"This way, Monsieur de Lorme, she is here." Constance directed the middle-aged man into the sitting room where the Queen and her ladies had been spending a pleasant afternoon reading until an unforeseen incident had driven them to take a turn in the Cardinal's gardens. Orianne lay unconscious, peaked and pale, upon the chaise where the Queen had once sat not moments before and where she had been placed by servants. Anne had ordered the King's doctor summoned and then withdrew with the chattering courtiers and young Thérèse to give the man room to work and the girl space to breathe. She had bid Constance to wait with her and inform her of the lace weaver's condition after the doctor had conducted his examination. Constance frowned, watching her young friend's still face and steady breathing, her skin marked by purplish grey circles from long nights of work under her eyes.

"What occurred here?" asked de Lorme, setting down his tools on the little table beside the chaise seat. Constance looked away and turned to him instead.

"She was sitting over by the window so she would have light for her lace work. Her Majesty invited her here to complete an order and asked her to bring her little charge to visit. When servants brought a little food and wine for The Queen and her ladies, I turned to offer her some and that is when we noticed that she had at some point fainted." De Lorme nodded and removed his gloves to feel for her pulse. Finding it steady and her skin warmly flushed, he frowned.

"Mademoiselle, I am going to wake her with salts. Send for a servant girl and have her stripped to her chemise so I may examine her fully." Constance nodded and went into the hall to catch a passing servant while de Lorme removed a phial from his pocket, removed the cork, and waved it gently under her nose. It wrinkled and her head jerked away from the stench, eyes half opening and looking at him in confusion.

"Welcome back, Mademoiselle," said de Lorme, recorking the phial and storing it. "Do you remember where you are?" Orianne pushed herself up to a half-sitting position.

"I was with the Queen." De Lorme nodded.

"Yes, that's right." The door opened and Constance returned with another young woman. The doctor stood and stepped away, turning to face her.

"I will wait outside while you prepare her, Mademoiselle." He took his leave, shutting the door behind him, and Constance approached.

"Let us get you out of that dress, Orianne," she said with a smile. Orianne sat up fully and stared at her.

"What for, Constance? Who was that man and why was he touching me?" She was scared, even perhaps near tears with her mind unable to recall the last few moments. Constance sat down next to her and took her hand gently between her own.

"Orianne, you fainted," she explained calmly, smiling. "Monsieur de Lorme is the King's doctor and the Queen summoned him to examine you. Now please, let us remove this dress." Constance helped her to her feet, though she was very steady, and the servant stepped forward to begin undressing her, but Orianne shied away.

"I can do it myself," she stated firmly. The servant looked confused, glancing at Constance unsurely, but the Queen's lady-in-waiting nodded and sent her off. Orianne allowed Constance to untie the back laces, quickly shed the dress's outer layer, and began to attack the slight double layer of skirts, which she wore as it was only early spring and there was still a chill, as well as the front-laced corset. She draped them over the back of the chaise and stood awkwardly in her thick chemise as Constance looked at her strangely. She opened her mouth to speak when a knock sounded at the door and she instead had to allow the doctor to enter. De Lorme had her lie down and Constance watched as he palpitated her, feeling with firm fingers down her body from neck to middle and stopped just below her waist, which was rather swollen-looking. He frowned, felt around her lower stomach a little more and then shook his head, chuckling.

"Mademoiselle, forgive my frankness, but do you recall the last time you bled?" Orianne blushed deeply and Constance felt her own eyes grow wide. She had gotten more familiar with the young woman over the months, even exchanging Christmas gifts with her at her insistence in favour of the German tradition, but there could be little chance that she had-

"Not since the King's musketeers left," she mumbled down towards her folded hands. Constance looked down at her stomach, feeling hers dropping like a stone. How had she missed it? How had she missed this frank-faced, naive young woman getting sick over smells and taking out her clothes to make space for her growing figure?

"Then Mademoiselle, if he is a soldier, and I believe I can guess which one, I wish you both congratulations. You are fairly far along and should be stable for the rest of it. Just be sure to get some sleep." She nodded mutely as he bid adieu to Constance and left with his unused instruments in hand. Constance returned to the seat next to her, but Orianne refused to meet her eyes.

"Were you ever going to tell anyone?" Constance asked accusingly. "Were you even going to tell him?" She ignored her, standing and taking hold of her skirts with a trembling hand. It was out now; she could no longer hide.

"I did not want him to worry more," she replied quietly, slowing tying the skirts around her thickened, bulged waist. Constance stood and grabbed the other woman's hands, stopping her from reaching for the overdress.

"Orianne, that is ridiculous and you know it. You must write him at once. You cannot keep this from him." Orianne stared at her, sad-eyed and pale.

"Do you think Monsieur D'Artagnan would forgive himself if you called him back and his friends were hurt while he was gone?" she asked quietly, staring steadily at the lady-in-waiting. Constance could not hold her gaze and released her, stepping back with a frown. There was a moment of silence between them save for the rustling of fabric as she dressed.

"Orianne, war is an ugly, dangerous business. Every soldier knows the risks they take stepping onto that field, the musketeers especially as the King's Elite. You two are not even married yet. There will be nothing that could be done for yourself, Thérèse or this child if Athos were to die without knowing, without you making it known." Constance stepped forward to rest a hand on her arm. "Please, consider at least their future safety if you will not consider your present one worth telling him about."

"I will, Constance, if you will give me time." Constance bit her lip reluctantly, but her friend's sadly pleading expression dissuaded her from further argument. She nodded and Orianne hugged her from the side, smiling.

Roderic stared at the letter held in his hands, the sheaf shaking in his fingers. The stiff grip of the digits and the stress on the paper gave way shortly afterwards, nails puncturing the ink-scribbled facade and ripping the body apart in jagged halves. How could he have let this go so far? How could she have been so dense as to let this happen, to have become their mother?

He wanted to yell and holler and shout; strip all the flesh from that musketeer's bones one piece at a time and burn every bit of him until he was nothing more than ash. But making such noise would only draw attention and conducting such an act? It would be impossible. Besides, he had already failed with Athos and Aramis. The Cardinal was not impressed with him, with his elaborately plotted accidents, with his failure to dispose of the Inseparables, with how long it was taking to commit even a minor success. The young man felt short of breath and sat on the ground, elbows resting against his bent knees and holding his face in his hands. He was going to lose her to sin just as mother had been. He was failing. Tears slipped unbidden from his eyes and he wiped them away half-heartedly.

He was tired, exhausted even. Drained by the killing, the gore, and the blood; sapped from the plotting and the lies and the failures. Sleeping offered no respite when his vision was clouded with the dead and their wide, staring eyes. He rocked himself back and forth, gritting his teeth to stifle his whimpers and pressing his palms furiously against his eyes, hoping the blackness would block the scenes. Oh, the murders he had committed, the death he had sown, the fathers and brothers and sons whose life he had stolen without a second thought; what would become of his soul? Roderic stood, the paper fluttering to the ground, and he marched out of his tent, letting his feet carry him away blindly.

"Oy, Winterkorn! Where are you going?" Roderic waved dismissively and kept walking. He needed to drown his fears. He found his horse in the makeshift stables, mounted, turned, and kicked the beast into motion, ignoring the annoyed cries of those dodging away from the horse's hooves. The Inn of the Red Dovecote was a short distance from camp and was frequented by crowds of soldiers fairly regularly. He could safely shelter in a corner, ignored by all, and the drink would flow freely courtesy of his fellows' constant demands. He had become shamefully good at taking half full, even full cups from occupied tables, but it was better to benefit from another's sin than to sin himself.

He staked out a stool in a corner under the stairs next to a barrel upon which rested an abandoned candle. A brace of swearing broke out amongst some Swiss dragoons who were playing cards or dice. King's Musketeers and Royal Guards rubbed shoulders as their lackeys forced their way to the bar to order wine as was preferred or beer for those with less coin. Roderic, who had no lackey and still wore his blue uniform, was able to clear a path for himself amongst the bar's throng and order a tankard. He returned to his corner and his barrel, withdrawing a tiny phial from a pouch on his belt. Holding it between his thumb and forefinger, he leaned forward on his elbow, staring at its contents thoughtfully. It was half empty. He carefully unstopped the cork, poured a trickle into his drink and then stoppered the phial and stored it. He considered the crowd and focused on the dragoons. They appeared so deep in their cups and growing so uproariously loud he doubted they would have noticed a cannon firing into their midst. He made his way to their table, quickly swapped his tankard for one of theirs and retreated.

The soldier reached for it blindly. Roderic sipped from his grimly. Suddenly, the tavern's door swung open with a loud bang and heads turned to regard the new party – the Inseparables with Porthos in the lead bearing a crate. He set it down hard on the closest table and called to the barkeep for him to open it. A crowd gathered around the four of them curiously. Roderic's drink tasted bitter on his tongue and he glared unabashedly at the celebratory quartet, ready to blindly drown themselves in alcohol.

"Bring your glasses!" Porthos called. "There's enough wine here for everyone!" A cheer went up and the crowd expanded as thirsty soldiers bunched around with their cups, searching for the free drink. Roderic kept back, the corners of his mouth turning up as realization came over him. He took a great swallow of the beer as the corks were removed and wine flowed freely.

"To us!" called Porthos jovially.

"To the Queen!" said Aramis, smiling.

"To the King!" shouted D'Artagnan excitedly.

"To France," said Athos, raising his glass. And the crowd echoed every sentiment, some of them drinking after each one. Roderic set down his beer, sought out his hat from his corner and headed for the door.

"Stop!" Athos suddenly yelled in his strongest commanding voice. "Stop drinking!" Roderic turned around to see the musketeer lunge across the table and knock the cup from D'Artagnan's hand, sending wine flying. Roderic watched as several men staggered, gasping and falling on top of others who had already fallen and lay twitching on the floor. Porthos slowly put down his cup, staring at the carnage, and Aramis frowned into his, swirling the wine around, the boisterous mood destroyed. With fists and jaw clenched with anger at his failure, Roderic left as nervous murmurs grew in the tavern and the men were turning to look at the four musketeers. His return to camp led him to his tent to discard his uniform and then he travelled around the outside borders to where the Cardinal had set up his headquarters, welcomed by the King because there was no better tactical mind. He knew better now than to wait to announce his failures. Roderic nodded to Jussac from beneath his hat and the guardsman announced him to the Cardinal before letting him pass. Richelieu was behind his desk, tracing something on the map before him with a long, spider-like finger.

"I hope you have something worthwhile to report, Chevalier," said Richelieu without glancing up.

"I believe I do," replied Roderic, his expression cold. "Two events have occurred."

"Speak then and be brief."

"Those visiting the Red Dovecote inn appear to have been struck by a violent poison from wine brought to the establishment by the Inseparables. At least ten men from various units have died."

"Were you a witness to this treacherous act?" Richelieu looked up to see Roderic straighten with self-importance, feeding off his apparent interest.

"Yes, Your Eminence." Roderic tried not to let neither his pleasure nor his confusion at the lack of rebuke for the failure show on his face.

"And your second event?"

"My sister is with child by that damned musketeer," Roderic snarled vehemently. Richelieu raised an eyebrow.

"Such wonderful news for them both, save Monsieur Athos and his friends will now be arrested and tried as traitors to France. Your dear sister will be alone in the world, save for yourself, and will need to be provided for."

"I believe him to be unaware of this development." Richelieu sat back in his chair, folding his fingers together in front of his face to hide his smile.

"You have done very well Chevalier in bringing this to me," he said. Roderic blinked at him in surprise, but said nothing. "You will testify before the King as to what you witnessed and after those four have been sentenced for their crime, I will see you released from duty to return to Paris." Roderic bowed gratefully, hat scraping the carpet that had been thrown on the ground to reduce the chill. Richelieu stood, opened a small chest on his desk, and withdrew a weighty pouch, handing it to the young man.

"For your excellent service, Chevalier." Roderic took the offered bag, kissed Richelieu's ruby ring, and backed from the tent, bowing once more at the entrance. When he was gone, Richelieu allowed himself a victorious smile as he returned to his desk. While the bumbling guards in Paris had lost Buckingham, who was likely lost in the countryside as he struggled to reach England; this recent news had rejuvenated him. The tactical loss would be great, but others were capable of continuing the fight without the meddlesome foursome. He would only have to wait until morning.