I

"Paper in the drawer by the pots," Sylvie instructed with gentle humor, bending ponderously to disengage the kitchen kitten's snagged claw from the pile of yarn at her feet.

Athos opened and closed several drawers in the ancient cabinet before happening upon the one with paper. His glance strayed to his wife, catching her in the act of yawning. The drawer slid halfway closed. "You're tired. We should go to bed."

"I am tired," Sylvie agreed pleasantly, folding strands of the freed yarn over and then over again to form the center of a ball. "I'm tired all the time these days, but not so tired that I cannot stay awake while you write to our friends. They will be wondering what has become of us; you cannot put if off any longer. Ink is on the high shelf." She directed his gaze with her chin. "Quills are in the drawer next to the paper," she added when he'd laid hands upon the ink pot.

Athos rummaged for a quill, gathered several sheets of paper and took his collected supplies to the kitchen table, though his bemused gaze did not leave his wife's bent head.

Sylvie glanced up again. Under any other circumstance, she would have found this intense scrutiny disconcerting, but she had sensed, from their first encounter, the vulnerability he so successfully hid from the world and saw in that gaze a bewilderment that was both endearing and exasperating. He still did not think himself worthy of her love, but she was working on that. Her lips curved in that secret smile she reserved only for him and only for times when they were alone like this when he had no reason to withdraw behind that formal façade he wore like armor.

His answering smile was slow and secret as well, transforming the austere countenance. The scarred lip stretched as he bent his head, hair falling forward to obscure the delicate blush that still, after all these months, embarrassed him. She felt that smile as though he had reached across the distance between them and unerringly touched his finger to the beat of her heart that silently echoed his name with every pulse.

She wanted to kick aside the pile of wool, push her cumbersome self up from her chair beside the fire and close the distance between them. Run her fingers through that hair. Bend down and kiss the still stretched lips. Touch the scar with her tongue. But that would defeat the purpose of installing them here in the kitchen this evening, rather than the warmth of their marital bed.

"It need not be a long letter," she offered, deliberately letting her gaze wander across the kitchen toward the door of their chamber. What would have been, in days long past, the housekeeper's quarters.

The smile stretched further still as the blush deepened to rose. He sighed then, and shoved the hair back from his face as he moved the ink pot closer, then slanted the paper and picked up a quill. He studied the tip for a moment before sliding a hand into his boot to withdraw the lethal weapon sheathed within. With the precision of a scribe, he whittled away at the end of the feather, blew away the shavings and tested it against his finger.

The knife disappeared into his boot again, the quill dipped into the ink and Sylvie, still watching, saw from the swirl of his beautiful tutor-taught round-hand that he addressed d'Artagnan.

Athos drew in a deep breath. Wood shifted and collapsed with a sigh in the fireplace, its fragrance enhancing the subtly sharp bouquet of fresh herbs mingling with the aroma of bread baking in the hearth oven. "I did not know contentment had its own scent," he said, chest lifting and falling again on another deep inhale.

"You are stalling, husband." Sylvie released the kitten's claws once more, though this time from its vantage point in her lap where it stretched lazily every so often to snag the yarn as she continued to twine it around the small ball she'd created. "I took time this morning to write to Constance. You will enclose it with your letter to d'Artagnan?"

"Of course." Athos sat for a moment, then dipped the quill again and began to write in earnest.

My dear d'Artagnan,

You will be wondering by now if we were set on upon by deserters or worse on the road since it has taken this long to write, so let me assure you we are both fine. We were delayed several times in our meandering-journey-to-we-knew-not-where by Sylvie's descent into motherhood. Naturally any child of mine will be giving its mother fits before ever it shows its face to the world. Sylvie is enclosing her own letter to Constance, but she says she has had enough experience with her refugees to know she is progressing as nature intended.

While we did not set out to return here, nor are we of one mind as to whether or not we will stay, we have returned to Pinon at least until the birth of our offspring. I find myself indebted to Catherine, for we are staying in the servants quarters she put to rights after her father's untimely death. It is shelter and at the moment, all we require, though Sylvie is already beguiling the tenants. She's chosen the local midwife as her caretaker, over the drunken sot of a doctor currently inhabiting the role of village healer. Tell Aramis he has a job here should he decide serving the queen is too much trouble.

As time permits, we are slowly working on restoring the wing of the house destroyed by fire. My memories of that night are hazy at best, but do you remember Madame and Monsieur Glasson? Madame Morgause has been helping Sylvie in exchange for reading lessons. Monsieur Éloi came along a time or two and offered his assistance with the reconstruction. As it turns out he is a far better carpenter than a farmer.

As we haul out burnt timbers and flooring and wash a decade of ash and grime from the walls, you are constantly on my mind, wondering how work on the garrison fares. While I was not reluctant to go, I find myself turning without thought, to speak to you or Porthos, to ask your opinion or advice or share a reminisce. And then you are not there ... and my heart sinks a little.

Our small corner of France has not been ravaged by the war, so if you have need of materials for reconstruction, our timber is plentiful and sound. It would ease an uncomfortable ache to know that I could have some small part in the rebuilding of the physical structure of the Musketeers.

Lest I forget to mention it, at the end of our journey Sylvie finally consented to take my name. She teases that it is only for the sake of the child, but her love is a flame in my heart that cannot be quenched. It has been an experience unparalleled in my rather wretched existence. Perhaps I should regret the wasted years of self-indulgence attempting to drown my sorrows, and yet, had circumstances been different, I might never have met Sylvie. Never experienced this unexpectedly deep well of joy in sharing the bringing into the world of a new life. There is a quality of wholeness expanding in me even as Sylvie's slender form becomes more gravid each day with this tiny soul we have created.

As Aramis would say, 'to everything there is a season'. I am a fortunate man in more ways than I can count.

Yours with Respect,

Athos

Note to Constance

"Sand is in the middle drawer," Sylvie offered as she watched her husband append his signature before glancing over his supplies. She dropped her yarn into the basket at her feet, the kitten bounding down to chase it as the ball hit the edge and bounced off to roll across the stone hearth.

Athos stretched to reach the middle drawer without rising, pulled out the pounce pot and proceeded to sand his letter. It was the work of a moment to pour the unused sand back into the pot, replace the pot in the drawer and shove it closed before turning on the seat of the chair to observe his wife. "That's a lot of yarn."

"It is," Sylvie agreed, biting back a smile as she pushed to her feet. It never failed to amuse when her word-parsimonious spouse stated the obvious. She collected her letter from the sideboard, leaning over with a hand on the table to give it to Athos to fold inside his missive. "You miss them."

"I do." The response was immediate, no thought needed. "It stills seems strange to turn around without running into one of them, even after all these months." He paused reflectively, gaze turning inward. "But it is a sweet ache, one I don't mind." Athos shook his head, as if to rouse himself, and pushed back from the table, leaving the folded letters. "I will seal and send it off in the morning."

"I am looking forward to seeing Constance soon." Sylvie took the arm Athos offered as he joined her. "I did not expect to be befriended when she began bringing your young recruits to help out in the refugee camp."

"She did? While we were away?" Athos led them on a slow promenade down the length of kitchen.

"You did not know that was how I met her?"

"No."

"It's the bane of every refugee camp; the few men around are hardly capable of heavy work. She did not ask us if we needed or wanted help; she just appeared with her small army and set them to work with brisk efficiency."

"Sounds like Constance."

"Yes, well, I thought her an interfering bit of baggage and attempted to dismiss her."

Athos made a sound deep in his throat that from any other man would have been a chuckle, but ventured nothing further. He'd had a few similar run-ins with Constance; he could accurately predict her response.

They had reached the bedchamber where he led Sylvie to the hearth and she turned to present him her back in a well-practiced routine. She could no longer manage the twisting and turning required to get into or out of her clothing. Athos had offered to find her a maid if she preferred a woman's services to his. Sylvie had made herself quite clear on that point. Fisting a hand around her hair, she drew it to the side to give him better access to the hooks and ties down her back.

"You laugh, but my pride was seriously injured by her assumption that we needed assistance. I am very self-sufficient you know."

"I would never have guessed." Athos lifted the hem of her shift over her head.

Sylvie's laugh rippled around the room like a lively stream. "We had words. Constance won, but she was gracious in her victory and the camp was the sounder for it. She stood between us and the wolf of winter that first year I was in Paris. Without her, the entire camp would have died of pleurisy." She put her arms up for Athos to drop her nightgown over her head, then turned to wrap them around her 'maid'.

"Apparently I have more reasons to be grateful to that woman than I realized." Athos snugged his wife against him. "The two of you are well-matched forces of nature." He felt rather like an explorer these days, discovering new propensities in the most unexpected venues. He had recently perceived in himself a heretofore unknown penchant for cuddling. Anticipation made it all the sweeter.

Sylvie's small breathy sigh was the tiniest bit smug. "Shall we to bed, my lord? I swear mornings arrive far earlier here than in Paris." She crawled between the covers and slid across the bed. Athos having stripped and inserted himself under the bedclothes as well, obligingly spooned around her. "Mmmmm," she purred, "like cuddling up to a volcano."

TBC