Whole days now pass when she thinks of neither her sister nor her uncle, and ideas grow in her mind like fruit on a ripe vine. Her eyes are full of the future: what is possible, what she must do by tomorrow, or in a week. Her memory stores lists of items that must be checked and rechecked. She imagines herself at the head of a long chain, a chain where she is the originator of thoughts and her clerks, her squire, le Maçon, those in her inner circle, make up the links. The space she occupies is one bustling with life, with change—and, she believes, change for the better. There is no room anymore for the dead.

She has drifted into a light sleep when the rustle of fabric makes her ear twitch. A servant? But the hour is late, and all the servants have already gone to bed. So, her eyes open. The room is too dark even for shadows. As she lies on her side, her back to the door, she can smell, and she can listen. And she knows she is not alone.

On the bed, her body remains still, but the hand beneath her pillow slides slowly from one end to the other, to the handle of the weapon she keeps concealed. It is the knife Dunois gifted her, and her fingers touch the jeweled hilt. They graze the head of the wriggling snake with glowing carbuncle eyes.

She inhales deeply. She smells…food. Ale, meat, and, she thinks, a faint scent of sour cheese, drifting closer. Beneath her left eye, a small pulse has begun to beat. She counts each tiny throb. The smell, like an approaching dish of leftovers, grows stronger.

A strand of hair falls over her ear. Her neck tenses. She holds her breath to listen, to gauge distance, position, and movement. She catches another rustle of fabric, this time mere inches away, directly behind her head.

Her body rolls. A blur of motion. She hears the tearing of fabric—the coverlet of her bed, as a weapon is plunged into its center. She hears a scream, though the cry doesn’t come from her throat. Her hand, the knife clutched in it, has slashed upward; its tip has drawn blood, and she feels warm droplets spatter across her bare wrist. A weapon is dropped, and the sound is like a bell, echoing through the whole chamber. In the dark, her own breathing fills her ears, and her eyes catch dim movement. Panicked footsteps stumble toward her door, which is flung open, and the blue glow of an open window falls on the figure’s hand. Bloody knuckles. The gleam of a gold signet ring worn on the little finger. The body is large and cloaked, the head concealed beneath a drooping hood. But in an instant, it is over, and her assailant is gone.