It seems the only things impervious to the destruction of the English are those that have an element of magic to them. The Faerie Tree is scarred—a brute has attempted to set fire to its roots and to cleave its bark—but it still stands, home to the invisible winged people who play tricks, bestow curses, or grant wishes. And another survivor, the spirit in the shape of a cat, is Matagot. Older, gray fur each year a lighter shade, the cat is often found these days in a tree, though never the same one twice. This spirit is not a creature of habit. If you look up and think something has just blinked at you, you would probably be right. Camouflaged in a covering of yellow foliage, Matagot watches over the village. Leaves stir. A spine stretches, and a paw, hanging casually off a branch, flexes claws sharp as any whetted knife.

In the morning, Catherine wakes, and she is smiling. Perhaps the prayers, the visit to the Holy Virgin’s shrine, the walk in brisk air have done her good? She blushes as she motions Joan to come closer. “I want to ask a favor. Will you do something for me? But I am a little shy to speak of it.

“You know how women with child are,” her sister says, though she hasn’t been so talkative in months, “how they get it into their heads they want something particular to eat? Well, I have heard of a dish, and I would like to taste it. I have no appetite for pottage or bread, not even for meat.”

Joan bends, so that Catherine can whisper in her ear.

“I have never heard of this dish,” Joan says. “What is it?”

“They make it in Vaucouleurs,” Catherine replies, dipping her head. “It is a very special food. Our uncle told me about it.”

“Vaucouleurs?” Joan repeats.

“Will you go? For me?”

There is no need to say more. Joan counts the money she has: six pennies. What worries her is that her father has taken the cart, so she must walk. The distance is nearly twelve miles. It will take her four hours to reach the town and four hours to come back.

She pockets her money and her knife, and she is ready.

“Don’t tell Uncle,” Catherine says. “Let it be our secret. Promise. I am afraid he will think you are indulging me or that I am being silly.”

Once she promises, her sister closes her eyes, smiling. She relaxes; for the first time since they returned from Neufchâteau, Catherine appears content. She takes Joan’s hand.

“It may be a long wait,” Joan says.

“I will be waiting.” Catherine hesitates before releasing her. “Now go, Joan.”