She has tried being soft, but now she must be hard. “Melun,” she says, and the blood drains from the Dauphin’s face. “Your Majesty was seventeen, the same age I am now. You had an army and your cousin the Count of Vertus to defend the city, under attack from the English. But your cousin fell ill and died, and you took it as an omen—”

The Dauphin’s eyes flash with anger. His right hand clenches into a fist. “You dare—”

She keeps talking: “How many suits of armor did you commission, in preparation for battle? I heard it was two, the finest work from the best armorer gold coin could buy. You had your chance to step into the breach, to lead your men. Instead you disbanded your army. Fifteen thousand men scattered. Your Majesty escaped to safety, and Melun surrendered, though hundreds had already died and most because they had starved.”

She holds his gaze as she would hold the eye of a nervous horse. His hands, she notices, are trembling, and not from the cold.

“I wish you could avoid the fate of the boy from my village, the boy whose name was Guillaume. Your Majesty has stones, and perhaps they are better stones than the ones England and Burgundy have ready in their pockets. So you must use them.”

She says: “Send me to Orléans.”

He shakes his head. “If Orléans falls, I shall lose everything.”

“And if Your Majesty does not act, you shall lose everything.” She steps closer to him. “How can we know our fates? I think of the day you were forced to flee Paris. You did not know, you could not know as you were riding through darkness, fear striking your heart, that you were also riding toward your destiny. For you are here and I am here. Against all odds, fate has brought us together. You, who are your kingdom’s future, and I, who am no one.” She looks across the river. “Yet we cannot stand always on this shore, shivering in the cold. We must step into the water and cross it, and it is possible we will reach a better place and live in a better clime than where we are now. There is a chance. I beg Your Majesty to take it.”

“You forget I cannot swim,” he says without looking at her. He attempts to smile.

“You will not have to. Send me across first, to Orléans, and I will deliver a barge to carry you in comfort to everything that is yours: your birthright, your crown.”

“And if you fail? What then?”

“If I fail, I won’t come back. I will be dead. Your Majesty will never see me again.”

He glares at her. “And what good would that be to me? I will still have failed. If Orléans is taken, I will have all but lost my birthright, my honor, and my dignity.”