One thing you cannot say about the Dauphin: that he is among those lords of royal blood who have never known suffering or pain. God knows, the whole of Europe knows, he has had his share. Misfortune seems to follow him, closer to his person than his own shadow. Yet there may be something to a ruler who has been through so much. You can open a book of misery, turn to any page, point at a random word, and the Dauphin will probably say, Yes, I have been through this. Wretched childhood: yes. Mother who hates me: yes. Sister married to an enemy kingdom: yes. Infighting at court, my favorites cast out or murdered under my nose: yes. Receiving news of the very worst kind—that is, another battle lost to the English; finding out your father has died and you are banned from attending his funeral; being disinherited from your throne through a sham treaty and called by your enemies the greatest offender of God’s law since Judas Iscariot sold Christ for thirty pieces of silver: yes, yes, and yes. This is a prince who knows what it means to run and to hide, to look out a window and see not the pleasant view below but everything lost. He has lived for years in the uncertainty of whether he will emerge from this war monarch or prisoner.

Joan’s thoughts return to the present. She thinks this room too small for so large a fire; every surface is bathed in light, as though its occupant were afraid of the dark, each candle meant to scare away an imp loosed from hell. The Dauphin is a haunted man. One does not need to be a courtier, learned in manners, fluent in Latin, Roman quotations tripping like folk songs off the tongue, to see this is true.

How much time has passed since she first entered the room, she wonders. Five minutes? Ten? She feels she has been here whole years, that if she stuck her head out the window, a guard would shout back to tell her the war is officially over. They can all come out now, unlock their doors, fling open the shutters and casements, let fresh air in. As for her, she can return to Domrémy to help her parents on the land, or she can get married, bear several healthy children, whatever she would like to do. Except she can’t. She can never go back.

Just as she thinks this, the Dauphin stirs.

“I have been informed of you,” he says. His voice, when he speaks, croaks at first, like a person who has just risen from a nap. He does not wait for her to confirm or deny the statement but goes on: “There are those who support you at court; otherwise it is unlikely I would have granted you an interview. You have traveled some distance to come here.”