The mid-August sun is sweltering, and François and Roselle are forced to take cover in the garrison, cutting the noon's adventure to a close. He is fifteen, and she is almost twelve, growing taller by the day. Her hair, very much like her mother's, tumbles down her back in a cascade of curls. D'Artagnan's eyes hold all the emotion in the world; bright and bold and cheery. They are stood outside Treville's office, where the roof shields them from the sun.
François looks at her, more than a little shyly. Five years ago he had told Louis that Roselle was pretty, but he was wrong. She isn't pretty.
She is beautiful.
"Why do you think people want to get married?" He blurts out the question before he can stop himself. His cheeks flush bright red, but it could easily be masked as the heat.
"I don't know," she replies, shrugging. "When you get older, you just have to."
It is the same answer François gave Louis. "I'm going to marry Pénélope," he says quietly.
Roselle laughs. "You can't marry her! She's your piano teacher."
"So what?" asks François.
"She'll give you top marks and then it won't be fair," protests the eleven-year-old.
"No, she won't." François looks at her and says quietly, "Have you ever kissed anyone?"
"What, like real kissed? On the lips?"
"Yeah," says the fifteen-year-old.
"No way."
"Well … maybe we should," suggests François, "just to see what the fuss is about."
"Okay then." Roselle pouts her lips and squeezes her eyes shut. Slowly, François copies her and leans forward. Their lips touch gently for half a second, and Roselle quickly pulls away. They look at each other, neither knowing what to say.
"Say something," urges Roselle.
François panics. "Uh … one for all?"
"All for one!" Roselle grins, and suddenly the kiss is forgotten as the two begin to talk of Musketeers.
As the day hardens on, the two make their way home for dinner.
"François?" says Roselle quietly, just as François is about to turn the doorknob. "Would you think of me?"
François's brows furrow in confusion. "For what?"
"You know … if you don't get to marry Pénélope."
François shrugs. "I guess."
He disappears inside the house, just in time to hear Élise squealing about something to do with her dolls.