A single finger, a dark red stone jutting from it like a swollen knuckle, curls at her. “Let me have a closer look at you,” she says.

Joan steps forward. If the Dauphin had any reservations about catching a disease or lice from her, his mother-in-law has none. Soft hands reach out and pat Joan across her shoulders. “What shoulders!” Yolande cries. She raises her face to beam at Joan. It is a beautiful face: the eyes a shining green, the mouth coy and small like a child’s, and the forehead smooth as a dome of marble. “What a jawline!” she adds a moment later.

“Raise your hand for me,” Yolande says, and Joan obeys. She places her own palm against Joan’s, as if they might begin a dance. A moment is spent studying the difference in size and hardness, in calluses and scars, of which, naturally, the older woman has none. Joan holds her breath. Then Yolande says, “These are such fine hands.”

Joan feels herself blush.

“Ah, you are still a young girl to blush so deeply.” A deep-throated chortle follows. “You are, of course, the talk of the court. I hear that the training grounds are crowded with onlookers every day, and the pages no longer obey their masters because by dawn they must reserve their place to stand by the barriers to watch you. How many arrows can you shoot in a minute? Has anyone timed you?”

She is ready with the answer: “Twelve, Your Highness.” Sometimes a few more, she doesn’t add. And I never miss.

“Twelve,” Yolande repeats, clasping her own hands in delight. “It is…wonderful. Poor girl, she is blushing again. If my compliments make you blush, I wonder how you will feel when you meet the Duke of Alençon. My maids of honor swoon whenever he comes into the room, and I have to give them a little kick to make them sit up again. He is also a good man, brave and faithful. You have met His Majesty?”

She nods.

“And what do you think of him?”

She hesitates, bows deeply.

Yolande laughs. Another happy chortle. “That bad, is it?”

“I…”

But her host raises a hand to stop her. “You cannot fool me, child, so do not try. Though you must understand, His Majesty is as dear to me as if he were my son and I, not Isabeau, had given him life. You do not know him. He is a person difficult to fathom even after a lifetime’s acquaintance.”