It was still early when a pounding at the door awakened Aramis from his spot in the window seat. He almost fell out, tossed off a blanket and got up, crossed over and pulled the door open, half expecting to see Athos returning from wherever he'd found something to drink. But it was the fatigued messenger Boguain, two scrolls clutched in hand. "These are for the captain."

"Give them here," Aramis said, reaching.

Boguain hesitated.

"I don't even know where he is at the moment, so just come in. Put them on the desk. Have a drink and something to eat. You've taken this long to get here; there cannot be any particular hurry now."

The other man complied, admitting he was exhausted. He sank into a chair by the table and began helping himself to the food. Aramis took the time to wash his face in the basin and put on his jacket, buckling it over his shirt, before turning back to Boguain.

Constance appeared in their doorway, since the door had been left open. "Oh. Good morning. Er—I was looking out our window, and—I am not sure—"

Aramis went to the window and pulled the shutters open. Below, in the distance, he could see Athos, lying on his back on the low stone that circled the fountain, one arm trailing in the water.

"Is he all right, do you think?"

"Mm." Aramis turned back and gestured. "Most probably. He must have been drinking. He seeks out water when he does—he'll walk right into a river."

"That doesn't seem safe," Constance said anxiously.

"Or if there's a bucket, he will just stick his head in it. Once we had to pull him out of a horse trough." Aramis raised his eyebrows cheerfully. "One becomes accustomed to it."

"I see," Constance said. She dipped her head by way of greeting to Boguain, and he returned the favor. Her eyes went to the scrolls on the desk. "There are letters?"

"One is from the garrison," Aramis confirmed, seeing her look of anticipation, "so, probably from d'Artagnan, but—addressed to Athos."

"Of course," she said, too quickly. "Of...course."

"Well, we know where he is now. I suppose I'll take them down." Aramis caught Boguain's nervous expression and added, "You can watch from the window just to be sure."

"May Anne and I come? The contents of those letters concerns us too."

"Not sure he will appreciate all the company, but I've no mind to gainsay you."

Constance darted out. Aramis collected the scrolls and waited outside for the women to join them. He had not bothered to put on his hat, so he merely bowed when Anne appeared. "My lady."

She was not wearing her cloak, for the first time, and he was momentarily entranced by the shape of her again, so new to him, the slight rise of her belly. But he stared an instant too long and she clasped her hands in front with self-consciousness. "Should I get my cloak?" she murmured to Constance, and Aramis said, "No," and stepped forward to give her his arm. "Unless you might be cold," he amended, "but for any other reason, certainly not."

She rewarded him with a minute smile and placed her hand on his arm. Constance followed behind them a discreet distance, down the various passageways and out of the house.

Athos had one leg propped up and his hat over his face to ward off the sun. His arm up to his shoulder was submerged dangling into the water of the fountain. His chest was rising and falling slowly.

They gathered around him, the women hanging back, not knowing quite what to do. Aramis would not normally have been reticent— he was temporarily tempted to push him completely into the fountain (something that wouldn't have been out of character for him to do if it had just been the two of them, but not in the company of Anne and Constance.) Besides, he still felt a tiny bit of regret over last night's parting statement which he was assuming was what had caused Athos to drink too much in the first place. Instead he leaned over him and tipped the hat off his face. Athos' forehead creased into lines as he squinted against the light. "Is aught amiss?"

Aramis shook his head. "No more than usual. Your orders have arrived from Paris." He waved at the window (only slightly mockingly) for Boguain's benefit, and held them above Athos, who pulled his dripping arm out of the water to reach for them.

"Other hand."

Athos inspected his hand for a moment as if baffled by what might be wrong with it, then grunted in accord and reached with his left hand instead. He eased his legs off the stone ledge to the ground and sat up, then reached around for his hat and replaced it on his head.

"All right?" Aramis asked, studying him, assessing to what degree he might still be inebriated. It could be hard to tell with Athos sometimes. He was good at deceiving the unwary. "Should we do this later?"

"...since you've all come all the way out here," Athos muttered, fumbling at one of the scrolls. Aramis decided he hadn't stopped drinking terribly long ago. "May I help?"

"You can," Athos squinted at him and smiled pleasantly, "go to the devil."

"All right," Aramis put hands up, "well, I'm here, if you need me."

They were quiet as the only sounds then were the rustling of the scroll flattening and the fountain's ceaseless waterfall. Athos perused the paper's contents, which Aramis could see from above were coded and would need to be deciphered. It seemed to be taking Athos an inordinate amount of time to come to the same conclusion, but at last he sighed and rolled it back up.

Aramis crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back on one leg, gazing up at the buttery yellow sky. When he looked back down, Athos was running thumb and forefinger against his forehead, drawing a line from the center to the sides of his head as if smoothing away pain.

"If you want help—"

"For someone who doesn't stand to receive any pleasant news out of this missive, you are unusually interested in seeing its contents."

"That one is from d'Artagnan."

"With no signature what makes you certain?"

"I know his hand."

He was waiting for Athos to say that there might be nothing pleasant contained in that scroll either, but there was silence for a long moment.

"Is Boguain well?"

"He looked in need of rest and food, as one would expect, but otherwise yes."

Constance ventured, "Are you quite well, captain?"

"Tolerably, thank you, madame." Athos touched his hat. "But I believe I am in need of my desk and quill to make sense out of these—" he gathered the scrolls to his chest—"and...some time." He shot Aramis a glance. "The rest of you might remain and enjoy the—" His gesture was too vague to indicate anything specific.

"Surroundings," Aramis supplied.

Athos made an ambiguous sound of consent.

"I shall withdraw," Constance said, bobbing. "I fear I shall be de trop otherwise."

Anne made a gesture to reassure her, glancing at Aramis, and he interposed, "Nonsense, madame, your presence is a gift to any company," which sounded noble, but he couldn't quite meet Constance's eyes when he said it because he knew she had some immunity against words of suavity, however gallantly delivered.

Athos bowed in an indiscriminate way that was not particularly directed towards any one of them, and took his leave.

"I'm afraid he had quite a lot to drink last night," Constance murmured once he was well out of earshot.

"Were you with him?" Aramis said, mildly startled by this observation.

"Not for very long," Constance said, her cheeks turning pink. "We discovered a sitting room and talked for a little. He seemed more than usually..." She hesitated, probably looking for the right word to describe Athos that wasn't too uncomplimentary, so Aramis suggested, "Bleak?"

"Mm. I suppose so."

"I must admit that is probably my own fault. I said something rather hateful to him earlier in the evening."

"Aramis," Anne murmured. "It is not like you to be unkind."

"It is your own kindness that compels you to say so, my lady, and no goodness of mine. I will ask his forgiveness when the time is right."

"At the very least, that you are honest in admitting your fault is commendable," Constance said. "It is difficult to say when we are wrong."

"I am not sure a woman of your wisdom has much experience with being wrong," he said, smiling.

Anne tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow in a possessive way he rather liked. He put his fingers on hers.

Constance curtsied. "I think I shall investigate the west gardens on my own," she said. "I will see you both at noon. Perhaps we can take our midday meal together in the study I mentioned."

She took the path away, and after an appropriate pause, Aramis and Anne started in the opposite direction, walking into the sunlight. Once they were out of sight from the house windows, shielded from view by a manicured line of closely grown shrubs, he took a quick sighting around to ensure there were no gardeners or servants in the vicinity. Anne began to say something, but he pulled her close and kissed her. Her response was tentative but not unwelcoming, and they stood for a few moments on the white gravel in a reckless embrace, all the past months of separation seeming to stretch out and catch up with them at the same time. Anne gasped when he inadvertently bit her lip and he pulled back, conscience-stricken by his own appetites. She made a sound of surprise and put her hand up to her mouth. He kissed her hand penitently. "I am sorry, my sweet. I should not—"

"It's all right." They clasped hands again, interlocked fingers. He would never get tired of holding her hands in his, as simple a thing as it was; it felt, however inane, as though nothing, no one, could separate them as long they were connected so. Indeed the very sun on their shoulders felt like a touch of divine approbation. He said impulsively, "May I say a blessing over the baby?"

"Yes of course," she whispered.

Aramis dropped to one knee—the ground was more yielding here—and murmured the Latin words that came clearer in his mind now than the first time. Anne stood very still while he held one of her hands and rested the other atop her stomach. He pressed his lips against the curve and closed his eyes. Father, whatever else this day, this month, this year brings. Thank you. Thank you for this. He crossed himself and rose, exhaling.

Anne put her palm against his jaw, and then let him enfold her in his arms again.


The sunlight had thrown its late afternoon shadows by the time a servant arrived at the women's door with the message that Athos wished them to join him and Aramis in the recently discovered sitting room, when it suited their leisure to do so.

Anne had lain down in the early afternoon for a brief sleep, so she rather anxiously checked her hair, her skin, in the mirror, but Constance assured her she looked fine and rested. She felt undeniably on edge as they descended the staircase, however, and held Constance's hand for comfort.

"Whatever is said," Constance murmured, "we will bear it together, as we have done until now."

Anne nodded, and lifted her chin, but she did not feel strong. She had noticed in the past few weeks that as the baby grew, its movements becoming more defined, something of her own vitality seemed to suffer accordingly. She hadn't voiced this feeling, thinking perhaps that was the way things should be; perhaps it was just the beginning of a mother's sacrifices. It was yet bearable, but a tiny fear that she would not be strong enough for the rigors of childbirth when it came, lingered. Few women had not heard or been touched by stories of birthing going terribly wrong, even in the most luxurious situations with every possible help at hand.

She tried to put such images out of her head as they came into the open doors of the sitting room, still bright with sunshine. The men were already there. Aramis was by the window, holding his hat over his chest; Athos stood by the sofa where, on a side table, the scrolls from Paris rested. Both men looked sombre.

As Anne and Constance entered, both musketeers bowed reflexively, and Athos indicated the sofa as a courtesy, although he was probably well aware neither of them wished to sit.

"This is not a fully sanctioned conference," Athos announced, "but as you share an interest in the outcome of the situation, I've granted inclusion.

"Aramis has been decommissioned." He paused, looking at them both, looking back at the other man, as if waiting for any reaction.

Anne thought she managed to maintain an even expression, though she felt an ache of empathy. She knew that even though Aramis would deny it mattered, even though he'd known it was coming, he would be stung by the inability to protect her in an official capacity.

Athos picked up one of the scrolls. "Acting captain d'Artagnan informs me in this letter that he was successful in arguing against Aramis' immediate discharge into...some form of detainment. It's clear, to me at least, that rather than coming from a place of self-aggrandizement, that revelation is intended to provide context to the Minister's decision which otherwise would have been—baffling, to be quite honest." He glanced at Aramis, who was still looking out the window. "But the issue of detainment is one that may just be deferred to a later date. It's important you realize that."

"By detainment," Constance spoke up, "I assume you mean imprisonment."

Athos tapped the scroll in the palm of his hand, not looking at her. "Yes."

"By which is meant he would be tossed in a dungeon to rot for an indeterminate amount of time, being of no service to anyone or anything." Constance's voice was cool, but with a ribbon of steely anger through it. Even though it hurt to hear such words spoken and picture Aramis, Anne was impressed by her friend's spirit.

Athos did not recoil from the intensity of her words. "If such were ordered. Yes."

"I consider that," Constance said, "—beyond the personal connection—a ridiculous waste."

"I do not disagree. Let me remind you that despite the fact that Aramis has committed treason, he is yet my friend. But if justice is to be truly just, we cannot decide for ourselves when and how to employ it."

Anne found her voice. "What else is in the letters?"

Athos regrouped. "There was minimal further content," he said. "You are to remain here for your parturition, as you may have assumed would be the case. No one wants harm to come to you—or the child—which even carriage travel might cause, at this late date. I am to return to Paris immediately. Tréville will be sending one of the musketeers to be the guard to ensure your safety—officially." He glanced at Aramis again. "And to whom Aramis will defer in all respects."

They all looked at the man by the window, who, realizing their eyes were trained on him, gave a slow inclination of his head.

"Do we know who?" Constance said, in a much smaller voice.

"No," Athos answered, "although I am thinking it is not going to be d'Artagnan, or he would have said. Beyond that I will not speculate."

Anne was not certain what outcome Constance was hoping for, so she squeezed the hand she was still holding for a show of solidarity regardless.

"Whoever my replacement is, we'll more than likely cross paths coming and going," Athos said. "But you shouldn't find yourselves alone for more than a day or two. Frankly I am not concerned about that while Aramis remains here. Even though—to be clear—he is neither required nor permitted to serve."

It was making Anne's heart ache to see the way Aramis was still holding his hat over his chest. She wanted to go to him, to tell him that none of it mattered, just as he had told her. That she would always consider him her first and only protector, regardless of which guards stood outside her door or escorted her from place to place. That he had, truly, won that spot in her heart a long time ago.

"I leave at once," Athos said. "If there are no unanswered questions..."

Anne had plenty (she believed they all did) but Athos was unlikely to be able to satisfy them, and she did not hold him responsible for that. "When will we see you again?"

He looked taken aback, and took a moment to formulate his response. "I hope that our next meeting finds all of us in—more pleasant circumstances." He delivered the most formal bow she'd received from him since she had been in the throne room, tipped his hat to Constance and strode towards the open doors.

They were all silent and still after his footsteps were no longer heard. Then Aramis, seeming to collect himself with an effort, smiled (though even across the room Anne could see it didn't reach his eyes) and said to Constance, "My thanks, madame, for your well-meant words."

"They availed naught," Constance said, grimacing unhappily.

"I appreciated them nevertheless."

Constance did not bother to form an excuse to remove herself this time; after looking at Anne, who just nodded, and at Aramis, to whom she quickly curtsied, she almost fled the room, pausing only to close the doors on her way out.

Anne took a breath.

His gaze was already downcast again. He looked up, as if to give her a reassuring smile, but it still wasn't making it to his eyes. She vowed to bring the light back into them.

She went to him, standing right in front so he would have to acknowledge her. "For the time being, it is the best outcome we could hope for, is it not? You do not have to leave, nor do you have to defy orders."

He nodded. But she knew he felt that having his authority taken away from him meant he had failed.