I lead Minuit;

Emilde leads

the convent’s horse

(heaven forgive us)

to the gate

that keeps the peasants

from their betters.

I’ve no idea which we are.

The answer comes quickly.

No beggars.

I watch the guard’s hand.

It does not go to his sword

as it would for a greater threat

than four bedraggled girls.

Begging your pardon,

Emilde begins.

I am no beggar.

I employ my haughtiest voice.

I am the daughter of

Monsieur Georges de Bressieux

and a personal friend

to the Duchess Isabella of Lorraine.

He grunts.

I’ll be your personal

friend, chérie.

My hands grasp

for the sword I do not have.

I would slit his throat so fast

his blood would drench

these convent clothes,

the grass, the gate, my rage.

Emilde’s voice surprises,

friendly, warm.

You hail from Brioude

if I am not mistaken, friend?

I glance at her

but she avoids my eyes.

I recognize your rhythms.

Hard to forget, even after

years in service.

A hint of camaraderie,

demeanor changing.

Grew up along the Allier.

I’ve just returned

from burying my pa.

Emilde makes

the sign of the cross

and he grunts again.

The world is better off,

believe you me.

Emilde laughs;

I’ve never heard her

laugh before.

Do you know

Old Melisende,

by chance?

The herbwife?

She only delivered me

into this world!

We are saved by the herbwife,

Emilde’s grand-mère—

or so she claims.

We’re sent to the servants’ entrance,

granted admission to the kitchens

and welcomed for a spell to rest and eat

though still no one believes my station.

The guard’s hands wander

as he ushers us into the kitchen.

Let me know

if you need help

getting warm.