The Dauphin’s face is shiny with tears and disbelief. He sniffs, accepts the hand, and sighs, nodding, as she and le Maçon bow in his direction. He passes on.

“Our king is a feeling king,” Joan says.

“Yes.”

They have been in Reims only a day, but tomorrow the coronation will take place. Though the city is theirs again, who knows what might still happen? The English may already be on the road to attack, so preparations are underway. The Dauphine has remained behind; the journey was considered too dangerous. For now, the Dauphin alone will be crowned.

“It is an emotional moment for His Majesty,” she says. But also, he has not stopped complaining since they left Chinon. He had nearly wept when the portable ovens he brought stopped working and his suppers were served to him cold. Though now he is tired, like a child who has had his fill of tears and exhausted himself.

“That is only natural,” le Maçon replies. “It has been a long journey.” In more ways than one, he means.

They are silent. Some things would be better forgotten, but it is hard to shut out the Dauphin’s crumpled face struggling to master itself over a plate of lukewarm mutton. She had been tempted to show him how to eat the dish. She had fought the urge to spoon-feed His Majesty a bowl of mashed beans when food was running low and he had fallen to his knees to pray. She had nearly said out loud to him, her own stomach gurgling with hunger, “Christ, that won’t help. Please, just eat the beans!”

Before the gates of towns, shouts went up at her arrival. Joan heard them from afar. “The Maid of Orléans!” the guards called. “She is here with her army!” Not long after, the gates opened. Everywhere she goes, a wall of sound follows. Arms reach to touch her horse. Fathers lift their children so their small hands can graze her armored body, and so she can bless their round heads with her giant metal palm.