All beautiful things take time. The masons of the cathedral understood this. In the nave, they built a labyrinth across a large section of the floor and put images of themselves wielding their tools in the four corners. The labyrinth is used by pilgrims, who follow the lines on their knees. The lesson: You must have faith the journey you started on was always the journey you were meant to take. Whatever has happened before, you must trust in the future.

Now Joan prays no longer for the Dauphin but for the King. A king, anointed by holy oil, is also made. He is born into the world a prince in title only. He must be molded by experience, by the instruction of tutors, by the wisdom of his elders and forebears. His royal person is added to over time, chipped away, added to again, until at the moment of his crowning, a ruler emerges from a prince, a man from the boy he was.

The King is dressed by the Archbishop in robes of blue trimmed with white fur. Once more he kneels. The crown is placed on his head. She sees it is a good fit.

As soon as crown touches head, the cathedral comes alive with roars of “Noël!” and “Long live the King!”

Joan holds her breath. The King has risen to his feet. He touches the sides of the crown. His head wobbles; the crown is heavy, and he has to grow used to its weight. But the sweat on his face has dried. His skin is now smooth as marble.

He turns in her direction. For a moment, all solemnity vanishes, and he smiles at her. He nods, and his eyes are bright with tears. She thinks, This king will be a gentle monarch, compassionate to his people, as wise as he is merciful. Where is the fifteen-year-old boy who fled from Paris eleven years ago, in fear for his life? The answer: he is gone. Pain is like this. You endure it, and if you live through it, eventually it becomes something else. Today, he has turned his fear into triumph.

The ceremony is over, and now the celebrations begin. Joan bows, melting away into the wall of nobility behind her. She hands her banner to Jean.

“Fresh air!” she yells into his ear over the noise. She is pushing her way through the crowd when she feels a hand on her armored shoulder. To her left, Dunois. To her right, La Hire. She waves at le Maçon, who is weeping into his sleeve. Let him enjoy this moment, she thinks, as Dunois nods toward the doors.

Together, they step out of the cathedral. Since dawn, the crowds have been gathering, singing hymns to God, to keep up the good weather. And they have been chanting her name in between songs to coax her to show herself.