Heavy rains would have been more appropriate for the message Athos needed to share. Instead, the sun was out, and unusually robust puddles of water reflected its light. The reflection shimmered and waved as droplets of mud landed in each one, while Kelpie walked along the pathway. His ears were forward, his head held high, and he raised his front legs like an elegant dancer. The leaves on the trees fluttered and bowed as droplets continued to fall from the top branches toward the ground. Squirrels exited their dens and ran along the tree trunks and leapt from branch to branch while the warmth of the day increased. Birds chirped and hunted for the fresh worms that rose to the surface. Grasses and weeds beaten down by the harsh rains continued to struggle to rise.

White puffy clouds drifted across the blue sky. The village was small, just a few homes, and farmers that tended their fields and worked the grounds as they managed the loss of their crops. Within days, the fields not flooded with standing water would be replanted and then, later in the fall, the crops would be harvested. No matter the cause, the farming community was strong. They would rebuild, and fight for what they believed in and what they had spent generations building.

Athos slowed his mount, took a deep breath and felt Kelpie relax beneath him. He nodded toward a man, who stood with a pitchfork near the barn doors, and then looked to his wife as she exited the house and tossed water from a bucket. A cat chased a mouse across the yard, and chickens squawked and fluttered at the sudden and aggressive movement.

"You look lost, young man," the old farmer said and grasped the handle of his pitchfork. "We don't see many of the King's Musketeers up here." He took a deep breath, placed his other hand on his hip, and shifted his foot before him. "Who is it you're lookin' for?"

Athos pulled Kelpie to a stop and leaned forward in his saddle. "The Surrette family?"

The old man turned and pointed to the house across the field surrounded by fruit trees. "Follow the creek this side of the orchards," he said. "They're a good family, the Surrettes — just stay away from Monsieur Surrette's apple brandy." He chuckled. "The man loves his apples."

Athos quirked a smile, nodded, and nudged Kelpie's sides. Death was a part of life. But for those experiencing the loss, it didn't matter that life had once again fulfilled its promise. The initial moment of seeing it, feeling it, or hearing of it, hurt no different from a blade through tender skin. But instead of healing after days or weeks of pain, it would linger, scar, and remind those still living that the loss was still there, still relevant, and still just as painful as that moment when it occurred.

Athos was all too familiar with it, the moments of grief that became too overwhelming to bear. And the moments when guilt accompanied the loss only tormented his soul and the deep scar that remained. But here he was, moments away from informing a family of their loss… that their son was dead. He had not died in battle, nor had he died protecting the royal family, but he had died protecting a family from the ravages of rushing water and mud slides. Patrick Surrette had been twenty-two, and just weeks away from earning his commission. He was young, dedicated, and found honor in his life and those with whom he served.

Athos rubbed his face and looked at the trees in the orchard, the waters that gathered in puddles of mud and near the bases. While rain had made an impact, it had not destroyed the fruit that was just beginning to grow and would ripen over the summer months.

The home was simple, built from stone, rock, and wooden beams. The slate roof shined in areas where the sun had not dried, and water pooled in puddles around the foundation. An old milk cow lay alone in a corner of the corral and chewed her cud. She casually flopped her ears as flies drew near. She looked content, even surrounded by mud and manure. Chickens rested along the post-and-rail fence, and a few hopped to the ground to peck at the worms that surfaced. Blackbirds and sparrows fluttered and flocked around the large sycamore tree by the barn, and a small dog barked and jumped at the trunk while trying to reach them. His efforts were admirable, but clearly unachievable.

The front door opened with a high-pitched squeak before Athos could pull Kelpie to a stop and a man stepped out with bright red, unruly short hair and a full beard and mustache that was graying near his chin. He was short, with broad shoulders and bowed legs. He slipped into his doublet and pulled the collar around his neck and stepped off the bottom step of the front porch.

Monsieur Surette smiled and dusted his hands as Athos pulled his horse to a stop and dismounted. "Monsieur," he said with a gruff voice that had spent too many years shouting orders. "How can I help you?"

Athos clenched the reins in his fist and stepped forward. Kelpie walked in stride beside him. He glanced past Surrette as the door opened and a young boy peeked out. "I'm here about your son, Monsieur Surrette." Athos stood strong as blue eyes met his and looked him over.

"You're his captain… Captain Athos?"

"Yes."

"I thought you'd be older." He glanced over his shoulder and looked toward his youngest, who continued to peek through the crack in the door. "My son has written much about you and the others…" Surette quirked a subtle smile and shrugged, "they call you and your fiends the inseparables?" He spoke fast, and he knew in his gut the reason for Athos' visit, but he didn't want to hear it. They were not at war — not yet — but as a former soldier, he knew the risks. He had served in the military, and while not every commander was willing to have this conversation, a few had, at least those who understood the meaning and devastation of loss.

Athos winced and looked at a father.

"Patrick wrote about friends serving with him — and he hoped that one day they might be as respected as you and your friends."

Athos swallowed and said, "Monsieur Surrette, may I speak with you inside?" He listened to the door squeak and then watched it open wider and a woman peered out. She placed her hand on her son's shoulder.

"Come in," the woman said and turned, leaving the door open.

"My wife Ellen," Surrette said. He motioned toward the hitching post and said, "Please join us."

Athos nodded. He watched Surrette return to the house and then looked at Kelpie. "Do not do anything stupid," he threatened as he looped the reins and then double checked the throat latch. He ran his hand along Kelpie's neck, removed an item wrapped in silk from his saddlebags, and then walked to the house. He could smell a hint of lavender and immediately spotted the dried flowers hanging from the ceiling near a window. Daub walls were covered in tapestries, and in the center of the room was a kitchen table surrounded by four homemade chairs. Two fire-chairs rested before the fireplace that housed an enormous cauldron and a basket of bread and eggs that sat on the counter behind the table. It was a spacious home, well kept and clean.

Ellen poured several cups and motioned for their young son to leave the room for the adults to talk. The boy looked at Athos and then turned, left the room, and walked to the barn.

"Please sit, Monsieur," Ellen said.

Athos nodded and looked at the glass placed before him as they both took a seat with him. Surrette grabbed his wife's hand and squeezed. Athos felt his heart slam against his chest and wondered how Treville had shared this type of news with grace and dignity. He cleared his throat and said, "The flooding in Paris at the lower quadrants has been severe… and your son, Patrick, while working to rescue a family that had been trapped —"

Ellen hitched her breath, turned her head to hide behind her husband's shoulder, and squeezed his hand. Her beautiful, yet plain, face was surrounded with hair the color of nutmeg that was bound at the base of her head. Strands fluttered around her cheeks and chin. She was small and fragile.

"He didn't die acting a fool?" Surrette said and squeezed Ellen's hand in reassurance.

"No," Athos said. "He died saving the lives of children." He tightened his hold on the bundle wrapped in silk. "He was not yet commissioned by the king, but he would have been in the days to come." He pushed the bundle across the table. "I wish it could be more."

Surrette kissed his wife's cheek as she continued to cry and then carefully unwrapped the silk. The light brown pauldron had been tooled with apple blossoms, and the fleur-de-lis rested within the center. "My son is — was — the only one who loved my apple brandy." He smiled when hit with a memory and ran his hand over the design and focused on the flowers.

"He didn't suffer?" Ellen asked as she wiped at her tears. While tucking her head, she looked toward Athos, who shook his head.

"No," he said, "he did not suffer."

"Where will he be laid to rest?" Ellen raised her head and looked at him. She wanted him home. She wanted him close, but she also knew that his heart was in Paris with those he had grown close to, those he had served with — if even for a short while — and those he would have died in battle beside. She glanced at the rough wooden table and at the chair her son had spent most of his life in, the table where he had learned to hold a spoon, where he had learned to feed himself, and where he had grown into a man and discussed with his father the plans for the farm. It was the same table where Patrick had shared with them his desire and ambition of becoming a King's Musketeer.

"With his musketeer brothers in the cemetery behind the palace and the garrison — unless — of course, you want him returned home."

"Keep him with his brothers," Monsieur Surrette said in confidence. "He loved the farm, but he wanted to become a Musketeer more." He ran his hand across the pauldron once more. "And the people he saved?"

"Four small children, Monsieur."

Surrette nodded and swallowed. He squeezed his wife's hand and kissed her cheek as she continued to wipe tears from her eyes. "His life may have been short, but it had purpose." He clinched his jaw, blinked away his tears, and then took a deep breath. "Perhaps when the weather clears and the roads dry… you might permit us to see his grave?"

"I will take you there myself."

Surrette nodded. He paused a moment as Athos stood and then joined him. He looked past Athos and toward the door as it cracked open and his youngest boy peeked his head through.

"Père?"

"Yes, Simeon."

The young boy with bright red hair bit his bottom lip. "That man's horse is in the brandy."

"My apologies." Athos winced and turned suddenly toward the door. "Please… take me to him," he said and looked at the boy, who glanced from his father to Athos and then nodded. Athos turned, nodded toward the family and then followed the boy to the stables, shutting the door as he exited the house. He tightened his hands into fists and looked at Kelpie who had knocked off a lid to a barrel and drank at the apple brandy. Athos grabbed the reins that hung to the ground and pulled Kelpie from the barrel. The horse licked his lips, and then quickly tried to go back for more, but was quickly halted and corrected.

"Père used to have a dog that liked his brandy, too." The boy, only seven, crawled onto one of the barrels and looked at Athos and his horse. "He said his dog had more sense than the people did."

Athos chuckled and then gripped the reins tighter and looked at the boy. "I hear the brandy is strong."

"Père said it will put hair on your chest." He pulled on the collar of his blouse and shrugged. "It hasn't happened yet."

Athos said, "It will."

"Simeon," Monsieur Surrette said. "Please, see to your mother."

The boy jumped from the barrel and ran to the house, mud splattered, and the chickens flapped their wings in an attempt to escape.

"I need to pay you for the brandy," Athos said and then tightened his grip on Kelpie's reins and peeked over the edge of the barrel.

Surrette shook his head. "It's not for sale… and," he shrugged, "Your horse is the best customer I've had in years." He stepped up to Kelpie's shoulder and ran his hand along his neck. He peeked over the edge of the barrel and chuckled. "He likes his drink… a lot."

"An unappreciated vice, I'll admit."

Surrette curled his lips into a smile despite his grief. "A good horse is scarce, Captain. And it appears you have one — just keep him away from the wine and brandy." He picked up the lid to the barrel and covered it. "Thank you… for what you did for my son. Many of the families around here have watched their boys leave, knowing they might never know what happened to them when the wars are over. I consider myself fortunate to not just know what happened, but where he is buried." He stuck his hand out for Athos to shake and then nodded in appreciation. He took a deep breath and shrugged. "Would you like to take some brandy with you? Perhaps your horse will need a nightcap?"

Athos arched a sly brow. "I think he's had enough for the day."

"A few quarts at least," Surrette said and walked with Athos toward the front of the home. "Keep him walking for the next few hours so he doesn't colic… if he starts kicking at his belly," Surrette said, "Walk him faster."

Athos nodded. "When you're ready… I'll see you in Paris."

"Thank you."

Athos gripped the reins tighter and led his horse from the property. Kelpie tried to reach for a bite of fresh grass and quickly raised his head when Athos kept him from it. "Drunkard," he said under his breath and walked with Kelpie at his side.

The big black swatted his tail and kept his head at Athos' shoulder as they walked back to Paris. He flickered his ears forward, watched the birds flutter, hop, and fly from branch to branch and from tree to tree. The squirrels chirped and chattered while mud sucked at Athos' boots with each step.

It was going to be a long walk back to Paris with a horse who had too much to drink.