The blacksmith lets Joan watch him work. She sits on a barrel near the fire, but not too close, as he hammers out horseshoes and oxshoes and nails. He usually gives her little jobs, like passing him a tool from his worktable or fetching a cup of water or patting down his forehead with a damp cloth when sweat drips into his eyes. The range of a blacksmith’s work in Domrémy is limited, but occasionally there are more lucrative projects, such as when a plow needs mending or a housewife must order a new cauldron. This morning, he is in a good mood because he has received two commissions, so he lets Joan press the bellows. Smoke blows into her face. Sparks settle, like stars, on her dress, and the blacksmith swats them away with his huge hand. Like everyone else, he has heard what has happened. He asks gruffly, “You watched the boy die? Is this true?” She nods, and he passes her his hammer, points at a white-hot piece of metal on the anvil’s edge, and instructs her to beat it. She takes the hammer greedily, which makes the blacksmith chuckle, and for the next few minutes, it’s like all the feast days of Christendom and celebration rolled up into one. She beats and beats, feeling happy. It is rare that she has such an outlet for her energy. At first, the sound, piercing and brittle, seems to shake through her whole body. Her hand vibrates. But then she gets used to it. She doesn’t know what she is making, and she doesn’t care. She pauses, a little out of breath, sweat dribbling from the tip of her nose, and wonders if this is what her father feels when he hits her. If so, no wonder he enjoys it so much.

“The metal is already dead, Joan,” the blacksmith says. Then he adds, “Though that is what I’d do to a Burgundian, if any from Maxey or elsewhere should dare to come here.” He is no longer smiling. When she leaves him, he drops two nails into her hands. They are still warm. She looks down, asks him what she should do with them.

“There is always some use for nails,” he says. “But don’t let your father know you have them or that I gave them to you.”

She nods, pocketing the gift. They are both serious, and this transaction is solemn. Her father, if he knew, would probably crucify her.