17 January 1634: Paris, France
It's odd, Constance thinks, to be making her way through the back corridors of the Louvre with the woman currently beside her. The last time they'd both been here it had been as adversaries; now, though far from friends, she feels curiously at ease with the other woman – feels she understands Milady enough to begin to trust. And the more she learns, the more she realises this meeting needs to happen, because she can't forever keep carrying bits of information between the two, and because there are things she doesn't understand about politics that she thinks both Anne and Milady do, and certainly it'll be better for them to talk directly, even if it takes creeping up the servants' stairs to do it.
(Then again, it's hardly the first time either of them has stolen into the palace; she doubts it'll be the last. No matter what, there are always reasons, or people, that merit secret conversations, and the novelty hasn't quite grown stale yet. She'll take what small enjoyment she can.)
She raps lightly on the door, a familiar pattern by now, and at the murmured affirmative eases it open. The hour is late enough that the queen's ladies are long since abed, but sure enough Anne's still awake, reading the correspondences piled before her. A single candelabrum provides illumination while throwing the rest of the room into shadow, and Constance moves forward without hesitation, Milady trailing several paces behind – and she can see the moment that the other woman steps into that pool of light by the expressions that flicker across Anne's face, too rapidly for her to catch.
She'd thought – oh god, she'd thought that Anne knew by now that Athos' wife had been Louis' mistress, but looking at them now Constance realises that the pieces had never come together, and god above, this was a terrible idea –
She watches the two women size each other up, watches the tension grow thicker by the moment, and curls her hands into her skirts and bites back whatever she might have said. Anne is one of her dearest friends, and she's warming to Milady, and if they can only see past what had been she thinks they might come to understand each other even if they can do nothing else. And so she waits, watches, hopes.
It's Milady who makes the first move, heedless of protocol, closing the last of the distance to draw a long cloth-wrapped bundle from under one arm and offer it to Anne. "After what happened with Rochefort," she says, without any preamble or introduction, "I thought you might do well being better equipped the next time."
Anne's brows lift a little, the barest hint of surprise, but she takes the bundle, untied and unrolls it – and blinks, nonplussed, at the contents for a moment before a slow smile tugs at her mouth. "Well," she says as her fingers trace the line of the bejewelled bodkin resting amid the folds of fabric, and it's Anne and not the Queen speaking, and Constance feels the tension in her body ebb, "that's an interesting foot to start off on again."