Before they came to the fair, Durand had warned her, “Don’t draw attention to yourself, Joan. Don’t look anyone in the eye.” Then added, as an afterthought: “And don’t get into a fight or argument, either.” I am like a hero from a tale, she thinks. Haven’t I won my treasure? The pouch of coins, which she hasn’t yet had the chance to count, are snug in her pocket, along with the Duke’s ring. The goose is in its basket. But she isn’t out of danger. A group of youths about her brother Jacquemin’s age are trailing her. They watch for their chance to spring, like patient jackals, so she stays close to men and women who look as though they wouldn’t condone thieves and child murderers. There is still no sight of her sister or her uncle, and now that the thrill of victory is over, and she has no sneering lordling to stomp on, she thinks she really is going to cry.

The goose has calmed itself. Its feet are tied, its wings are clipped, and it looks weary and sick and ready to be eaten. Joan sets the basket down beside a cart of penned chickens; rows of fresh white eggs are arrayed outside the cages, like a before-and-after pantomime. She slips her hands into her pockets to feel the shape of the ring, the bag of coins, and the two nails, now bent. She pretends not to notice the jackals lean against a nearby wall, waiting for the crowd around her to thin.

A hand falls heavy on her shoulder. She thinks it’s Durand, but when she spins around, she stares into a face both strange and familiar.

“Come with me,” the owner of the hand says. He has tucked a single chicken under his arm, which he has either bought or been unsuccessful in selling. “I have been watching you…and watching them.” He juts his chin in the direction of the youths.

When she doesn’t move, he shakes his head. “I have a daughter of my own. She is only two. I wouldn’t hurt another man’s child, not for a whole kingdom. Where is your father, girl? Your mother?”

He has misunderstood her hesitation. It isn’t that she is wary of him, but she’s finally remembered where she has seen him before. This is the man with drooping shoulders and swaying paunch from Maxey, the man who agreed to buy her father’s pigs. She would know that threadbare shirt of his anywhere.

But she doesn’t reveal what she knows. She just nods and entrusts her free hand to his. When she observes the jackals move on, scowling with disappointment, she sighs. Relief breaks over her head, like cold water poured from a bowl. Her knees buckle.