Joan remembers her first meeting with this Robert. They were alone in another room of stone. It wasn’t how she’d imagined a room in a castle would be, more like a prison cell with a chair for her to sit on, and he had paced, circling her, while he spoke. His speech was wandering—sometimes personal, other times as if he were practicing an oration for a lecture at the Sorbonne. He asked about her childhood; he wanted her to describe to him the village of Domrémy, her father and her mother, the church, the sermons of the priest, how often she prayed and confessed. He did not directly respond to anything she said but rambled about kings and what it means to be a king, about the reign of the great French kings, this Dauphin’s grandfather, Charles, fifth of his name, known as the Wise; an earlier Charles, the greatest Charles, whose name was Charlemagne; Saint Louis, King Louis the ninth, who was canonized less than thirty years after his death. And as for the current one, the Dauphin…He trailed off, cleared his throat, and changed the subject. Well, we have our hopes, he concluded. Briefly, he touched on recent events: Only three weeks ago, a battle had taken place at Rouvray, and people are already calling it the Battle of the Herrings for the barrels of salted fish that were fought over. Another loss, though the French greatly outnumbered the English; another cut on the body of our kingdom, and because the wound is fresh, how it smarts.