Joan returns the favor. Using her thumb and index finger, she flicks a single spot of dust from the top of Catherine’s arm and steps back, as if to inspect a finished painting. There. Now you are perfect again.

At first, Joan is shy; her head darts around, trying to see everything at once. When she hesitates, her sister takes her sweating palm. Out of the corner of her eye, she glimpses showers of red-hot sparks. She thinks of her friend the blacksmith and points, before wandering over. These men may also, like the blacksmith, treat her kindly. They may give her free nails. But when she reaches them, she sees what they are making is far more beautiful than candlesticks and horseshoes.

The helmet-makers notice Joan staring at the great helm they have put on display. It is not a style known for its beauty; there is a thin slit for the eyes and vents on one side for breathing. A section juts out, creating a protruding lip that closely resembles a frog’s mouth. That has become its second name, the master helmet-maker tells her, making her laugh: frog-mouth. But in all other respects, it is a square of iron that one sticks, without rivets or straps, onto one’s head. He lets her examine it, hold it, and weigh it in her hands. He tells her Henry, King of England, wore a great helm, and so did the Black Prince.

“But what do you want with a helmet?” he asks. “A girl has no use for such things. She wants everyone to see how beautiful she is.” She knows he is laughing at her because she is not beautiful, because she has a head of burrs and a face as colorful as the merchants’ cloths.

Then he lets her try the frog-mouth on, and she knows he does this because he feels sorry for making fun of her. In a moment, her head disappears. The helmet is too large; it wobbles. Her eyes don’t line up with the opening, so she can’t see anything, and she feels dizzy when she turns, as if her head is in a cage. The master knocks his fist a few times against her iron forehead, and she hears a dull clang somewhere above her.