Spring—

The laundry room was warm and humid despite the open walls that looked over the valley to the south. Anne wiped tendrils of hair away from her face and stopped scrubbing for a moment to put hands against the small of her back, which was aching. Her fingers felt swollen and soft. She bit her lip, suppressing the surge of self-pity, which arose now and again even though she'd gotten used to life at the abbey by now.

Constance was checking on the hot water by the ovens, her own face flushed pink. Anne inhaled the damp air, concentrating on the discomfort in her back, trying to straighten in a way that might remove it. But Constance would notice if she stilled for too long, and so she resumed leaning over the washboard, drawing down the linens and scraping them across the ridges, slopping the warm soapy fabric. A sizable splinter lodged itself in her palm and the flesh, already swollen and soft, pierced, sending tiny rivulets of blood into the wash water, discoloring the fabric. She made a small sound of dismay, yet more troubled by the spreading stain on the cloth than the sting in her hand.

Constance was at her side. She reached out, with uncharacteristic slowness, and took Anne's hand, turning it to look at the wound, then looked up to meet her gaze. Anne scanned her face in response uncertainly. Constance's eyes were too knowing.

"It is but a scratch," she said, tugging back on her hand, though not forcefully.

"Your majesty," Constance said in a whisper, startling her, the epithet not having been voiced in this many months, and even though it was just the two of them in the laundry room it was hardly prudent to speak it now.

Blood. It trickled across her hand still, aided by the saturation of her skin, mingling against Constance's skin where she yet touched it. They stared down at their hands. Blood, Anne thought. She knows. And the inevitability of her knowledge settled somewhere in her.

Constance waited a few more heartbeats. Then, "Forgive me," she breathed. "But I believe that you have not had your courses since we arrived here..."

It was not a subject about which they had never talked. Back at the palace, Anne's fertility, or lack thereof, had been a matter about which even the lowliest maids gossiped. Anne herself had relayed her fears and concerns to Constance; she had even persuaded her, in consult with the doctor Lemay, to provide herbs and teas that were supposed to aid in propagation.

So Anne felt the inescapable truth of this moment, and was less shocked than made resigned by Constance's awareness. She even, now that it was said, almost welcomed it. The knowledge had been hard to bear alone after the first month.

She nodded, acknowledging, admitting.

Constance drew in her breath carefully.

Anne took her hand away and put it to a rag, drying the blood, and then smoothed her robes over her stomach, asking Constance with the gesture if she noticed the difference. It had been easy to conceal, up until now—a minor thickening, a small curve; but that was soon going to be different.

"Why did you not tell me, earlier?" Constance appealed.

"I thought to, but I hardly knew how. And I have been thinking and thinking...but I don't know what to do."

"I am here exactly so that you do not have to endure anything alone," Constance chided, taking her hand again now. "We must—we have a little time yet. But we won't be able to stay much longer. We have to get word back to..." she hesitated.

"To who? And say what? This child is not even close to be considered born of the king—it is fatherless—and I, I do not know what I am."

Constance was obviously struggling to organize her thoughts. "You must try not to be too hard on yourself. Since it has happened, we must decide how to go forward, not to look back."

"I don't know where to look," Anne said, quietly. "I have been praying, a great deal, more even than called for in our appointed times of prayer—and yet I have been given no answers, seen no signs."

"We will have a sign. I'm sure. We will know what to do." Constance spoke with confidence but Anne suspected she was dissembling. But nothing had materially changed, and to share the secret did, she was realizing, help at least a little.

"I have ruined this," she said absently, lifting the piece of linen from the washtub.

"Nonsense. It will come right out." Constance briskly took over, dumping the water out the window, bringing more from the stove to refill it. She stopped after pouring it out, as the steam rose slowly upwards around them. "Anne. I will always stay by your side, whatever happens. As long as you want me."

"I thank you for your loyalty," Anne said, with a sad smile. "I cannot but think loyalty will be hard to come by when I am unable to hide any longer."

"We will deal with that time when it comes," her friend said staunchly.


Brujon had been silent and sombre since they'd left the garrison for his mother's house, but now, standing outside, his eyes were glistening with tears.

"It's your house, go in," d'Artagnan encouraged, hoping he sounded compassionate.

Luc nodded, taking a breath. "I just need another moment," he said, but the door opened, and Lisette was there, wiping her hands on her apron. Her face held no recriminations, only tired sorrow, and she reached out wordlessly, drawing her remaining child to her. D'Artagnan turned, putting his back to the neighboring wall, the moment too private to witness comfortably.

"I'm sorry I wasn't here," Luc mumbled at his mother, around one brief sob.

"There," she said. "You are here now." To d'Artagnan she said, "Will you come in?"

"Thank you, no." d'Artagnan bowed. "My condolences to you, madame." Rather self-consciously, he offered a small pouch of coin. It was little enough; he would have liked to have given her more. He knew where Athos kept a stash of emergency funds behind a couple of map scrolls in his office, but it had been virtually depleted. He'd emptied his own earnings, and Porthos had come up with the last bit.

It wasn't customary, but Lisette studied him for a moment and then accepted the offering. "Thank you for your kindnesses," she said, and ushered her son indoors.

He turned away, feeling both relieved and deflated to be able to leave. It was a long walk back to the garrison.


"So that is where our queen has been hiding," Athos observed, gazing under the brim of his hat at Saint-Pierre Mozac in the distance.

Aramis shifted forward in the saddle, trying to see the building and surroundings through new eyes. It had been in his memory this many months—seeing Anne and Constance riding away escorted by Boguain.

"This is where we left her," he agreed.

"You sound as if we haven't heard from them since," Athos said, glancing at him.

Because I never did. Not personally, of course; they had written via Boguain and he reported to Vouet, and from then on missives made their way to Tréville, who had disseminated any relevant information to Athos, who had had little to tell them unless pressed. And he could hardly have expected it. Still, a once-a-month update was not very much to go by. Their situation could change from one day to the next and they might not know—certainly Aramis wouldn't know—until it was too late to do anything.

He was here now, however, and he sent up a largely wordless but heartfelt prayer of thanks to the almighty God that it had happened, that he was close to seeing her again and ensuring her safety for himself.

At the gates of the abbey they were met with rather less welcome than for whatever reason Aramis had expected. He exchanged glances with Athos as they were let in and escorted, purportedly on their way to meet with the abbot when Boguain shortly caught up with them, breathless. "If I may explain—"

"We sent word ahead," Athos said. "Where are the women? Why are you not prepared to receive us?"

"There have been—complications," the other man stammered. "I sent word myself but it cannot have gotten to you so fast—The women are unharmed," he hastened, at the point of Aramis' sword, "but they have been incarcerated, within these walls. I was unable to prevent it. I explained all in the letter—"

"I don't know what the meaning of this is," Athos said, "but keep the horses saddled. I will have answers from the abbot shortly. Aramis, see to the women."

Boguain, professing his loyal, nervous anxiety the whole way, led Aramis down passageways and a set of stairs to some anterior chambers not quite ill enough in appearance to be considered a dungeon, though they were certainly locked on the outside. There was a slim barred window in the door and when he called, Constance's face soon appeared. "You have come!" she said.

"Get this door open," Aramis commanded, while Boguain protested that he did not have access to the key, it was in the abbot's possession, though he had begged that they not be locked up—Aramis stopped listening and shot the bolt off instead. He flung the door open.

He gave Constance a quick, duty-bound assessment to ensure she appeared unharmed before looking for Anne. His heart was able to settle, seeing her sitting on the narrow cot wrapped in her cloak, no obvious sign of injury or illness though her face seemed thin and pale.

"I swear I have looked after them as best I could," Boguain babbled behind him. "They have not been mistreated—they have not been singled out."

"What in the name of all the saints has been going on here?" The more Boguain said, the less Aramis understood. Constance was standing utterly still, blinking at him now. Anne was just as motionless on the bed, her eyes big as she stared at him. "If neither of you is hurt, for the love of God say something."

Constance seemed to startle awake. "Aramis. We...we did send word. But not very long ago. We thought you came for us."

"I did come for you. As you can see." Aramis prayed Athos was making better headway getting some answers from the abbot. "Anne?"

Anne fainted. Mercifully, only slumping sideways on to the bed, but his heart nearly stopped at the way her eyes had lost recognition. He was at her side at once, chafing her cold hands, willing some of his vitality into her body.

"She will be all right," Constance said in almost timid reassurance. "That has been happening lately."

He shot her a look of worried disbelief but, true to her statement, Anne's eyes shortly began to flutter again and she seemed aware of her surroundings once more. He eased her upright again, staring into her face, rubbing her fingers until she pulled them away.

"I...I am well. A momentary indisposition."

"How long have you been locked in here?"

"Several days. It is as he says," Constance added, "he tried to prevent it. It was the abbot's doing."

"But why, in the name of—"

Athos appeared in the doorway. "We need to leave," he said. His voice was toneless, but taut with tension. He held out a hand for Constance, and Aramis looked back at Anne, reaching to help her to her feet with somewhat more reticence since she'd recoiled from him moments ago. There was clearly no time for further questions, so he escorted her out following Athos and Constance, Boguain rushing on ahead per Athos' command to furnish two more horses.

In the courtyard, they gathered, their own mounts collected, waiting for Boguain to reappear, and Aramis demanded low without moving his lips, "What has happened?"

Athos shook his head, refusing to look at any of them.

Looking back and around, Aramis could see the abbot standing and watching from an upper balcony in a rigid posture of disapproval.

It was only moments before Boguain rushed back into the courtyard with Anne and Constance's original mounts, though it felt longer. They helped the women get seated, and wheeled round, guiding them out the gates.

Athos was leading the way at a fairly brisk though not breakneck pace and Aramis could only assume they weren't in danger of being followed, though he kept a lookout anyway. They rode for perhaps an hour before Athos pulled his horse abruptly east. Aramis looked behind them at the late afternoon sun. He presumed Athos was going to let him know what the plan was at some point, only he would have liked to have been made aware of it by now.

They stopped long enough to circle the horses while Athos unfurled a map from his saddlebags and gave it a quick examination.

Aramis brought his horse round and leaned in. "Since we're clearly not going north to Paris, am I meant to know where we are headed? Just, for instance, if something happens to you?" He struggled to control his tone.

"The Bailleaux estate, near Pont-du-Château. Our second plan." Athos did not look up from the map. He sounded unconcerned, but Aramis knew well enough that was deceiving.

"May I see the map?"

Athos passed it to him, and nudged his horse away to say something to Constance. The map was a copied one in Athos' own script, with minimal details to aid the uninitiated, but Aramis knew his captain's shorthand and deciphered it within a few moments. Depending on scale, the estate was located further east but not a great distance. Which was good, because he did not relish the idea of travelling much longer under these ignorant conditions.

Athos finished whatever brief conversation he'd had with Constance and moved on to share a word with Anne. Aramis brought his horse near to Constance's, and said, "Madame Bonacieux, perhaps you know of a reason that no one is speaking to me."

Constance threw him a startled look. "I, at least, am," she said, giving him a smile that would have made him feel better had it not seemed nervous. "I am so grateful you came. We were much in need of you."

Aramis indicated Anne with his head and questioned with his gaze.

"She's very tired," Constance said, hushed. "We should slow our pace, if Athos permits—"

"There's no need to flee, since I've seen no indication we are being pursued," Aramis said, more loudly.

Athos, hearing that, accorded it with a tilt of his head, and touching his hat to Anne, prodded his horse into motion again, and they resumed travelling.

Aramis still hadn't managed to make Anne look at him; she seemed to have retreated into that emotionless space that made her appear, to him at least, ever the untouchable queen.

He would wait for answers, but he was determined to have them, and soon.


Anne found the riding so exhausting on her altered body that by the time they dismounted at dusk, within the gates of a rambling estate, she could register little more than a vague impression of its buildings. She did not care where they were; she only wanted rest. Voices rang in her ears, there was a flurry of footsteps, and Constance and Athos—she thought—on each side of her, holding her up, helping her along the path, through a door, down a set of corridors that seemed endless. She was on the verge of pleading that they stop, anywhere, even to sit in the hall if need be when they were finally brought into a warm room, aglow with firelight, with a bed, and tapestries lining the walls. There were two other women speaking with Constance now but Anne left them to their discussion and eased on to the bed, which smelled of linens so fresh her eyes began to sting with weary tears. She was aware of a blanket being drawn over her body, but she had no words, not even to murmur thanks.

When she woke, it was to pale light seeping in through a window, a still-crackling fire, and Constance sitting in a chair beside the bed. Anne shifted, aware at once of a deep ache in her back and legs.

"Here." Constance rose and poured water from a pitcher at a side table, bringing it over, and the cup to her lips. "Drink."

It was fresh cold water, and Anne slaked her thirst before sinking back down into the softness of the bed.

"How do you feel?" Constance asked anxiously. "You seemed to sleep soundly."

"I am sore," Anne murmured, "but..." her hands sought the rounding of her belly, still invisible under heavy cloaks, "I did sleep well."

"There is a filled tub staying warm by the fire, when you are ready to wash."

"Where are the men?"

"Down the corridor, around the corner. Everyone has been very accommodating. We are to have food brought to us. You needn't go out unless you wish to. I am not sure if we are to stay here now, until—I'm not sure what the captain will do. I know he is writing to the minister."

"Exchanging one prison for another," Anne said, and felt swelling like a lodged apple in her throat. Constance saw her face, and leaned in to brush back hair with the side of her hand. "No, no, Anne. You mustn't feel so. This is a safe place, we need fear no judgment here. The captain made that plain to me last night."

"Does he..." It was a strain to make the words form, with her throat so tight. "Does he even know?"

"I do not believe so, though I am not certain." Constance continued to smooth her hair away from her face in a motherly fashion. "Do you wish to speak with him?"

"No." This sounded too vehement, and she added, "Not...perhaps yet."

"I am sure Aramis will seek my counsel, if he is not allowed to see you. Is that acceptable? Or would you rather—"

"I trust you, Constance," Anne said, hearing the weariness in her voice but too tired to edit it out. "With any of my secrets, whether or not they have remained hidden."

"I will try to speak with both of the men later today, if only to determine whether our opinions are to be taken into account henceforth, since—" she hesitated.

"—Things have materially altered." Anne finished the sentence.

"Yes. Will you have something to eat?"

"Perhaps later. I think I will rest longer." She saw now that there were curtains around her bed. "If you would shut out the light, Constance? But don't go far?"

"Of course. I have a cot in the alcove there. They offered me my own room, but at least for now, I want to attend you." Constance rose, and drew the curtains, enclosing her in a warm, draught-free silence, and withdrew.

Trying to ignore the persistent ache in almost every bone and muscle below her shoulders, Anne tried to get comfortable enough to fall back to sleep.


Athos thanked the remaining servants anxious to see all the newcomers' needs were met, and bade them be about their work. He crossed to the table of the room they had been shown to—down the passageway from where they had left Constance and Anne—where lit candles, a pitcher of wine and some bread and meat had been set out. He poured himself a glass and drank it without pausing to breathe.

Aramis came into the room behind him, taking off his hat and laying their bags by the door. "I see that we are secure for the time being," he said, "and I could also see that you did not have time to chat earlier, but I would appreciate knowing what has necessitated the change in plans."

Athos counted ten heartbeats and refilled his glass. "Do you want a drink?" he said evenly.

The other musketeer made a sound between a sigh and a grunt of accord. He came over to the table and accepted the glass Athos poured for him. He took one quick sip, watched as Athos drained his second in a matter of moments.

"I'll rephrase my question. Is there a reason you are drinking like we're condemned men?"

Athos let out a short laugh and walked around behind the table, so that it was a physical presence between them. "You may not be wrong."

"You refuse to enlighten me?"

"The queen," Athos said, weighing his words, "is with child."

Aramis was silent, his expression, when Athos looked at him, irresolute.

"Your child," Athos added, in what was a question as much as a statement. He'd give him a chance to deny it. Let the damn fool try.

Aramis set the glass down on the table, but he did not dispute the last spoken words of challenge.

"So," Athos said, pulling out the drawer under the table in which he saw paper, ink and quill, "I am going to compose a missive to Minister Tréville."

"And say what?" Aramis asked—with some humility. As well he might.

"And ask what in the name of all the saints he wants me to do now." Athos leaned with both fists on the table top, knuckles flat, as though he could absorb the strength of the wood into his body, willing self-control that was not normally a problem for him. Losing his temper with Aramis would not solve the difficulty in which they found themselves, of that he was aware. But the frustration of having his suspicions as good as confirmed was undeniably mounting.

"So we do nothing? Until he answers?"

"You have done enough."

In the shadowy candlelight, Aramis' jaw took on a set that he did not much appreciate. If he stayed meek, Athos thought it far more likely he could tolerate his presence. If however he was going to defend that the queen had invited him—or worse, imagine that he had had some sort of right—Athos inhaled, getting angry even approaching the edges of the concept in his mind.

He looked down and said, coldly, "This all began when you started thinking of her as a woman."

"I did not set out to do that," Aramis muttered. "It just happened."

"It just happened? You've robbed our queen of her ability to lead our country and that's all you can think to say in defense of your actions?"

"I didn't rob her—You make it sound as though I—"

"Be very careful." Athos levelled a finger at him.

"As though I contrived it—" Aramis struggled for words. "I never forced—"

Athos rounded the table in two steps, grabbed him by a handful of jacket and shoved. Aramis took some quick steps backwards, avoiding falling, and let himself meet up with the wall. He dropped his chin and put his hands up, not meeting Athos' glare.

"You spoke to me of your sworn duty," Athos gritted between locked teeth."May I remind you what it is, since you seem to have forgotten? To protect the queen! And you have done the complete opposite!" He gave him another hard shake that Aramis did not struggle against. Athos could have interpreted his continued downward gaze as mutinous, but there was something of contrition, some acknowledgement of shame also in it, and for that reason, he let him go after a final shove. Aramis did not move away from the wall.

Athos poured himself a third drink and wondered what, truly, he was supposed to write in this damned letter that was going to need to go out with all haste. Because the longer it remained unwritten, the longer they sat there waiting for instructions on how to proceed.

After a few more moments, during which Athos had sat down, pulled out the parchment and writing instruments and began to eat (angrily, but he was hungry) some bread, Aramis pushed his shoulders forward and went to stand by the window.

"Eat something," Athos said, selecting a new piece of paper and beginning the process of turning his short letter into code. It wasn't the most sophisticated cipher, but his overworked brain was not cooperating with anything more detailed.

"Go ahead," was Aramis' rejoinder.

"If you're not going to eat, then get some rest. It's been a cursedly long day."

The other man did not reply, although eventually he moved away from the window, took several of the many blankets from the bed and brought them to the window seat, where he made a sleeping niche. As Athos dried the letter by candle flame, and then sealed it with wax drippings, Aramis sat looking out at the gardens in the back by whatever moonlight was filtering through the clouds.

Athos rose, gathered the scroll and went out in search of Boguain, whom he'd instructed before they left to meet up with them here. This letter had to be dispatched, and Boguain was going to have to be personally responsible to see that it reached Minister Tréville's hand directly. He closed the door on their room.