She steps across the carpet of woolen roses. A distance of less than two feet now separates them. From here it is possible to see that they would stand shoulder to shoulder.

“You may know my elder sister’s name is also Catherine,” he says. “And though she is alive, she is as lost to me as your sister who is dead. She married Henry, the late King of England, and had a son by him. If the English and Burgundy win this war, then this boy, my nephew, will call himself King of both England and France. He will wear my crown. So, you see, there is no hope between us for reconciliation, given her loyalties and”—he pauses—“my unique position.” It is like he is reciting from his own book of misery, and it has become a contest between them. Everything you have been through, I have known, and more. “If we are to speak of family—sisters, brothers, uncles, cousins, friends, my father—so many now are gone. I understand loss in its many forms.”

The time for her to speak has ended. On the platter of sweets, there is a gap like a lost tooth where the consumed pastry once rested; he extracts a single golden wafer from a ring of comfits, tarts, and sugared flowers. He holds it beneath his nose and inhales. His eyes close in pleasure.

“Cinnamon,” he says, and she feels her heart skip a beat. She thinks of cinnamon birds, of her uncle, and looks down.

“This wafer, the oublie, is no less than an art form,” he tells her. “The Greeks made these as well, but not like we do. They could not hope to achieve such perfection. I have gone into the kitchens myself to watch the cooks and their helpers, though you can buy an oublie in any street of France. The ingredients are deceptively simple. Only some flour and water.

“But I think a truly fine oublie is the work of an artist. See here…” He points to the front of the wafer. “My cook has stamped a picture on this one because he knows I pay special honor to Saint Michael. It is Michael slaying Satan.”

She steps closer. In the cake, she sees a clear outline of two bodies, one winged and gripping a sword, the other an enormous serpent wriggling on its stomach. The cook has given the angel a crown and wavy hair reaching to his shoulders. He has dressed him sparsely and in the Roman style, in a draped gown that reaches above his muscular knees. A sandaled foot rests upon the serpent’s head, its mouth open, fangs bared.

He holds out the wafer to her. “For your troubles,” he says as she takes it.

The Dauphin is watching her carefully. “This wafer, it reminds you of something? Or you have tasted it before?”