"Tomorrow?" Athos asked. "You are certain?"
"Absolutely," d'Artagnan said, smiling widely, pleased to to have surprised his fellow Musketeers with his success.
Athos returned the smile in his own sparse manner, glancing back down at the paper in his hand. It was an as near to exact copy of the bundle in d'Melliour's safe as d'Artagnan could remember.
Porthos barked a triumphant laugh and clapped the boy on the shoulder. "Well done, whelp."
"He speaks true, you have done us and your regiment proud," Athos said with enough sincerity to turn the lad bashful. His smile quickly lost its edge, however, "though you have paid a heavy price for your duty."
"The Captain can give me a holiday when he is reinstated," D'Artagnan chuckled good-naturedly.
"What, Treville?" Porthos laughed again.
Athos regarded his young brother with fond approval as the pair bickered. Ever since his ordeal in the office, Charles had been much altered for the better, returned to his carefree nature without the need to force it. Athos thanked God the boy's spirit remained unbroken, and that good fortune guided them to a swift end to this farce.
Aramis bustled into the kitchens like a flustered hen. He threw down his hat upon a vacant chair and carefully stripped himself of his sweat-soiled jerkin with a grimace of distaste before rounding upon their youngest. Athos held back the chuckle that rose within him; even burstingly eager for news, Aramis was still a slave to his dress.
"Well?" The Spaniard demanded.
"A meeting tomorrow," Athos said, holding up the paper copy.
Aramis snatched it from his fingers, eyes running over it greedily.
"A meeting, though we do not know where, only when," he said, eyes dancing fast. His gaze halted upon a word – a flickering of uncertainty before returning to smiling enthusiasm.
"We should look into this," he said swiftly. "Porthos and I currently are not bound by duty tomorrow."
"What about me?" d'Artagnan asked, with equal swiftness.
"Doubtless Jussac will have more than enough to occupy you with," Aramis said, waving his hand dismissively. "Besides, you have done quite enough for now."
"Yeah, an' even if he don't you could do with a rest," Porthos agreed.
"D'Melliuor didn't beat me that hard!" D'Artagnan protested.
"Yeah, but then I got my hands on you, didn't I?"
That was true. Porthos had allowed d'Artagnan a little more free-reign in their sparring earlier than usual, but had not gone easy on him, knowing the boy's need to vent some rightful frustration.
"I'm hardly made of glass—!"
"One more word and I shall thrash you myself," Aramis chuckled, taking the boy's arm and directing him toward the kitchen door. "Speaking of which, to your bed; that's doctor's orders."
"Yes, mother." D'Artagnan rolled his eyes fondly, skipping easily aside from the lazy swat Aramis aimed at his backside. He headed away without further complaint. That in itself said much; no matter how stoic their young musketeer was acting he was clearly sorely in need of a rest.
"Alright, 'Mis, what's up?" Porthos grumbled when the boy was long gone.
"You doubt Charles' memory?" Athos asked quietly.
The Inseparables had been among one another for too long and cleaved too closely to have missed the tell-tale signs of distress in their brother. For his part Aramis did not fight them, simply sighing and holding the copied page away from him with distaste.
"The words are indeed Spanish," he said in a dispirited tone. "More precisely they are words uncommon to the general tongue; This word here is for a particular stitching used in velvet linings; this one a cut of soft shoe popular for balls and light soirées. "Ferreruolo" is a type of short cape, worn for the practical ease of drawing one's sword."
There was a tense, breath-stolen pause.
"You sayin' that this is d'Melliuor's damn shopping list?" Porthos snarled.
Athos stood, saying nothing, and began to furiously pace the floor.
"He will be crushed," Aramis said miserably.
"No," Athos snapped, whirling upon them. "Say nothing of this to d'Artagnan. We shall investigate nonetheless."
"—and when we find nothing?" Aramis asked, brow arched.
"Then we continue the mission," Athos shouted, one fist slamming down upon the table. His hand caught the edge of a plate, cracking it, but he paid it no mind.
"This changes nothing. Or would you care to tell the boy he has suffered again without reason?"
"'Thos, your hand..." Porthos murmured, unnerved by the man's rage.
Athos glared down at his hand. Blood seeped at a hearty pace from a long gash along the side of his palm. Snarling, he snatched up a dishrag to staunch the flow.
"We follow d'Melliuor tomorrow and we find evidence of his guilt," he said in a deathly hiss. "I will not let Charles suffer further because of that man."
"What if—" Aramis began but halted when faced by Athos' tempestuous wrath.
Their leader held the gaze for a long, gut-clenching moment, and then whirled away.
"This changes nothing," he said again as the door slammed closed behind him.