Later, in the yard, as d'Artagnan was dismissing the cadets from an impromptu sparring session, he spotted Luc Brujon heading for the dormitory, seeming unaccountably rushed. D'Artagnan hailed him. The boy stopped on the stairs, turning, and though he tried to keep one side of his face averted, d'Artagnan noticed at once upon coming closer that he had a blackened eye and multiple contusions along his jaw.

"What happened to you?" From a stair below, he reached up and tilted the lad's face to better see it in the fading evening light. Brujon did not flinch at his touch, but radiated discomfort. "It's nothing, Captain," he muttered. "May I go up?"

"Tell me how this came about, first."

"Tell him, Brujon, or I will," called a voice from the yard. D'Artagnan saw it was Rouget. He was glad the cadets were keeping an eye on each other in those times when he evidently could not. He turned his attention back to Luc. "Are you going to tell me yourself?"

"It—it was just a disagreement," Brujon muttered. "Nothing of any importance."

"Where?"

Brujon held his breath and let it out uneasily. "The tavern."

D'Artagnan closed his eyes briefly. "Well, if you're going to drink yourself into oblivion, you might find it comes with some risks."

"Except there was two of them," Rouget argued, "they jumped him, Captain, and dragged him into the alley—"

"Philippe—" Brujon added a whispered expletive to the other cadet's given name, and continued, "Can you just let it go!"

D'Artagnan, having gathered a handful of his jacket, gave him a single gentle shake. "Be still. Rouget, when did this happen and who were they?"

"Last night. Marcheaux's men," Rouget said, sounding both subdued and also as if he rather enjoyed revealing that information.

Red guards. D'Artagnan looked back at Brujon and saw, in his defensive hurt eyes, his younger self. These boys were barely out of childhood. He chewed on the inside of his cheek and debated. What he should do was tell them to consider the affair a lesson learned, lecture them about having no further business being in taverns, and squash any suggestions of vengeance. It was what Tréville as their leader would have done, likely even what Athos would have done.

But he felt rage blossoming like a flower in his soul and he knew that was not what he was going to do.

Nevertheless, all he said was—"Stay out of taverns, don't make me have to tell you again—" before releasing his hold on Brujon and striding past him up the stairs.

Porthos appeared, while he was finding extra weaponry than he normally carried about the yard. "What's going on?"

D'Artagnan finished buckling the pistol belt and looked up. "I'm on my way to have a chat with Marcheaux."

"Want me to come? It's been a while since we've had a drink with his boys," Porthos said with a grin.

"It might take all night. I don't actually know where everyone is," d'Artagnan pointed out.

"I slept last night. I'm ready for some entertainment." Porthos crackled knuckles meaningfully.

"All right. I'm just going to leave word with one of the men in case we don't come back..."

"We always come back," Porthos said.

"We usually come back," d'Artagnan corrected, "and we can't expect our luck to hold forever."

"Luck in your case maybe. Skill in mine."

He scoffed and they went out together, preparing to hunt the streets until they found their quarry.

It did not take that long in reality, as the red guard was a sizable contingent in the first place, and scouring a few of the taverns in the vicinity of their posting usually turned up one or more members who could easily be persuaded to reveal whether or not their captain was available for a discussion. By their fourth stop they found a group, easily identifiable by their distinctively wine-hued tunics, taking up a central table.

The party was made up of at least six men, if not more lurking in the shadows, when d'Artagnan and Porthos walked in. D'Artagnan might have reconsidered walking up to them without Porthos at his back. He was angry, but he had no wish to take on those kinds of odds—at least not while being completely sober. He waited for some of the talk and raillery to die down, once they were noticed, and then leaned over the shoulder of the closest one and said—"Where's your captain?"

They fell silent, grins frozen on several faces and a couple of muttered exchanges taking place. The one he had addressed chose not to answer, picking up his mug instead and taking a lengthy drink. D'Artagnan counted another five heartbeats and then slid his rapier along the fellow's shoulder within an inch of his ear. "If you'd rather keep this to hear with, I very much suggest that you tell me where I can find Marcheaux."

"Find him yourself," someone muttered.

"In the interests of saving time." D'Artagnan slid the blade closer, but to his credit the man wasn't a coward and did not yelp, he just sat very still after having put down his drink. Someone else, further down the table, made an impudent recommendation about what the musketeers could do with their time.

"Who was that," he asked over his shoulder to Porthos, who rumbled, "Didn't see. Is it just me or do these rats all look the same by candlelight?" This provoked all of them excepting the one who had the sword to his neck to jump upright and send chairs flying, which immediately brought an irritated barkeep telling them to take it outside. Porthos had his rapier levelled, too, and a pistol in his other hand. There was a brief stand-off.

"Someone's looking for me?" Marcheaux himself, from the sound of his voice, was at the entrance. D'Artagnan was not taking his eyes off the one he'd picked. "Oh. It's you." His booted footsteps drew closer. "Everyone can go back to their drinks, no need to get excited over a couple of musketeers. Just the two of you? Ambitious tonight?"

Coming around to where d'Artagnan and Porthos could see him, he waved the others to sit back down, and when they had, Marcheaux gestured meaningfully at his man d'Artagnan still held. D'Artagnan let him wait a few more long moments, then withdrew the weapon. Porthos kept the pistol leveled. Marcheaux looked unimpressed, but nodded towards the back and they, watchfully, followed after him, leaving the sullen group of remaining red guards—though one had immediately joined Marcheaux—in the central area.

"What do you want?" Marcheaux demanded, as they found chairs (Porthos turned his backward and rested the pistol on the seat back) and sat at a smaller table lit by a single candle.

"You need to tell your men if they want a fight to come looking for me."

Marcheaux narrowed his eyes and glanced at his compatriot. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"You never do," Porthos put in.

"Last night two of your curs jumped one of my cadets. He was just looking for drink, not for trouble. There was no call to beat his face in."

"Ah, le petit mousquetaire," Marcheaux said, his expression showing some recognition. "I certainly gave no orders for anyone's face to be beaten, though it can only have been an improvement. Is that all?"

"It is enough," d'Artagnan said evenly.

Marcheaux leaned back in his chair and drummed his fingers obnoxiously on the table top. "I'll confess I was surprised to see the two of you in here, but then you're playing at captain these days, aren't you? Strange choice to pass over this brute who has twice your experience?" He gestured indolently at Porthos, who stifled a yawn and said, "You're tedious," but Marcheaux only spared him a glance before turning his gaze back on d'Artagnan, with the smallest of smiles, while his companion was openly grinning.

"You have an issue with me," d'Artagnan repeated, "you bring it to me. Tell your cowards to leave the boys alone."

"Maybe you should tell them to stay out of the taverns if they can't keep up with the men."

They went for their weapons at almost the same time, but d'Artagnan had his dagger out faster than Marcheaux had his sword free, and had leaned across the table with its point at stomach level, simultaneously grabbing hold of the jeweled chain that decorated his neck and pulling him in.

"I will shoot," Porthos said conversationally to the captain's second, who moved to intervene.

Marcheaux just breathed, his leather tunic giving some protection against the dagger's point, not struggling. D'Artagnan wrapped the chain around his hand several times, bringing him closer. "It's not my intention today to embarrass you in public," he said, low, "but know that if there is a next time, yours is the face that's going to be permanently altered." He held him there for several counts, released the chain, clapped him across the ear (a less-than-honorable blow, but one his self-control was not up to resisting, under the circumstances), and shoved him back. Marcheaux staggered and clapped his hand over the ear instinctively, cursing against the pain, while Porthos shrugged and waggled the pistol at the fuming second.

Marcheaux spat out, "We'll finish this conversation another time," which d'Artagnan knew he should have ignored (Athos would have ignored it), but he responded, "My office is at the top of the stairs. Don't get lost," and backed away, Porthos with him, in the direction of the rear door.

"Now he's angry," Porthos commented as they made discreet haste through the back alley.

"He would have been regardless," d'Artagnan said, still holding his dagger aloft as they moved through the shadowed lane.

"Still. That looked like it hurt."

"You haven't see Brujon's face yet."

"Was it that bad?"

"Not for us perhaps. But he's just a kid."

"Seems not that long ago you walked in our garrison looking like he does to you."

"Join the list of people who apparently consider me too inexperienced to be captain," d'Artagnan said dryly.

Porthos chuckled as they sidestepped a pile of horse dung. "Marcheaux only has a couple of years on you himself. He's not one to talk. Ah well, we all come to the same end, experienced or not." The alleyway opened into a main street and they modified their pace now. They made it back to the garrison gates before the night had quite reached its midpoint.

"Porthos."

"Yeah."

"Thank you. Again."

"Well. We never did manage the drinking part of the evening."

"My apologies. It would appear I was only in search of retribution."

"Another time. When Athos returns. Should be soon now, hmm?"

"Any day."

They exchanged good nights and d'Artagnan went up, pausing by the dormitory, giving a quiet whistle to the musketeer sitting up on watch. He went in. There was enough light slipping through the shuttered windows for him to see Brujon was still awake, alert, sitting up when he saw d'Artagnan's form in the door. He gestured him over. Brujon complied, on soft unbooted feet. They went out, and d'Artagnan closed the door, speaking low so that the guarding musketeer at the end wouldn't overhear. "I want you to tell me when anything like this happens," he said, indicating his bruises. "Do you understand? Whether I am captain or not."

Luc nodded, his pupils contracting in the hall lanterns' glow.

"And listen. You don't have to hide, but it's easier if you stay away from the rats' dens in the first place. Yes?"

"Yes, Captain."

D'Artagnan hesitated a moment further. "No drinking alone. If you need to, find me and we'll drink together." He was not entirely certain this was the right suggestion, but it felt like a fair compromise. Then at least the youngster would be safe.

Brujon seemed humbled by the notion, ducking his head, and muttering another acquiescence.

"All right. Go get some sleep." He sent him in, then headed in the direction of his own cell. Though the office was starting to feel more comfortable during the day, he preferred to be in his own familiar space at night.


Breakfast while still in bed was a luxury Anne had forgotten about since leaving the palace in the fall, but one her tired body still remembered and was enjoying. Constance had plumped up an abundance of pillows and cushions behind her back and settled the small table over her lap, so she could eat in comfort. The curtains were drawn open, and spring air freshening the room.

Constance was by the table, arranging flowers in a pitcher, having come back from collecting them in the garden. There was a distant, dreamy half-smile on her face and Anne smiled to see her. There had been no time for anything as frivolous as flower arrangements at the abbey, and it pleased her to see Constance's obvious enjoyment of the activity. Anne finished her breakfast, absently noting the movements of the baby within, which no longer startled her now that they were occurring with more regularity.

"Shall I leave them here? Or put them on that stand by the door?" Constance asked, holding up the pitcher for Anne to view.

"Whichever you like," Anne said. "They're beautiful."

"Aramis helped me to pick them," Constance said.

Anne felt her smile fade a little. She knew she had to see him, it had been two days since they had arrived at the estate. And not that she had to see him—Athos probably would have been far happier if they stayed completely apart—but it was only fair. It was only right. And she did want to, but—it was almost easier to pretend, somehow, that nothing had changed the plans, that no one knew about the baby. Just as it had been before.

Which was ridiculous, and she knew it. But it was easier.

"He is waiting for assurance from your own lips that you are well, Anne. I don't believe he'll eat or sleep beyond what is necessary to live, until he does." Constance made an appealing moue.

"He has charmed you," Anne said.

"I cannot help it. He has always been the most amiable of the musketeers, although I confess that amiability can run very close to irresponsibility, on occasion, as..." she glanced down, "recent events have...er, shown."

Anne still smiled, amused by Constance's embarrassment.

"And yet, he has changed, grown serious—if you agree to see him, you will know what I mean."

"Of course I will see him," Anne said, and then, herself more soberly, added, "I love him, you know."

Constance stared at her, wide-eyed, and then clasped her hands without self-consciousness and brought them to her heart, as if Anne had just given her a physical gift. "This is all very new for you, is it not?"

"Indeed it is. Even without the addition of a child...I did not love Louis, Constance. I could scarcely like him, most of the time—and he did not help me, he left me alone, he made no efforts to know me as anything beyond his queen, someone to sit beside. And when Aramis looked at me and did not see only what the rest of the country saw...this foreign-born, jeweled...poppet..." She felt her voice catch, and fell silent a moment. Her eyes were threatening tears, and she saw that Constance's were, as well. She took a breath and blew it out through pursed lips in an attempt to regain equilibrium.

"I do understand," Constance said. "I might not have, before, at the abbey. But I do. Now."

"Thank you." Anne blinked back the tears. "So yes. You may tell him—today, if he wants—I will see him. Unless the captain forbids it. Even if the captain forbids it."

They shared a quick laugh and Constance said, "Still, I think I will go to him first, to be respectful."

Anne nodded. "Probably wise. Tell him I am tired of hiding, that I should like to leave the room and see something of the outdoors. He'll understand my health is dependent on it."

"I will. I'll go now?"

Anne nodded again, despite herself caught up in Constance's eagerness, in the child-like way she wished for things to be set right.


Athos was growing cursedly tired of having absolutely nothing with which to keep himself occupied—he couldn't really even pretend to be on guard duty when the estate was so well-manned from the gates to the outer doors—so when the tap on their door came, even though it was far too soon to expect a reply from Paris, he felt a surge of hope that his orders were here.

Aramis was brooding in the window seat, his perpetual haunt over the past two days with the exception of when he'd gone out with Constance for commiserations of one kind or another. He too looked up at the knock.

Of course it was not Boguain with a message, but Constance, looking apologetic and taken aback when he yanked the door open. Perhaps he'd had a look on his face. Or perhaps she was just recalling how pert she had been the last time they interacted. Regardless, he attempted a more welcoming expression. "Madame."

"Cap—Captain?" she said, evidently trying to decide if he was still supposed to be so addressed.

Athos held the door open wider and bowed for her to come in.

"I was hoping we might speak?" She glanced behind him at Aramis.

In private, then. He inclined his head, reached for his hat and weaponry, and followed her out of the room into the hallway.

"Thank you," Constance said, after he had closed the door.

"As I had no other employment, it is no trouble to find time." He meant to sound courteous, but it came out more churlish.

"Of course you must be unaccustomed to such inactivity."

"It is welcome, occasionally, but I would prefer to be—" He left the sentence unfinished, not certain what the truth was. Elsewhere? Back in Paris? Doing something productive, anywhere at all?

"I understand. I have similar feelings about being here," Constance admitted. "But I am less a servant than a friend, now, so..."

"The queen is fortunate to have you at her side in any capacity."

Constance made a curtsy by way of acknowledging the compliment.

"Shall we walk?"

They passed a maid sweeping, who drew up her broom and slipped sideways, and made their way to the ground floors, where Athos nodded to the guard on their way out through the front. There was a long road leading to the gates, lined with white gravel, down which they began to walk.

Athos waited for Constance to speak again, since it was she who had wanted the audience. The provincial morning air was redolent with the scent of spring flowers, nearly intoxicating to the senses. He almost preferred the Parisian stench, which reminded one of who people truly were. This was probably not a pleasant observation to share with madame Bonacieux, so he kept it to himself.

The silence went on for so long that he turned to her and began to ask, "Has the queen recovered from her privations?" just as she stopped and blurted—"We wished to ask—"

He touched his hat and held his hand out palm up. "Please."

"Anne is much better, thank you. She wishes to take some air, as the rest of us have been doing."

"Of course," Athos said. "Not unaccompanied."

"Yes." She twisted a fold of her skirt in her hands.

He scanned her face, noting her inability to make eye contact. "You think, after all this, I should indulge those two in spending time together?"

Constance's eyelids fluttered rapidly. "Well,to be honest, sir, the mischief is—"

"Mischief," he interrupted, letting heavy disbelief drip through the two syllables.

"For lack of a better word," Constance murmured, shifting her eyes from side to side. "The...the sheep have already escaped the pen, so closing the gate at this juncture is really—"

"Yes, thank you, madame, for the analogy, I am not unaware of the issues in play, but you can appreciate the extent to which the aftermath needs to be properly dealt with. Particularly as I haven't yet received any word from the minister on the matter."

"I am only asking what harm it can do to allow them to speak," Constance said softly. She was very engaging when she wanted to be, not in an insidious way—oh, that way he was familiar with—but he could completely appreciate the difficulties d'Artagnan must be having with this one. Athos tilted his head back and sighed through his nose.

"Very well, what harm, you ask. Immediate harm, none. Taking a broader view, however—they have been apart all this time, have they not? Reuniting them now would only serve to reinforce whatever bonds have been formed, which could be doubly difficult if my orders are to keep them separated henceforth."

"It seems cruel," Constance said.

"What may seem to be cruelty now could turn out to spare additional heartache later."

"Perhaps." She did not sound convinced. But then he hadn't expected to convince her, only to get her to see, if possible, that he had to keep several things in mind at once. And that pleasing everyone was not possible. Or even desirable.

"That being said," he said, "I have no wish to lock the two of you in, as you were at the abbey, neither will I turn a key on a musketeer of mine without an official command to do so."

"Then..."

"Then I am giving you tacit permission to organize the relevant conferences," he said, sighing again, "though I am in no way endorsing them. And do not thank me."

"Of course," Constance said, maintaining a politely subdued expression, but her step was lighter on the way back to the house.