It is all Joan can do not to shake her head. And how would she have helped you? How can compassion, temperance, mercy, which are all the features of the Virgin, serve you against such men as these? The answer is, they can’t.

In her chest, she feels a hardness, like the tip of a knife has broken off and is left there to fester: a splinter of steel in her heart.

When she looks out the window, she doesn’t see the roads, the sky, the market stalls of Neufchâteau, the steeple of the church where their mother is praying. She sees the path to the Virgin’s shrine on the edge of Domrémy, the grass patterned with white patches of bishop’s lace, the warm pools of sun Catherine would have stepped through, alternating with stretches of shade. She sees her sister bending to pick wildflowers to lay at the Virgin’s altar. Yet in the distance, shadows wait. A huddle of wolves watch, jaws dripping.

She thinks of years of poor harvests. The nights they sat down to eat when food was scarce and Catherine said she wasn’t hungry. She edged her half-filled bowl toward Joan and lived off scraps of crusts and water for more days than Joan could count. When asked why she starved, she said she fasted to show her devotion to the Virgin, yet it was Joan who ate all the offerings.

She thinks of men who are cruel. Men who don’t speak French. Men with scars. I do not have to seek out these men. They are everywhere.

Behind her, Catherine rises to light a candle. Her movements are small and pained, but her face is like stone and gives nothing away. She will not pity herself.

Already, as Joan stands, half-leaning against the wall, she can feel her strength returning. By the day’s end, her fever will have broken. Her limbs will be as they were before. The sweat on her body will have dried. She will no longer suffer from chills, and her sight will clear.

But too late. All too late.

She, Joan, is not beyond self-pity. As the candle flickers, she asks, the question directed to her God: Who else will You have me fail?

She thinks, Perhaps I should not have fallen asleep in church. Perhaps I should have prayed harder.

Her father has struck a deal with the innkeeper, a burly, laughing woman named La Rousse because of her flame-colored hair. For reduced room and board, he offers the services of his two daughters. They will help with anything that needs doing around the inn.

Before Joan goes down to work, she seeks out Hauviette. Nothing has changed since she was a child of ten. Though Joan now stands a full two heads taller, as soon as they see her, Jehanne sweeps her into her arms.