Inside her, a weight seems to shift. Before, she had been on the verge of crying. But there are no holy women here who remind her of corpses, no monks who look as if they might pick her up and shake her pockets clean. Now there is a greasy pole. There is a basket with a goose in it and money, too. From the top of the pole, she may be able to see where her sister and uncle are. This is a good enough reason for Joan to climb it. And a pole, she considers, is very much like a tree.

Someone steps forward. The fair must be small, for it is that well-dressed idiot from the armorer, the one with the restless shoe who believes calfskin boots are made for scuffing pebbles. She watches him remove his hat and hand it to an obliging servant, who bows upon taking it. Beneath a shirt of finely woven linen, his back muscles twitch. For several moments (too long, Joan thinks; now it is her turn to tap her foot with impatience), he paces around the pole; he drums a hand, ringed with shining stones, across its oily surface. Then one shapely ankle winds itself around the bottom; the second follows. He shifts upward, emitting animal grunts.

But he hasn’t made it two feet before his pretty red sleeves begin slipping against the grease. He yelps, like a frightened dog, as he slides down.

Joan laughs. She laughs so hard, tears spill out of her eyes. For the first time in her life, she is crying with joy.

“Hush, child,” a woman near her chides. “That is Sir Robert de Baudricourt.”

And my name is Joan, she thinks. She is tempted to say this aloud. So, who cares?

When she recovers, she wipes her face and steps forward. At her feet, Salaud whines.

“What do you think you’re doing?” the woman who hushed her says.

She doesn’t answer. There are whispers when she enters the clearing and when she imitates the gestures of the young lord, sliding a finger to test the pole’s surface. The whispers grow louder as she hikes up her skirts, exposing her bare ankles. She has to tilt back her head to see the basket. The pole seems even taller now. From where she stands, it seems less a pole than a column propping up a whole piece of sky. She swallows, takes a deep breath. She jumps.

Running, climbing—these things have always come naturally to her. She hugs the pole and emits the same animal grunts as the handsome idiot. She uses her knees to nudge herself up, inch by slow inch. Those in the crowd who had said such a thing was unheard of and who had wanted to stop her grow quiet. They are waiting for her to slip and fall.