At the shrine, Catherine prays while Joan stands outside. The shrine is small, and confined spaces make Joan feel cornered. Someone must keep a lookout. Also, what is the point of prayers now? Her body is strong, but she is tired. She is also angry. These days, she is of a temper to put her shoulder into anyone who walks too close, just for the chance to exchange a scowl and a crude word.

But she also wants to tell her uncle, I know what you meant when you covered your face and your hand rested over your heart. There is a pain here, just here, in my chest. It is like someone is pushing down with a bar of iron, and I am waiting for the bone to cave in.

When Catherine steps out of the shrine, it appears she has taken a lesson from the Virgin. Her face is as hard and placid as the carved expressions of the saints.

Around them is the glory of autumn, leaves stained vermilion and gold, the sky a shifting dome of blue-gray. It is the kind of landscape that invites the eyes to linger and to rest, a waking dream that feels better than sleep.

Catherine rubs an eye; she looks so young, like a child rising from her bed. “I said a prayer for you,” she tells Joan. But Joan doesn’t answer, only slides a hand over her sister’s belly.

“Your child will be loved,” Joan says. “And you know, it will be pleasant to see our mother fall to her knees and pray to Saint Agnes when your baby is teething and won’t stop crying. It will drive our father mad, too, and our brothers; they’ll have to stuff wool into their ears. Won’t that be a pretty sight? But our uncle will teach the child tricks, and I’ll hold the baby on my knee and bounce it up and down to make it laugh and teach it, whether it is a boy or a girl, to climb trees and to run. We shall hear the sound of little feet in the house again. And though you will deny it and pretend to be modest, you are beautiful enough that one day, a prosperous farmer or a wealthy tradesman will catch your eye and want you for his wife. So, whatever happens, there is no way we can lose.”

She feels lighter, having laid out all her plans, but Catherine does not look at her. She moves away, and Joan’s hand slips off her stomach. “Wouldn’t you have left?” Catherine asks quietly. “If it weren’t for me?”

Joan shakes her head. That’s just dreaming, she doesn’t say. “Where could I possibly go?”

Catherine smiles. “The better question is, Where wouldn’t you go? You have stayed here too long, and I know you stay because of me.”