They are silent. She closes the Bible and gives it to le Maçon, who chains the book to its place on the shelf tenderly, like a father putting a child to bed. His face is hidden from her, but she knows without having to look that he is crying. She wants to rest a hand on his arm, to say to him in a soft voice, “When the war is over, perhaps we can get the library back, too.” But what consolation would that be?

“The Dauphin will be made king,” she says instead. “Between Chinon and Reims, there are many towns and cities. We will retake them with His Majesty’s army.” With my army.

“And after?”

“Paris.” The word drops out of her mouth, almost without thinking. Take back the capital; take the whole kingdom.

In the fields that day in Domrémy, she thinks, I made a bargain with my God. The rich food I eat, the sweets and spices now so familiar to me, have not made these names any less bitter on my tongue. John, Duke of Bedford, regent of England. Philip, Duke of Burgundy. Henry, sixth of his name, future King of England. These are my enemies and the Dauphin’s enemies. The journey to Reims will only bring us closer.

I, Joan, am coming for you.

The hour is Nones, and the Dauphin is in his garden with La Trémoille and the Archbishop. He says to his friends, having just plucked a fresh bloom, “I will go to the chapel now and pray.”

But when the doors open for him, his hand flies to his mouth, and the flower drifts like a feather to the ground. He jumps back and nearly collides with La Trémoille’s protruding stomach. In the narrow space of the chapel, he sees row upon row of his subjects kneeling, a great assembly of the nobility, the captains of the army. Dunois is beside La Hire, who is kneeling next to le Maçon. In the first row, the Dauphin spots his cousin the Duke of Alençon, and next to him, at the head of all these faces, wearing a cloak of purple pinned with a jeweled brooch, is Joan.

At his arrival, three others emerge from a side entrance: Yolande, the Dauphine holding their daughter, followed by their son.

There is no time for either La Trémoille or the Archbishop to ask what is happening. A flash of Yolande’s eyes and a scowl from the infant princess silence them. Joan rises. She does not speak as she passes an object into the Dauphin’s hand.