She thinks, If tragedy had not visited Catherine, I would have spent my years living with her and her husband and looking after her many sons and daughters. I would never have set foot in any of the cities of France. I wouldn’t be here.

Her hand passes over the child’s face, the mouth frozen in a delicate pout. She strokes the tufts of fine spider-thread hair.

“It is no accident that brought you here today,” the grandmother says. “We have heard of you, as the world has heard of you. You are a worker of miracles. And we wonder, now that you have seen her, my grandchild, can you make an appeal on our behalf for God’s mercy? Can you tell us where she is? If she is in pain or in a dark place, all alone?”

Why, Joan wonders, is the human imagination so morbid? Her fingers touch the linen. She smooths a wrinkle in the cloth.