The Dauphin is wearing a new set of robes in the colors of the royal House of Orléans, a plush velvet-pile green threaded with crimson, and a big hat with green and scarlet tassels. His fingers are ringed: a red cabochon as large as a tiger’s eye, a gleaming emerald flashing like a mischievous demon practicing its magic. Now you see me, now you don’t.

He is supposed to wait, to remain perfectly still as she approaches, but his patience fails him. He walks up to her, closing the distance, which makes the courtiers’ mouths fall open, some in pleasure, others in dismay. When she kneels, he bends—actually bends—to raise her. He keeps his hands on her shoulders and leans forward to kiss her: a peck on each cheek.

She hears La Trémoille gasp and sees that the Archbishop is not looking; he is playing instead with the stones on his fingers. Le Maçon is beaming at her, as proud as if he were her father. Except that if he were her father, he would probably be drawing up a contract with several witnesses. You want to use my daughter for your battles? Of course this is possible, we can work something out, but how much are you willing to pay for the honor?

The Dauphin, she thinks, smells of books and of inks. He smells of sweet things, almond milk and anise comfits. And cinnamon.

“Now we shall spend some time in prayer,” he announces. A smattering of applause. Weak on the right, enthusiastic on the left.

In the chapel, she kneels beside the Dauphin; the rest of the courtiers are expected to give their thanks to God from a distance. But His Majesty does not seem to have prayer in mind. Another definition of prayer, it seems, is conversation.

“Five days,” he says, as soon as their knees touch the cushions prepared for them. “Five days to free Orléans.” He turns to face her. “I could hardly believe it when le Maçon told me the news. I prayed for you—the captains, all my people. I attended Mass no less than three times a day as soon as word of your arrival in the city reached me. I must have said a hundred prayers, if not more.” He pauses: Now, Joan, it is your turn to say something pleasant.

“Your Majesty’s prayers reached Orléans,” she says. This morning, she had received another lecture from le Maçon before meeting the Dauphin: In the company of princes, it is wise to be humble. Don’t take all or perhaps any of the credit. Let them reach their own conclusion as to how well they are served.

He brightens. His hand floats over hers. There is no servant with a bowl of rose water nearby, but this time he will allow his hand to settle, covering her tough skin like a piece of unblemished parchment.