When she appears, their screams are like a giant’s fist, knocking the three of them back, so they must regain their balance. There are women tossing white petals, which slide over the plates of her shining armor.

A path strewn with flowers appears before them, and La Hire, though a part of her cannot believe it, is crying like a baby. “Are those tears, my friend?” Dunois asks, leaning forward to take a better look at him. But Joan laughs and blocks his view. She says, “Who wouldn’t shed a few tears on such a morning? This is a day I do not think we will forget for as long as we live.”

And she is right. In the space just ahead, there is an unexpected silence, an atmosphere of uncertainty. She sees a clearing ringed with guards, and from between the guards’ shoulders, a head emerges, leering in her direction. It is someone she had never thought she would see again. She nearly groans aloud. Jacques d’Arc! What is he doing here?

She stops a short distance away, crosses her arms. They stare, each taking the enemy in from head to foot. No greeting. No shake of the hand, not even for show. She is first to speak. “What do you want?” Her words come out like a roar.

“Wasn’t my idea,” he spits back. It’s as though she has never left home and they have simply picked up the thread of an argument where one of them last dropped it. “I was asked to come and given money to pay for travel and lodging. How could I have refused such an offer?”

“Oh, you could have refused,” she says.

To her right, Dunois coughs. “To be fair, this was His Majesty’s idea. A surprise. He thought your father would be proud of you.”

“Why should I care about that?” She is suddenly petulant. She thinks, Any other gift would have been better than this. Even another holy relic.

“Are you going to introduce me to your friends?” Jacques looks at the men standing beside her, who gaze indifferently back at him. “They aren’t your lovers, are they?”

At her shoulder, La Hire giggles. “No on both counts,” she replies, nudging La Hire in the arm. “Well, we have seen each other,” she says to Jacques, shoving past him. “You can go back to Domrémy now.”

“What?” He is nearly spitting; his face is a mottled red. “Is this how you treat your father? Like a beggar seeking alms? Not even a meeting? I want to talk to you, you stu—”

“I can see the family resemblance,” La Hire says pleasantly.

She turns. Perhaps they do need to speak, if only to say, We have nothing in common anymore, so next time fate brings us together, let’s pass as two strangers on the road.