That evening, she receives a summons from le Maçon. Most of his servants are familiar to her, but the boy who has come to fetch her, flushed and out of breath, is new.

Those in the Dauphin’s private party, of which she is one, are staying in the Palace of Tau, the home of the Archbishop of Reims before he was displaced from his see. This is where the coronation feast will take place, a pleasant walk from the cathedral next door.

At the boy’s request, Joan hesitates. She doesn’t recognize him, and the memory of her last night in Chinon is still fresh. “Please,” the boy begs. “I have just entered his service. If I fail to bring you back, my lord will dismiss me.”

She relents, though not before slipping a dagger into her sleeve, and he leads the way. The corridor is lit only by the flickering torch carried in the boy’s hand; a laughing orange shadow passes over the tapestries.

“Through here,” the boy says, and he steps back to permit her to enter the room first. “My lord is waiting for you inside.”

“Where is le Maçon?” She turns, but the door slams shut. A key clicks in the lock outside; she hears the boy run away.

She is alone and the room dark. Only a window is open, letting in the light from a fast-fading sunset. But an object catches her eye, a faint glimmer.

In the center of the room, someone has placed a pedestal. On the pedestal: a plush cushion of velvet. And on the cushion: a crown.

For a moment, Joan stops breathing. She takes a step, another step, and her vision fills with gold, a blue-red haze of sapphires and rubies, the brilliance of square-cut diamonds. She sees each point of the crown is shaped to form a fleur-de-lis, like stars that have been plucked from the night sky.

From her side, her hand floats upward. It reaches out to touch. The tips of her fingers, she notices, are trembling.

“Go ahead.” A voice comes suddenly from behind. Her hand stiffens, just short of the crown. She doesn’t need to think. A moment, and the hilt of her dagger is already in her palm.

“We will keep this a secret,” the voice continues easily. “What is touching, after all? It means nothing.”

The voice moves to her side, along with the giant bulk of La Trémoille. His eyes gleam at her.

“Go ahead,” he says, raising his own satin sleeve. “Why don’t you try it on? See how it fits? There is no need to be shy.”