“This is your crown,” he says. “There. Now you, too, are a ruler of France.”

“Ah, no, you have forgotten her mantle, Louis.” Raymond runs into the next room; he returns with the bright blue coverlet from her bed. He drags it across the floor, and together, they sweep the cloth over her shoulders.

She stands, balancing the bowl on her head, and crosses the room. Her hand sweeps the coverlet. To make the others laugh, she gives it a little flourish. She thinks of the King’s cloak of tiny bells, jangling sweet music. “How do I look?”

“Better,” Jean says. “Much better!” He applauds.

Raymond dips his fingers into her cup. “Now kneel, and I, the horrible Archbishop, will anoint you with this foul-smelling oil nearly a thousand years old.”

She obeys, smiling, while keeping a hand on the bowl to stop it from rolling off. He touches her forehead and cheeks with the wine, which drips down the sides of her nose and onto her lips. She sticks out a tongue to taste its sweetness. She laughs.

“And now what happens, Your Excellency?” She hears more giggling.

“Shall I get up?” she asks when there is no answer.

“And now, Raymond?” she repeats. “Am I made king yet?” She rubs away the wine, sticky on her palm and sliding down the bottom of her chin. She looks up.

But Raymond is gone. He is cowering in a corner of the room, trying to make himself invisible, and in the doorway, a new guest has arrived. It is the King, and he is alone.

The bowl crashes from her head. It shatters across the floor, and the sound flies, like arrows freshly loosed, straight to her heart.

She stands, and the coverlet falls from her shoulders in a heap. Now she knows what some men feel on the battlefield. They freeze, as she is frozen.

The King is holding a box, which he sets down carefully on the nearest table. The movement is quiet and his expression calm. He betrays no emotion, neither surprise nor disappointment. But as he turns to leave, she catches a flash of the eye, a flickering brightness. No one moves.

The room is silent, as they listen to his receding footsteps.

“What is in the box?” she asks. Her voice is strangled. She cannot take her eyes off the doorway, now dark and empty.

Jean passes it to her. “This is the King’s gift,” he says. “Only you should open it.”

She feels along the edges of the wooden box, and her fingers find the clasp.