As soon as she leaves the cathedral, she is caught in a thunderstorm. It is one of those storms where the sun is shining but the rain is beating down as if the heavens have opened up and the saints are bawling their eyes out from above. The crowds that have gathered outside to catch sight of her run for cover, but she looks around at this new world, transformed in a mere blink into one of water and sunlight and mist, steam rising from the flagstones at her feet. She reaches out to catch rainwater in her palms and laughs at the empty streets. It is good sometimes to be alone, and overhead, a deep-throated chuckle of thunder booms across the sky in answer. As she walks on, water slips into her collar and across the ridged scar at the base of her neck, which is still sore on days of bad weather, a pulse beating where the arrow pierced her.

She ducks into a church, a small space of clean stone, to dry herself off. At the altar, several women have gathered. They notice her at the same moment she sees them, and a cry goes up when they recognize who she is. She hears them whisper. They fold into a tighter huddle, until one of the women detaches herself from the group and approaches.

The woman is old. She has been crying; her eyes are pink, but she also smiles at Joan.

“We know who you are,” she says. “Since you are here, will you do us a favor and bless my grandchild by holding her? She was born just two days ago.”

Joan follows the woman to the altar. Now that she has come closer, the family resemblance is clear. Here are aunts, sisters, cousins, and, in their center, the mother with her newborn swaddled in linen. The mother does not move, but her child is taken from her and passed carefully down a chain of hands until it reaches the arms of the grandmother, who turns to Joan and offers the bundle.

Joan takes the child. As she looks down, her heart seizes. The child is dead.

At her elbow, the grandmother explains: “She died suddenly, though she was born healthy and strong. But her breathing stopped, and nothing we did could save her. Also…” She bows her head. “My granddaughter died unbaptized, so we are afraid for her soul. The priest has told us there are no exceptions. God will not welcome her. Her soul will never enter Paradise.”

Joan holds the child to her chest. The body is still soft and pink and light in her arms, as if all the weight were in the linen alone. It has always amazed her how something so small can hold so much power. She cannot bear to look away.