Thank you everyone for hanging on for the ride, between my rants and the "site" misfiring it's been a bit of a roller coaster. I'm posting early in case things go haywire again. If it does, please check back in 15-30 minutes, that seems to be the amount of time it takes for the "site" to work itself out. I've setup my page on AO3 under the same pen-name, JustLike2Write. I'll be posting stories there in completion until I catch up with this "site" and then I'll be posting by chapter until the series is complete. I'm not leaving this "site," everyone has their preferences, and I want to accommodate as many as possible.

Thank you again for your support, wonderful feedback, and encouragement. You're the reason these stories see the light of day... otherwise, they'd all be handwritten in my journals. These are the last three chapters for this story... I can't believe how quickly we're moving along.

Onward we go...

Constance yawned, rubbed her swollen eyes, and looked at the fire that was at risk of going out. She was more than halfway through the stack of letters. She had read every word with purpose and tried to hear the words as though it were d'Artagnan's voice speaking to her. It was difficult, seeing his handwriting, but not seeing him. Hearing his voice from the page, but knowing her questions would go unanswered until he returned. It was challenging; him being so far away. She lifted the last few letters to her face and smelled them. In disappointment, she lowered them back to the table and ran her fingers across his script. It was all she had at the moment, that and a few items he had left behind.

She stood, stoked the fire, and added another log. Constance rubbed her lower back, that continued to ache and then rubbed her belly that continued to swell with their child. She was sure it was a boy, a feisty one at that. She was almost eight months along and feeling every kick and punch their child delivered.

Constance refilled her tea, added a hint of honey, and then retook her seat by the lantern and again opened another letter. D'Artagnan spoke of the weather, the men and their antics, the chilly nights and sometimes colder days. He spoke of how much he missed her, how much he couldn't wait to see her again; to hold her, tell her how much he loved her, and listen to her laughter. There was never fear in the tone of his letters, perhaps a bit of uncertainty, but never fear, and she admired him for it. He was strong, stronger than he even realized. She chuckled when he mentioned her cooking. While he respected Gentry's efforts, he missed coming home to the scent of freshly baked bread and hot soup or roasted meat and vegetables. He missed standing in the kitchen entry and watching her cook. The way she moved from the table to the fireplace, the way she knew where everything was without looking, and the way she could season a plain dish and make it enjoyable.

Madame Maple's rooster crowed. Monsieur Alliare then yelled at the rooster, and then Master Thomas' hound barked and chased Madame Babcock's short-tailed cat across the road. Paris' early morning began. Constance looked at her window and caught sight of the red dawn and quietly wondered what the day's events might bring. She looked at the remaining letters, a simple stack of four, and debated whether to read them now or wait.

She listened as the Musketeers were slowly preparing for the day. She could hear the shuffling of boots. The wheeled cart was filled with hay and rolled across the courtyard for the horses, and the sounds of doors opening and closing echoed. Remi would call the men to muster, he would list off duties, and, like a well-oiled machine, the men would see to them.

Constance would take time to visit with those who had returned. She would learn their stories and help them adjust to being back home. Then, as soon as she could, she would write to their families to let them know that their sons, husbands, and brothers were returning home. They had served their country and their king with pride. And though they could no longer complete their duties as Musketeers, the king and queen thanked them and wished them well on their future endeavors. Constance rolled her eyes. It was a simple thing, writing the letters, but at least it was something she could do. Remi had asked her, given her talent with words and with the script.

Constance bit her lower lip, reached for another letter, and carefully opened it. It was fatter than the others, and she frowned when another sealed note fell from the confines. Athos' fine script was written on the front, Minister Treville, and it was sealed in wax with the captain's stamp. Constance stood, then wrapped her shoulders with her shawl, and gripped the folds of her skirt.

She opened the door, took a deep breath against the cold air, and walked across the courtyard and up the steps to the captain's office. The door was cracked and Constance knocked gently and slowly opened it wider.

"Come," came the response. Remi sat behind the desk, writing across a piece of parchment. His auburn hair was a mess, his blouse hung loose at his shoulders and around his neck. He looked up, quickly adjusted himself, and then shrugged with a long sigh. "I'm not a good captain… even if it is temporary — which I'm grateful it is — but this," he looked around the room, "I would rather be elsewhere."

"You're doing a fine job." Constance quirked a smile and then stepped forward. She placed the letter on the desk and pushed it before him. "I think you should get this to Minister Treville immediately."

"Where did you get this?" Remi said as he stood and grabbed the note.

"It was inside a letter that d'Artagnan had written me." Constance pointed to the note. "That's Athos' handwriting."

Remi nodded. "I know… but why would he send to you?" He turned, slipped into his doublet, and then quickly wrapped his weapons belt around his waist. "It's been several weeks since Treville has heard —" He paused, winced, and shook his head. "I'm a terrible captain…" He sighed and slipped the letter into his breast pocket. "I shouldn't have said anything — my mouth runs wild when it shouldn't."

"I won't repeat it," Constance said, "but what did you mean? Minister Treville hasn't heard from Athos?"

Remi clenched his jaw and shook his head. He glanced toward the door.

"I promise, Remi," Constance said. "What does this mean?" She gripped at her shawl tighter and shifted her feet as Remi wrapped his cloak around his shoulders.

"In the last letter Minister Treville received, Athos, had stated everything was as to be expected. The fighting against the Spanish had started, but was not severe. He made an offhanded comment about General Raboin, but nothing that Treville found surprising. Even the king seemed bored with the news — but that was months ago."

"That doesn't sound like Athos," Constance said, and frowned.

"We're in the midst of a war, Constance, Athos will not write anything that could compromise his position."

"What about the men? Did he write anything about the men?" Constance pinched the fabric of her shawl and rubbed it between her fingers.

Remi shook his head and walked to the door. "His letters have been slow to arrive — which is not surprising, but this will cause Minister Treville some concern. Wait here Constance, I'll return as soon as I can." He looked at her belly and raised his eyebrows. "Don't fret…" he grabbed the doorknob. "Once I know more, I'll let you know."