The King rises, and the rest of the court kneels. He extends a hand to the Archbishop, who helps him off the dais, and he descends one step at a time, always looking to see where his feet will land.

Outside the shrine, Joan gulps fresh air. She stretches her limbs and steps into a puddle of sunlight. She shakes her foot, which has fallen asleep, and yawns loudly, so that people’s heads turn in her direction.

Le Maçon taps her shoulder. “Joan,” he says. “Look.”

In the distance, a servant is running up to the King. He falls to his knees and begins talking rapidly, but the report he makes is too far away for her to hear. Something, a small object, is passed from the servant’s hand, first to the Archbishop, then to La Trémoille, and finally to the King.

She watches as the King stares at what he has been given, and he sways. There is a moment, shorter than the intake of a breath, when none of them can believe what is happening, when the willpower of the whole group, servants and courtiers alike, strives to keep a single man on his feet. But it isn’t enough. His Majesty stumbles; his arms flail, in a strange and almost fluid motion, like a dancer. He falls.

It always surprises her how few people are able to keep their heads in a crisis. By the time Joan reaches the King, La Trémoille is fanning him with his thick hands. The Archbishop is praying; his mouth moves but his eyes are dazed. As if either of those will help, she thinks.

She shoves both men aside and lifts the King up, puts him over her shoulder like a sack of looted treasure. It makes people gasp. At her strength? Or at how light the King is in her arms?

“Can she do that?” someone says out loud. But she carries him all the way back to his room in the abbey, with le Maçon leading the way and courtiers following close behind. She sets him on his bed and calls for water to be brought—quickly!

“His Majesty has been too much in the sun,” le Maçon says to the onlookers. “He has overtired himself.”

On the bed, the King’s hand stirs. He seems to know she is here. His fingers find her wrist, and something warm and solid is pressed into her palm. But when she tries to hold his hand, to comfort him, he shrinks away from her, like a cringing spider.

“What has His Majesty given you?” le Maçon asks.