The room is still. Her mother has gone to the cathedral in Neufchâteau, a larger and more impressive edifice than the small church in Domrémy, to pray. Her father and uncle are tending to other matters, including village disputes that have nearly come to blows. In the chaos of fleeing, a few chickens were crushed. Now the question is, Who will pay for them? There is another family making a lot of noise; they claim their neighbors sabotaged their cart by replacing a good wheel with a rotten one and taking the good wheel for themselves. The neighbors’ defense: “How would we have known the English were coming? Are you calling us traitors?” On all sides, emotions run high. If you can’t yell at the enemy, the next best thing is to shout at your friends instead. And this morning, supplies are discovered missing. Possibly thieves take no pity, not even on those who have lost their homes. There is the matter of how long they will remain in Neufchâteau, how they will pay their room and board at the inn, and where they can keep the livestock they have salvaged. None of these things are beyond the abilities of Jacques d’Arc, but who, Joan wonders, who will attend to what has happened to Catherine? To crimes beyond crushed chickens and sabotaged cart wheels? Who will find a solution to this?

She does not ask about the pain, only listens as Catherine explains that it was their uncle who found her after the men took what they wanted and left her behind. By then, the enemy had moved on; it was growing dark. But as they walked, a cart passed them on the road. Durand paid the man a few deniers to take them to Neufchâteau. When they reached the inn, she could no longer move; her legs had become numb, and he had to lift her down and carry her in. Joan had been asleep.

“How many people know?” Joan asks. She is surprised by how practical her questions are.

Catherine doesn’t answer. She bows her head, wraps her knees close to her chest. So, everyone knows.

Her sister looks away. Their mother and Jehanne have washed her body, and she is wearing a dress borrowed from Hauviette. Her hair is damp. She stares at a spot on the floor where a spider is crawling.

Joan throws off the blanket, and it slips from her shoulders to the ground. She stands. Her legs are unsteady, but she moves, her hands feeling along the walls, to the single window to look out of it.

Catherine says, “I had not reached the shrine of the Virgin, but I thought of her.”