It is almost worth it—the ear mashing, the hair pulling, the backhand slap of the mouth—if this is what is waiting for you at the other end: Hauviette’s mother, Jehanne, smoothing your hair and rubbing your shoulder, calling you poor lamb, poor babe, her breath sweet as fennel, her dress giving off the scent of crushed herbs; Hauviette herself, giggling, treating the visit like a happy distraction and cleaning the crescent-shaped cut on your hand, where a piece of the bowl managed to slice through your skin, a little too enthusiastically; Salaud, who snuck in before the door could shut him out, and who has fallen asleep beneath the table, snoring; and your own heart quickening, for once, not from dread of new pain about to be visited upon your body but something else—from goodness, from the shock of charity and kindness.

Not that this is anything new. Jehanne and Hauviette are used to her visits. They have an old strip of linen—called Joan’s linen—set aside for her wounds. They have a bowl—called Joan’s bowl—to wash her face of blood so they can see just what Jacques has done to her this time.

What surprises her is that they don’t mention Guillaume. She expects they will want her to relate to them what she witnessed, though she can’t remember much about the fight itself, only the boy’s dying moments, which are vivid. But they are quiet. They don’t speak except to make comforting noises as they fuss over cuts and her badly knotted hair. Jehanne says, when the silence stretches on, “I thank God and His angels nothing happened to you, Joan.” And it thrills her that there are people in the world, though few in number, who care that she is alive and would feel an absence, even an ache, were she to fall ill or be found dead.

For her, Guillaume’s death is like a scrape or a bruise. Touch it, and it will hurt. So, she doesn’t touch the memory; she tries not to think about what happened, because thinking makes her stomach churn and she knows she needs to hold down her food. One should never waste food. Yet every time she closes her eyes, the sight returns. Sunlight pools across the dead boy’s cheeks like melted gold, and when the light dims, his face is white as polished bone. She imagines words the boy never said. She reaches into her pocket and pricks her finger against the sharp edge of Guillaume’s rock.

Before she leaves, for she must eventually leave, she is slipped two pieces of dark bread. Salaud follows her out into the night, his small rib cage pushing against her ankle.