Behind her, she hears a small movement, another rustle of fabric. She rises quickly. When she turns, she finds herself face-to-face with a pale visage, long and narrow. A pair of lightless eyes blink at her. It is the Archbishop of Reims.

He seems to take no notice of her reaction, only nods, moves closer to her. “We have seen each other before on several occasions, but never spoken,” he says. “I will join you this morning in prayer. It is an important day.”

“I prefer to pray alone.”

Briefly, two spots of red enter his cheeks before draining away. “You are a difficult person to find,” he says with a shrug. “I tried three different places before I found you here, in the Dauphin’s private chapel.” He counts them off on his beringed fingers. She notes his hands: smooth and unscarred. So, the Archbishop does not go creeping around in bedrooms at night, trying to murder people, though perhaps he simply asks others to make his prayers come true. “Your rooms. The stables. The dog kennel.”

“There is some advantage, I think, in being difficult to find,” she says.

Their eyes meet. He exhales a small sigh. “I suppose you are right.” His voice is bored, as if she has simply stated a fact.

“What were you praying for just now?” he asks.

“That is between God and myself.”

“Ah, if that were true, I should soon find myself out of a job.”