As soon as they left the chapel, le Maçon sat her down for another lecture: A king’s mood can change faster than good weather to bad, so let him work out flares of temper or sudden fits of sorrow for himself. Don’t cajole him. Don’t coax him into a sweeter, sunnier frame of mind, unless he invites you to. If the interview seems to reach an impasse, be patient. A king may sigh. He may rub his eyes or dab a square of linen to his nose or to the corners of his mouth. He may suddenly take up a book, open it, and begin reading from a verse, as though he thought you had already left the room and he was alone. He may eat a grape and chew slowly and when you think he has finally surfaced from his reverie, when you see him leaning forward as if to return to affairs of state, he may instead reach out to pluck the strings of a harp and entertain you with a song: “The work of a single morning,” he might say with pride. If the fire is low, he will expect you to build it. If a candle goes out, be prepared to light it for him, even if a dozen, nay, two dozen others are shining around the whole room. “You may consider this strange behavior,” le Maçon explains with a shrug, “but it is strange only because you are not used to it, because you have grown up surrounded by sheep. You may believe it erratic, ill-mannered, or even cruel. But it is none of these. It is merely kingship.”

So Joan both looks and doesn’t look at the Dauphin. She thinks that le Maçon knows him well, for at the moment, what is His Majesty doing but nibbling at the corner of a small sugared tart taken from an arrangement on a gold platter? What is he doing but chewing slowly and staring out the room’s one arched window, to blink at the fine nighttime view of torchlight and turrets as if she were invisible? When the pastry is eaten, he touches a clean napkin to his lips and to the tips of the fingers that handled the food. He picks up a thin folio from the desk, holds the book in one hand, as if it is a prop and he is about to be painted, puts it down again. He resumes his seat, taking his time to settle into cushioned and velvet-draped softness, and turns to his guest, as if to say: Now, and only now, do we begin. You have my full attention.