The window Joan stands next to is edged in moonlight. On the page, like a child’s scribble, is a drawing of a crown. It is Yolande’s way of saying to her, “This is your next mission: to crown a king.”

IV

When she visits Yolande, someone else is already with her. As Joan enters, she spots the princess from stories come to life. Here to the last detail is the straw-colored hair and the gown of silver brocade, the small waist, the arms destined to enfold the shoulders of a king. You aren’t just my uncle’s invention, Joan thinks. You really exist.

But the princess is no longer a princess. She is, or should be, the Queen of France. She is Marie, eldest daughter of her many-titled mother and wife to the Dauphin. She lifts her green-flecked eyes to look up at her guest and relaxes her rosebud mouth into a smile at the sight of the blue jewel on Joan’s finger, worn so prominently. It is a smile that could melt steel.

The Dauphine balances a large book with pictures on her lap. At her feet, there is the rustle of cloth: movement. A small child dressed in a salmon-colored gown stares up at Joan.

“My daughter,” the Dauphine says by way of introduction. “Her name is Radegonde.”

Joan isn’t certain how one should greet an infant princess, so she bows. The child opens and closes her mouth, continues staring.

Yolande rises from her chair. She waves a hand at Joan, and her own beringed fingers catch the light.

“How much you have changed! The last time we met—I did not wish to hurt your feelings—you looked like a sad minstrel who had been kicked out of a feast with your lute strings snapped and your lute bowl broken. Oh, that tunic was filthy. And you smelled, too. But now it is all silks. No more coarse wool for you! And you smell, well, you smell like you are one of us!” She chuckles, reaching out a thumb to feel the lining of Joan’s green overtunic.

“It is from His Grace the Duke of Orléans,” Joan says. “He commissioned a tailor and sent the material.”

Yolande bobs a nod of approval. “If a servant came upon you from behind, he would kneel and say, ‘My lord,’ and realize his mistake only when you turned around. You could pass for…Well, I suppose some things are better left unsaid.” Yolande steps back to survey her, tapping her chin. “It seems you cannot help winning these days. I heard the number of English dead at Patay was no less than two thousand! A fine number. Is that not a goodly number, Marie?”

“Would it were more,” the Dauphine says simply, as she sets aside her book and picks up her daughter to join them. “Were it six thousand English dead. That would please us very much.”