In the morning, after Anne had gone back to sleep, Constance moved softly about their room, though there was little enough to do. A servant had already come with food and drink for their breakfasts, and taken their worn clothing away for washing—a task that she'd almost forgotten they would not be expected to perform here—and brought more wood for the fireplace.

Constance washed, fixed her hair, and looked out the window to see a bright spring day developing. Despite the many unknowns, it was impossible not to feel lighter in mood. She drew the tapestries and opened the casements wide, since neither the draught nor the light would disturb Anne in her enclosed bed, and gazed out for a while. There were beautiful gardens below. Perhaps they could venture out for a walk if Anne was feeling up to it. Yesterday's travel had been hard enough on Constance after months of not needing to ride anywhere; she could hardly imagine how it must have been with the added burden of pregnancy.

There was a tap at the door, and she turned, startled, though she'd also been expecting one or both of the musketeers to come by first thing.

It was Aramis.

"May I see her?" he said right away.

He looked as if he hadn't slept, and she couldn't help but feel a tinge of compassion.

Constance looked behind her. "She is still abed, but I would certainly relay any message you care to give me."

"I need to see her." He had his hat in his hand, turning it over as if it held answers.

"Let me get my cloak, and we can speak outside, if you like."

After a moment he nodded. She found her outer garment on the hooks behind the door and stepped out, closing the door behind. They walked in silence down the passageway. A servant caught up with them several corridors down and asked if Madame or Monsieur required anything, but Constance politely waved her away, thinking how strange it was to be waited upon again.

The trees lining the paths outside were laden with spring blossoms, most delicious in the air after the mustiness of indoors. A gardener paused in his work and dipped his head as they passed by.

"I'm sorry there was no time for questions yesterday." Constance picked a bloom and brought it to her nose, inhaling, planning to gather some and bring them to the room later.

"Getting you both to safety was the captain's priority."

"And yours, surely?" Constance said, meaning to sound cheerful, though his face was uncharacteristically sober.

"Yes, although I do not know if my priorities will matter a great deal, henceforth."

"Is the captain very angry?" Constance ventured. She wasn't sure how far Aramis would unburden himself to her upon their light acquaintance. He certainly had a right not to, or to straight out refuse discussing his captain whom he'd known so much longer than he had known her. She would not blame him if he declined to answer.

"Angry," Aramis repeated, tasting the word. "I suppose that is one of the things he is. Athos prefers to know what is going on at all times."

"In fairness," Constance said, "so do I. As you might yourself. Which is why I can imagine yesterday must have been difficult."

They walked for a time before either spoke again, Constance trying to determine the best way to approach a subject that was close to her heart now, while still being open to any further discussion Aramis wished to conduct. She was about to speak when he said, "She...she will see me, won't she?"

Constance stopped, and so did he. She looked up at him earnestly and put a hand on his arm. "You must understand that Anne has known about her condition for some months. It will take some time for you to adjust to the idea, I know, but she has had time to consider all the implications. At first, we were not sure of the best course of action, and then, before we could decide, a nun went to the abbot with her suspicions, and the truth became known. So Boguain wrote, and it was only the last while that was difficult...But I believe any exhaustion Anne feels is mostly in her mind, in her heart. I hope this is making sense."

"Go on."

"She trusts me to speak with you, but I also don't wish to betray any confidences—not that there is anything in particular I think I would be revealing. I only wish to be fair to you both, as much as possible. But I would always—" Constance hesitated. "I would always take her side, if I am forced to. I assume you know that."

He bowed. "I would expect nothing less."

"Thank you for understanding. Because I think you do understand. So...to answer your initial question, I will tentatively state that I believe she will see you, only perhaps not today, or even tomorrow. It may depend on how much she rests, how..." Constance considered, "...how strong she feels."

"Please believe that is all I care about. Her health. Her happiness."

"And—the child?" Constance could not quite make herself say 'your' child. It seemed too personal. Too absolute.

Aramis was silent again a moment, before saying, "The child is secondary."

"And you?"

He gave her a rueful almost-smile. "I'm prepared to sacrifice my own health and happiness to ensure theirs."

"I hope that won't be necessary. I should prefer if everyone were well." Constance resumed walking, and then found the courage to ask the question she had been trying earlier to formulate. "May I ask about something unrelated?"

"Of course."

"It is regarding d'Artagnan." She shot him an anxious glance.

He said, "Ah," in a way that was bland but seemed knowing at the same time.

"How is he? Has he been well? Has he—" Constance stopped, stumbling over her own words, knowing her face was suffusing with color. She hadn't intended to sound nearly so eager.

"I would say he has been very well," Aramis said, "in body, that is, he has not fallen prey to any ailments or sicknesses."

"But?"

Aramis looked back up at the manor behind them for a moment, then out over the neatly manicured gardens. "I would also say he has been sore of heart."

"Oh," Constance heard her voice, small. There was something about the way Aramis had spoken, so matter-of-fact, yet she sensed a gentle reproach inherent in the observation as well. "Did he—does he—speak of me?"

"Not as far as I've been aware," Aramis said. "Not to me, at any rate. And if he has to the others, I haven't heard of it."

She supposed that was good, although a tiny part of her wondered, perhaps he just didn't care enough about her any longer...and that was the real question she wanted to ask, but could not.

Does he still love me?

Aramis volunteered, "Athos named him acting captain just before we left."

Constance blinked. "He did?"

She knew immediately how d'Artagnan would have responded to such an assignment—with nervous pride, worried of failure, and yet never showing such to those who were looking up to him. She smiled involuntarily, picturing him in the office behind Athos' desk, giving out assignments, dealing with minor issues about the garrison. Her smile faded as she realized that Athos being here indefinitely might very well throw d'Artagnan in the path of more perilous situations as they cropped up.

"Athos was not worried," Aramis said, "nor should you be."

"It's only I imagine he wasn't planning to be away for any length of time," Constance said, feeling a frown develop between her eyes.

"True," Aramis agreed, "but he would have considered that a possibility. Our captain is not, generally speaking, a creature of impulse."

"What do you think he will do now?"

"He wrote his letter to the minister last night. It will be sent today, I suppose, and within a few more days I'd imagine we can expect some kind of reply."

Constance pictured Tréville spreading the scroll on a table, scanning its contents, absorbing them, becoming infuriated. While she didn't know the minister terribly well, she was aware he had little patience for foul-ups—and this was certainly going to register as one of the greatest. A country with no king, queen or heir was hardly in a stable place. Here in the countryside, it might take a longer time for the effects to disturb daily life, but Paris would be ripe for revolution.

She didn't feel that she was particularly desirous of ever returning to the city, except for one thing...

One person. One man with passionate brown eyes and a penchant for getting into trouble from which, with a little assistance from his friends, he usually managed to escape.

She sighed.

She really did try not to think about it, but the truth was she missed d'Artagnan terribly.

"Constance, you're far away," Aramis said. His own brown eyes held some sympathy. She shivered; though it was not cold, the wind had picked up. "Shall we turn back?"

They started to head for the circular path that enclosed the fountains and led back to the main building.

Athos met them in the hall, in the space between their two rooms. "Where have you been?"

"Only taking some air," Constance answered. "Would you rather we didn't?" She did not mean to be pert, but the last few days of captivity, and Anne's comments, had made her sensitive to the notion of being considered prisoner.

Athos gazed at her. "Air," he said. "By all means. But check in with me before you go anywhere, if you don't mind. Then I know where to find you, should I need to." He gave Aramis a look and passed them, returning to his room.

Aramis walked Constance directly to her and Anne's door. They stopped outside for a moment, and Constance put her hand on his arm again. "Perhaps tomorrow, you could see if Anne wants to receive you," she said, as kindly as possible, feeling grateful for the way he had answered her questions without mockery. "And Aramis, you should get some rest yourself. I see by your eyes you have not slept. Nor have you eaten?"

"I confess I have not much appetite," he said. "But I will do as you say, madame," and he smiled, and tipped his hat, and backed away.


A full seven days had gone by since Athos and Aramis had left for Saint-Pierre Mozac. D'Artagnan had rather expected them back by now, or at least to have received word to say what was responsible for the delay. He had been busy—but not unmanageably overrun, thankfully—during the interval. There had been the expected paperwork, a visit with Tréville, an incident during training where one of the cadets had sustained a semi-serious injury, and a brief outbreak of illness in the garrison necessitating a shift of regular schedules and duties. Having Porthos around made things appreciably easier when d'Artagnan could send him to deal with an issue without it requiring much or indeed any explanation. No one, so far, had questioned his authority or seemed put out by his nomination as acting captain, at least in his presence, and even once at the end of a particularly trying day when he'd anxiously questioned Porthos as to any tavern rumors or ill-contented rumblings, nothing had been reported.

He was beginning to relax into the role, though it still seemed strange to head for Athos' office first thing in the morning, and he couldn't remember every time to turn his head when someone called out for the captain.

Luc Brujon had returned to the garrison after a few days at home with his mother, sober and tired-eyed but indicating his willingness to return to regular duty. D'Artagnan had encouraged it, thinking that keeping the boy busy and discreetly supervised was probably key to him staying out of the taverns, and thus far no further absences had been noted.

Now, over a quick breakfast of the previous night's gruel, he was running through a mental list of the day's events when Rouget knocked on the door. "This came from the palace, captain, early this morning." He handed over a scroll bearing the minister's seal.

D'Artagnan thanked him absently and opened the missive, scanning its brief contents; a summons from Tréville to meet with him at the palace at his soonest convenience. Well, that would be now, because he wasn't going to have time later in the day, and he knew how their former captain appreciated promptness of action. The breakfast hadn't been worth lingering over anyway. He shrugged on his jacket, buckled on his various weapons and headed out.

The last time he'd been to the palace, they had met rather informally in the main hall outside the throne room, but this time, he was conducted by a red guard to the minister's offices, the doors opening to admit him and closing firmly behind. Tréville was standing by the windows, his hands clasped behind his back and turned at once when he heard the doors. "Captain," he said, without even a hint of the ironic, slightly paternal pride he'd invested in the word the last time he had used it. D'Artagnan straightened instinctively, knowing something was not as it should be. "Minister Tréville. I hope I am not the cause of any undue—"

Tréville waved away his sentence at once. "Would that it were something so simple. Last night word came in from Athos."

"And?" D'Artagnan came closer, kept his expression clear, but when Tréville's face revealed a flash of temporary paralyzing helplessness he pressed, "Is anything amiss?"

"Much. Though before you ask—" he held up a hand. "The women are not in immediate danger. They have been relocated to safety on the estate arranged for last fall."

"What happened?" Constance's face, torn, troubled, came to mind and he couldn't banish the image. He gave his head a shake, trying to focus on the minister's words.

"Athos did not burden me with an encumbrance of details," Tréville said, rather acridly, "but the salient point is this: the queen—perhaps I should say the former queen—is expecting a child."

"An heir?" d'Artagnan said uncertainly, trying to think how long it had been since the death of the king, just how feeble he had been toward the end...

"Care for a drink?" Tréville poured him one without waiting for an answer. D'Artagnan stared at the pattern in the tapestry on the far wall, only now seeing an elaborate construction of doves and leaves woven into it that he had never before noticed.

"According to Athos' limited information, it would not be chronologically possible for the child to be an heir." Tréville passed him the drink, putting it right in front of his face when d'Artagnan didn't see it immediately. "Hence our very massive complication regarding future government."

D'Artagnan took a sip of his wine, then swallowed and contemplated what he was to say.

"Either you're far more phlegmatic than I, and we both know that you are not," Tréville said, "Or this was not as much of a shock to you as it was to me."

D'Artagnan took another drink.

Tréville's eyes narrowed, further creases appearing in his forehead. "Feel free to re-enter into this conversation at any juncture, Captain."

"I'm sorry, sir. I'm trying, but...I do not have any words." d'Artagnan was making an effort, but he kept remembering his confrontation with Aramis in the hallway back in Vouet those months ago. He'd attempted to put it out of his mind (what's done is done) but now, it seemed, that event was going to have consequences beyond what any of them might have imagined. He essayed for something to offer. "Have you replied to Athos' letter?"

"I scarcely know what to reply, except to tell them they must obviously stay there until after the queen's time." Tréville ran a hand over his jaw. "Not Athos himself—we need him back—"

"Indeed," d'Artagnan said with heartfelt agreement.

"And Aramis himself...damned fool..."

"Athos named him, in the letter? You knew?"

"Did you?" Tréville developed a glower.

D'Artagnan glanced away uncomfortably. "I didn't wish to discredit him without certainty. Though I suppose even uncertainty means we are by extension casting aspersions on the character of her maj—the queen herself."

"Well, you may have had time to become comfortable with the notion of this having happened, but I have not."

"I am in no way comfortable that they are having a child together, under the circumstances!" d'Artagnan held up both hands.

"You traveled with them. Around the time that it must have occurred."

"Are you saying I could have done something to stop it?"

"Couldn't you have?"

"Minister!"

"Very well, let that be."

D'Artagnan straightened his shoulders.

"The question remains, can I keep this mess that is the current state of affairs contained until the summer, without a queen to put back on the throne."

"Do you mean to send anyone else to the Bailleaux estate when Athos returns?" d'Artagnan asked.

"Are you volunteering?"

"I will go wherever I am sent." He had pictured Constance returning, a hundred times, but had not envisioned himself making the journey, either mandated by his superiors or of his own accord. To think it now was to throw him into confusion again. He did not like that feeling, the ground shifting under him. It had taken long enough to get to a place where he felt, if not happy—if not content—at least able to get through his days with hard work and his nights with sound sleep, if it could be had.

"Well," Tréville said, going to stand behind his table and leaning on it, "I may yet send you. So prepare yourself for the eventuality. That's all for now, Captain."

D'Artagnan inclined his head, backed up a few steps and turned. He left the wine glass in the hand of the red guard on the way out. He felt a combination of unnerved and jaunty from the meeting, and it was with rather less attention he paid to his surroundings as he went, or he would have noticed a rustle behind him. It was a cloaked Milady de Winter, appearing from behind one of the alcoves. He stopped, hand to sword, angling his head in a way that told her he'd draw the blade at the slightest provocation. He had not seen her in months—not since a time or two after their unfortunate assignation once he'd learned her history with Athos.

As always, her smile was disarmingly sweet, although he knew better by now. "Monsieur d'Artagnan. Captain d'Artagnan, I am told?"

"No doubt you have spies everywhere," he answered, evenly. "What are you doing here?"

She quirked an impossibly perfect eyebrow and blinked dark lashes at him simultaneously. "I wanted to offer my congratulations on your promotion, of course."

"It is temporary. Athos will be back." He said it as a warning.

"I hope he will be," she said. "But in the meantime, you make an excellent leader of the musketeers, do you not?"

She was always laughing at something, mocking, even while her face was sweet. He wondered why he hadn't seen that the first time he'd laid eyes on her.

"You've no honest business here," he said. "You need to go. Now."

"Why, you may escort me out. I will gladly come. I maintain it is only you I wanted to see." She stepped forward, creating a fragrantly-scented breeze in his direction, which he reacted to by taking an instinctive step back and pulling out his sword.

"Really, d'Artagnan. If I had wanted to harm you, I would have fired by now, or perhaps used a knife. You know that I can do both." Now her tone was faintly reproving, as though he were an errant child. He hated that look on her face. He gestured.

She inclined her head, as though they were going to dance together and were just about to learn some very elaborate steps. And rustled softly at his side the length of the corridor, down the sets of stairs, out of the palace, where, hang her, she was going to have to be somebody else's problem because he needed to get back to the garrison and wanted nothing more to do with her, she made him feel...tainted. Like he'd drunk something bitter. He wanted the genuine sweetness of Constance, he was so used to seeing her at the palace.

Back at the garrison he felt compelled to wash his face and hands as if he had indeed been dirtied by the encounter. Porthos came upon him drying them on a scrap of linen, outside in the yard where he'd made use of a nearby bucket.

"How was the meeting? I saw Tréville's summons on your desk."

"What were you doing looking on my desk?" d'Artagnan tossed the piece of cloth aside.

"Thought you might have some paperwork left undone. Since it's been like that all week." Porthos was smiling, as he began to walk in a half-circle. A few of the others around were looking up from their conversations.

"You've noticed that, have you?" d'Artagnan said, absently. He had been about to draw his rapier again, start the mock-fight which was always good for frightening or impressing a cadet or two, but realized he didn't actually have the stomach. He stood still and sighed out a breath instead.

Porthos' forehead wrinkled. "What's wrong?" he said in an undertone, replacing his own sword.

D'Artagnan shrugged and rubbed the back of his neck feebly. "At the palace I saw...her."

"Who her?"

"Her," he said again without moving his lips. "Milady."

"Ah." For a moment it seemed like Porthos might understand without needing further explanation, but then his forehead creased again. "And?"

"I just didn't expect it, today, right after the meeting like that. Now I'm—disquieted." He made a vague gesture. "Also, we need to talk, but not out here. Let's go up."

Once the office doors were closed on them, d'Artagnan caught Porthos up to date with Athos' and Tréville's news. The other musketeer received the information in stolid silence without interruption, but then he said. "Wait. So this would have happened at the palace?"

"We think not. At least I think not. On the way to the abbey," d'Artagnan said, biting the edge of his thumbnail, a nervous habit he'd almost broken himself of, though it came back in times of extreme strain.

"But you were there," Porthos said, his forehead a bemused query. "Why didn't you do something?"

"What...why does everyone continue to ask me that! What was I supposed to have done, break down their door?"

"I would've," Porthos offered.

"I cannot believe you and Tréville both."

Porthos inspected the wall sconce, ran a finger down the side of it, then remarked, "These things do tend to happen, you know."

Exasperated, d'Artagnan growled, "You make it sound as though she's some-—dairymaid he's been out to the haystack with, whom he can just bring home to his mother. She's the queen. And Aramis is a musketeer."

"So he's not allowed to fall in love?"

"Don't twist my words, that's not what I said. Anyway, why are you taking his side?"

"He might need someone on his side," Porthos said, more soberly. "Since Athos won't be—Athos is probably going to count this as a personal failure, come to that—and you don't sound as if you are."

D'Artagnan shuffled his boot along the floorboards, finding an uneven spot. He stared down at it. "He has to be responsible for his choices."

"You think he needs to be disciplined?"

"I don't think he should be completely free to enjoy himself without any consequences," d'Artagnan mumbled.

"You're jealous," Porthos said, less like an accusation than a wonderment he'd just come upon.

He felt himself rock backward a little, the comment startled him so much, and his instinct was to deny it (hotly, even) but maybe it wasn't fully untrue.

"Consider," Porthos said. "You and your lady—"

"All right." He held up a hand, really not wanting to get into a discussion now about where he and Constance were, or had been, in their relationship. "You're right. Maybe I am jealous. Aramis seems to sail through life without answering to anyone most of the time, and it never catches up with him."

"Well, I think it might have, on this occasion."

He was silent for a moment.

"You don't want him to suffer, do you? Truthfully?" Porthos pressed.

He shook his head.

"Then I think you might have to take his side against Athos and Tréville."

"I'm not going to be captain for much longer, anyway. It's not as if I'm going to have any kind of influence."

"Then perhaps you should do something while you still do," Porthos said, and left him to think about that, closing the doors as he backed through them.