Oh, hi! It's been a while, hasn't it? You might have been thinking (but probably not), I wonder if Laz has given up on that one fic?

Nope. Still writing it. Very, very, very slowly. I've been spending a lot of time on some original work, but I keep coming back to tweak this story. It's all planned out, and I just have to write it. If you're new, great; if you're not so new, you might want to read from the beginning, and maybe you'll catch the little changes I've made for funsies.

Happy reading,

Laz (who still hasn't settled on standard capitalization for "Musketeers" or "D'Artagnan." *sigh*)

Part One

The Maiden's Heart

Chapter One

"The last time this happened," drawled Aramis, balancing the end of his pistol on his finger, "it went on for days."

D'Artagnan snorted, licked his thumb, and turned the page of his book. Porthos, reclined against the wall with his hat over his eyes, grumbled, "You go on for days."

Aramis wasn't about to finish there. "I mean, we're Musketeers. That means we should be out there somewhere, running head-long into danger, saving lives, winning favor—"

"Everything except peace and quiet," D'Artagnan added lightly.

The pistol tipped suddenly and fell, hitting Aramis' face as it went. "Ow. Come, D'Artagnan, it's been merely three months since you've become a Musketeer—getting tired already?"

Porthos grunted, "Of you?"

Aramis was the most easily effected by leisure—and poorly effected at that. If he had his way, they would all be working, traveling, fighting constantly; as it was, the occasional lull in action permeated their line of work, especially during times of peace. It was one of those times, though less than three days ago they had returned from a long and difficult journey from Calais after a meeting with the Duke of Buckingham. The King's life had not been at risk, but a royal person is a difficult traveling companion; the pace had been agonizingly slow.

Aramis brought his fists down on the table, their usual spot in the garrison yard, his eyes bright with irritation. "What is the matter with you two? I'm going to die of boredom, and here you are, sleeping and—what are you doing?"

D'Artagnan rolled his eyes. "I'm reading, Aramis. Have you ever tried to?"

Aramis looked affronted. "Of course. Naturally. I just haven't got the time."

"No time, eh? Plenty of time wastin' away now, isn't there?" This came from under Porthos' hat.

"Aren't you supposed to be sleeping?" Aramis snapped. "Anyway, D'Artagnan, I didn't think it was a common accomplishment of men in Gascony to read. Learned farmer, were you?"

D'Artagnan didn't take the bait. "My father was. He taught me everything he could; we couldn't afford a tutor."

"Fair enough, just didn't place you as the reading type."

D'Artagnan looked up. "Exactly what 'type' am I?" he said petulantly.

Aramis was saved from answering this question as Athos strode into the yard. "Athos! Please, save me from this boredom; I swear, I shall go mad from it."

Athos' face was customarily stoic. "You mean the boredom you were praying for a week ago? I don't know when your moaning is worse, when we're in the thick of battle or during our time off." Athos bore slow days as he bore any difficult day—with few words and at least one glass of wine.

Aramis threw his hands up. "You're all of you useless. I'm going to go amuse myself, and no, you're not invited." He stood, collecting his hat and gloves and stomping in a surprisingly childlike manner.

"If you get drunk and try to swim to the bottom of the Seine again, I'm not pulling you out!" D'Artagnan called after him, turning another page.

"Have you seen the cat?" Athos said in his quiet voice.

D'Artagnan scoffed. "That bloody cat."

The cat was an interesting story. There was no shortage of homeless animals roaming the streets of Paris—and no shortage of carcasses, either—but a particularly persistent cat had begun to wait in the yard for scraps about a month ago, a scruffy bedraggled thing that look as if it had been drowned and resurrected. They fed the cat out of amusement mostly, though D'Artagnan had not been amused—he was not predisposed to cats, and found himself coming down with a cold whenever it was around for long. Most surprising was Athos' reaction to the creature; they had expected him to merely tolerate its presence, but instead they found the cat was drawn to him, and he to it. They seemed a good pair, both entirely independent and somehow lonely. It was customary for the cat to sleep curled up in Athos' quarters and frequently in his lap, though he'd not bothered to name it. It was an addition to their unlikely group none of them had anticipated.

"He's been gone all day," Athos said now.

"Perhaps he is furnishing someone's dinner," muttered D'Artagnan darkly.

Athos paused, looking down at D'Artagnan. "Are you reading?" He sounded intrigued.

"Why do people keep asking that? Yes, I read. Is that such a surprise?" D'Artagnan snapped, shutting his ragged copy of Homer's tales. It was an heirloom of sorts; his father used to read it to him.

"Somewhat surprising, yes," Athos drawled, shrugging on his leather jerkin and fixing his Musketeer's shoulder guard in place. "Only because I would have thought you more likely to be swimming to the bottom of the Seine on a day off."

D'Artagnan rolled his eyes. "I'm glad you have such a high opinion of me. You're not going to look for that cat, are you? Good riddance, if you ask me."

"I didn't," said Athos, pulling his hat down on his brow. "Make sure Porthos doesn't get into trouble."

As if on cue, Porthos began to snore.

Looking for a cat in a city as large as Paris was no easy task; the streets were crowded and the city enormous. Athos wandered, unsure of where exactly to begin such a search. He passed under the bridge where two months ago he had said a final goodbye to the woman he had once loved. He wondered vaguely if her locket was still there, in the dirt. No doubt someone had found it and sold it. It was here, under the bridge, that he felt a familiar brush of tail against his leg. He looked down to see the cat, its dirty gray fur and quiet meow. He crouched down to pet its head, but with a purr it slipped away from him and trotted down the street. Athos had no choice but to follow.

It was an area of Paris he was somewhat familiar with; they were not yet far from the Musketeers' garrison, but Athos did not recognize any faces or names. The cat wove through feet and padded soundlessly into a tavern; the sign hanging outside read, "The Maiden's Heart." Inside, the tavern was occupied but not bustling. Dimly lit but fairly clean, the pub had a surprising lack of suspicious characters lurking in corners, merely men sitting for a drink, women gossiping, travelers eating modest fare.

Having lost the cat in his new surroundings, Athos went to the bar. A young girl was there, cleaning glasses—she couldn't have been older than sixteen, possibly fifteen. Athos thought it unwise for a young girl to be alone in a place like this, as pleasant as it was. He knew better than most what drink could do to a person, especially a man.

He asked for wine and paid his coin, his eyes skimming under tables and in corners for the cat.

A woman entered from the kitchen door with a pan of milk and cream. "Could you check on the meat pies, Elaine?" she said to the girl cleaning glasses, who disappeared into the kitchen. The woman set the pan on the edge of the bar, and behind her the cat leapt to it, its pink tongue lapping up the liquid. "There you are, my friend."

The woman set to finishing cleaning the glasses as the cat drank its milk. Athos downed the last of his wine and went to the cat, who looked up from its milk and padded over to him, leaning into his hand purring.

"Is he yours, monsieur?" This came from the woman behind the bar.

"Yes," he said, "in a manner of speaking."

"He's been coming here the last few days," said the woman. "I wasn't sure if he was being fed, so I started giving him milk. I think I've prompted a habit."

Athos looked at her. Her words were friendly, but she did not smile. Her eyes were pleasant enough, hooded and ponderous and hazel in her thin face. She was thin, as thin as many of the poor in Paris. Her clothing was plain and utilitarian. Her hair was the brown of autumn heather and straight; she had it pulled back into a loose knot but a few strands fell into her eyes. She brushed them away.

"You have my thanks, madame" said Athos. "His absence has caused some concern."

"Mademoiselle. And I didn't know they kept cats at the Musketeers' garrison," said the woman. Her voice was soft and quiet and somber, the kind that could easily disguise threats as well as furnish sincere compliments. He didn't answer, and she looked up. "I don't get many Musketeers in here, but I recognize them when I do."

"It's a fine establishment," he said, trying to shake off the odd feeling her hazel eyes gave him.

"I keep it as clean as I can," she replied. She swatted gently at the cat with her towel. "Finish your milk, mon petit. I'm loath to waste it." To Athos' surprise, the cat complied, lapping again at the milk until it was gone. "Now go with your Musketeer," she said to it, and it returned to nudge Athos' arm.

Athos seldom offered his name unless it was required, but he felt oddly compelled to now. "Athos of the King's Musketeers."

She nodded, her strangely indifferent face contradicting her expressive eyes.

"Margot! The pies are burning!" came a distressed cry from the kitchen. The woman spared him one look before calling, "Coming!" and leaving him alone.

The cat meowed as his elbow. Athos stood. "No more milk for you," he told it, and left the tavern.