The Archbishop sends a book of hours, small enough to keep in a pocket; or she could fix it, he suggests, to her belt, so then she could read from the volume at any hour and pray. Ah, but she cannot read, can she? What a pity! Le Maçon offers a Psalter with gilded pages and an enameled cover studded with carbuncles. His message: One day, she must learn her letters. He is not worried. She is a fast learner.

From La Trémoille she receives a purse of coins, an embroidered cushion, and a sack of malmsey wine, which he has imported specially from the region called Friuli Venezia Giulia. Does she know of Friuli Venezia Giulia, the messenger he sends is tasked with asking her. Perhaps she has tasted this wine before when she sat down to supper in her small village. Domrémy, was it? “Please inform your master we drank this all the time in Domrémy,” she tells the messenger with a straight face.

A tray of oublies generously sprinkled with cinnamon and cardamom arrives from Yolande. Each oublie is stamped with the Valois coat of arms: a shield of fleurs-de-lis flanked by two angels holding between them a long chain of gold. Above the shield rests a great crown. Her pages squeal when the sweets arrive in the arms of Yolande’s ladies-in-waiting, who glide into the room, a single creamy body of pale satin and silk veils.

Three clerks on loan from le Maçon compose flowery replies of thanks to the givers of these gifts. In these letters, promises are made of prayers for various maladies and ailments. Yes, Joan will have a word with God. A personal word. In her rooms, these clerks are given desks and stools. Their quills fly across the page. They are always running out of ink, so assistants must be hired to prepare ink for them and to fetch manchet loaves when they are tired and their wrists are sore.

The Dauphin now visits every day. Something in their relationship has changed, a shift so subtle it is barely felt. She no longer has to kneel when he approaches. If she is sitting, then simply standing will do; if standing, a bow will suffice. One morning, as she is in the middle of splashing her face with rose water and the Dauphin is already in the next room tasting oublies, it dawns on her. She is at ease with her king. They are allies who have helped each other. They are friends. And friendship, she finds, does not eat away at one’s heart like anger, like vengeance. It does not weigh the soul down but lightens it.

The Dauphin inspects the gifts while chewing. He flips through the Archbishop’s book of hours. He weighs La Trémoille’s purse in his hands and is tempted to count the coins inside. Only his dignity stops him.