Sometimes life will surprise you. Possibly, she thinks, remembering her uncle’s story, this gesture is not unlike what Henry, King of England, did outside the gates of Rouen on Christmas Day, when he gave out loaves to those caught between the city and his army. Yet one must take the bread, even if it comes from the hands of one’s enemy. One must nibble the cake that has dropped from the hand of Jacques d’Arc and hope, against the odds, that it is a sign of better things to come.

It is the end of summer, and a rumor has reached Domrémy that Henry, England’s warrior-king, is dying. He has contracted dysentery and now lies, in shock and pain, on his deathbed; if this is true, and not a false rumor, then England will lose its greatest ruler since Edward III and his son the Black Prince crossed the Narrow Sea. It was Edward, with his greed and his love of power, who began this cursed war.

Life may be full of suffering. But sometimes a ray of light shines through a crack in the wall, and one can pass a hand through a rainbow and see one’s own skin turn the color of the heavens.

Perhaps, if Henry is no more, the English will slink back to their miserable island, and the war will end. Perhaps, now that she knows her father has made another bad wager and lost money, he will stop beating her. Victories, however few and far between, however incidental, bear remembering.

She gulps down the last bite of sweetness.

There are some days when one feels like singing, and this is such a day. Durand has taught her a poem by a famous troubadour; she walks down the lane, arms outstretched, bellowing music from the pit of her stomach while Salaud jumps at her heels. When she passes, villagers still look at her twice. Her hair grows back slowly, sprouting dark tufts, not soft like spun wool, but angular and hard. She sings about joyous mornings and birdsong, about flowers and days of good weather when one’s belly is full and sleep comes easily at night.

When she is finished, she thinks she hears a smattering of applause. But perhaps it is only the wind rustling through the branches or a pair of animals darting through a bush, cracking twigs beneath their paws. Perhaps it isn’t a pair of animals at all but Jehanne and her uncle rolling behind a hedge, having fallen into each other’s arms at last. Does it matter? When your tongue holds the residual sweetness of honey, when you have all your teeth in your head and a seeing pair of eyes, when you have seared into your memory the image of Jacques d’Arc confessing that he has lost money on a bet, is it important who hears you and who claps their hands? No, not really.