Soon she is sweating, her arms and legs so tired, so sore, they have begun to shake. What’s more, the squawks of the goose don’t sound any closer. She sighs and rests her cheek against the grease, which smells of mold, excrement, and pigs. Her dress, she thinks, so recently washed, will be ruined again.

Below, the crowd laughs. But someone raises his voice in support, saying, “It is nothing to laugh about. She is nearly halfway there, the little monkey. Who does she belong to?”

She has never considered herself heavy, but her whole body, every limb, feels as dense as the blacksmith’s anvil. A warm breeze touches her face, makes strands of hair tickle her chin, and she must fight the urge to scratch. When she shifts her weight, she hears a metallic sound coming from her dress. She frees one of her hands to reach inside the pocket even before she understands why.

“What is she doing?” someone from the crowd shouts. It is a stupid voice. Probably, she guesses, it is Sir Robert de Baudricourt.

In her pocket, a nail rolls into her hand. She cups it, hiding it from sight, then frees the other arm, reaches down, pulls out the second.

She grips the nails in her fists, allowing the points to protrude like single metal talons. She stabs them into the surface of the pole and climbs. At once the goose feels nearer, more possible.

But the nail heads rub against her skin. If she was ever in greater pain than this, she doesn’t remember it. She hears nothing but feels everything. Her hands will be chafed raw, even if she fails.

In an unthinking moment, she slips, and the gasps of the crowd reach her from below. She tells herself it’s over. She’s almost relieved, but her body won’t let her surrender so easily. As one hand falters, the other compensates, supporting her weight. She shudders and licks her lips, tasting her own salt. Her whole dress is damp. The warm breeze returns, though this time it is cool. It blows over her, rustling her skirts. The breeze is a gift, she thinks, sent by angels.