She feels like a knight on a quest: a prince given an impossible task, the princess waiting in the locked turret for his return. When she reaches Vaucouleurs, it is nearly noon. She stops passersby. “Pardon,” she says to each person, “do you know where I can find this dish?” But most ignore her, and the rest shake their heads and claim they have never heard of it.

“It is a special dish,” she explains patiently when they stare. “And it is made here, in Vaucouleurs.”

“Well,” one woman replies, “it must be special, if it doesn’t exist.”

Most would rest after walking such a distance on the doorstep of an inn or beg to catch their breath on a tradesman’s board stool. But Joan hurries to the street of bakers’ stalls. They have heard of the dish, yes, but they still treat her as if she is a simpleton. “Who is it for, did you say?” they ask. “You won’t find that anywhere here.”

“It’s for my sister.”

“Ah, well, your sister has been dining lately with the lords and ladies, I suppose?” And they shoo her away while laughter shakes their bodies from head to foot.

But this gives Joan an idea, and she waits outside one of the gates of the royal garrison. She sees, some distance away, a cart led by a slow mule, barrels and sacks swaying in the back. She times its progress, and when the moment comes she slips behind the cart. Her hands snatch two of the sacks, balancing them on her shoulders. At the gates, the guards assume she is another laborer carrying in extra bags of flour.

The flour still on her shoulders, she asks the driver of the cart where the kitchen is. He studies her with his one good eye, the other bleared a milky white.

“New, are you?” he asks.

She nods. “Now quickly,” she says, her voice rising. “I need to get these delivered so I am paid on time.”

The kitchen is busy, but she searches out the cook and manages to corner him. “This dish, have you heard of it, do you have it here?”

The cook shakes his head, chuckling. He looks her up and down. “Sick of black bread, are you?” he says. “Well, I suppose you must be if you have such high standards.”

She wipes the sweat from her face with her palm. “It isn’t for me. Please, I have already asked all over town.”

A thick finger points at a pile of tablecloths in a corner. “Wash those,” he says. “Get the stains out, hang them up to dry. I’ll show you where. Then I will give you something if you do the work properly and don’t dally.”