Querida,

All is quiet here on the front, save my disruptive yearning for your person.

The snow's been falling quickly and the nights are cold. The boys entertain themselves with cooking the most horrific creations with herbs they find in the woods. I'm convinced Porthos will give the regiment food poisoning if he keeps up the way he has.

D'Artagnan broke two fingers when he tried to steal Athos' dinner and Athos slammed a mug on his hand. By God, I live with barbarians.

Lately, I find myself longing for just one glimpse of your smile, amante. Just to sustain me through this dark winter.

A


My most beloved,

It is with much joy I open your letter and imagine your sweet smile. I'm sending one of my biggest back to you. Stay warm.

Court is dreadfully boring without you and the musketeers to keep us entertained— sorry, I mean protected. The nobles are, as always, challenging.

Louis had a slight cold the past week and spent it tucked in bed, sniffly and red-nosed, waited on hand and foot by a veritable horde of servants offering tea and soups and some sort of herb cleanse. The doctor is taking his experimental studies very seriously. Louis keeps demanding chocolate every time the doctor has him take a medicine. I'd disapprove if it weren't so funny to watch the maids try to soothe the doctor's ruffled feathers.

Philippe has started teething. I miss sleep.

Tell Porthos if he kills you with an unknown wild mushroom, I will be very displeased with him.

Know that you are on my mind every moment, beloved— come back to me soon.

A


Querida,

Porthos says you should have more faith in his cooking skills— he's only given the regiment fever once. We have, coincidentally, voted Athos in charge of meals. He just looks so lovely in an apron.

We're expecting some action this week, thank God. Everyone's itching for a good scuffle. I've polished my musket so many times I can see every pore in my face in the reflection.

Is Louis well? If he still is congested, feed him some of those terrible peppers D'Artagnan likes. My mother used to give me those as a child when I had a flu.

Tell Philippe to leave his lovely mother be. (Though, of course, she doesn't need any more beauty sleep to enchant the eye— she's already the most radiant creature to walk France.)

The boys want to know what I'm writing— I told them just weaponry reports for Treville, and I'd add that they say hello. God knows the old man needs some fan mail.

And thus, another week ends. I savor every dusk and dawn that bring me closer to seeing you once again.

A


My most beloved,

We heard of the success of your battle in Paris this morning. I wish I could assure myself of your safety in person but, seeing as you've disappeared somewhere in the Pyrenees, it's probably best to stay here and anxiously await your return.

(Don't make that face at me, cariño— I know you can take care of yourself. Allow a lonely queen some fretting over her absent knight.)

Louis is fine, the little horror. He's been terrorizing the maids with the play sword Louis had made for him. I wonder if an obsession with weaponry could be hereditary?

Thank God, Philippe has started sleeping through the night again. I've left him to his governesses, though I was the one who woke in the night to soothe him all through that terrible teething period. Why do we even hire these people?

How are the boys? Athos' cooking?

I miss you.

A


Q,

I wish I could be there to teach him the really mischievous things to do with a sword.

Don't talk about the cooking. Athos knows I'm writing to you and has taken to heavily over-salting all my meals in punishment. Sadist.

I'm glad Philippe is well again. Is the snow melting in Paris yet?

I miss you too.

A


I do not need another sword-happy child running around my palace, thank you.

Shall I include some spices in the next letter? Save you from your fate?

I think the snow plans to stay until you return.

Come home quickly, beloved. I ache for your company.

A


Q,

I am a perfectly sword-stable child, thank you very much.

You are the best.

Treville thinks we'll be home before summer starts.

So… what are you wearing?


Thank you. I know.

Thank God. The court is awful right now. Everyone is sick of being trapped inside, especially my imp of a firstborn. Did I tell you he lit Madame d'Borrón's gown on fire last ball? And, when his governess captured him and went to discipline him, gave her the most appallingly effective pair of puppy dog eyes I've ever seen? Someone has been teaching my child naughty tricks. When you get back, we will be having words.

Not that it's any of your business, but my gold gown with the white bodice. And the silk stockings you like.


Q,

Brilliant kid. No idea where he got that strategy from, though. Natural talent?

Athos and D'Artagnan have the flu and have been the most obnoxious children about it. All drippy and weak. Athos tried to get out of night watch because he "couldn't breathe out of his left nostril." Pathetic.

(I read that out loud to the boys and Athos threw his boot at me. Joke's on him— I'm keeping it. He can miss out on both his left nostril and his left shoe.)

Dios, I love how you look in those stockings. Want you.


My child is not a natural demon. You did this to him.

With this letter I've sent some of those peppers you recommended for Louis— they cleared his sniffles right up. Poor Athos and D'Artagnan. You're being cruel.

If you were here you could take them off of me.


Q,

That's just not fair. I'm stuck in these blasted snowy woods getting dripped on by plague-ridden Musketeers and you're in the Louvre in silk stockings. I hate my life.

Te amo.


Te amo, beloved…

Come home to me soon.