Elodie lay awake for hours that night. Asher slept soundly on a pallet on the floor in the other room, snoring just loud enough for it to be irritating. Marie-Cesette slept splayed out in her cradle next to Elodie's bed in her usual way, her hands up by her head and legs well spaced out under the blanket. Elodie stared at her for a long time, watching the rise and fall of her breathing and the occasional twitch of her hand as she dreamt. But it wasn't her daughter that was distracting her from sleep, nor was it Asher's snoring. She was thinking about her options. There were many to consider:

She could run away with Asher and rebuild the life she once had.

She could convince Asher to leave and forget about her and Marie and stay with Porthos.

She could always run away with Marie and not be involved with any other man for as long as she lived.

Or perhaps she could maintain both marriages and live happily ever after with both men.

"No… That would never work," Elodie whispered to herself in the dark. She placed her hands over her eyes and sighed. Then she started to cry quietly. Asher wanted her to return with him to Burgundy to rebuild- rebuild what? But what sense did it make to live in a garrison with an absent husband? She was tortured by such thoughts constantly.

The only thing she was able to decide on was to write to Porthos. What better time than the middle of the night?

Wiping the tears from her eyes, Elodie got up. She sniffled and cleared her throat quietly as she went over to put on her cloak and shoes.

Standing over Marie's cradle, she wondered if she should scoop her up and take her with her or leave her to sleep. Asher was just in the next room, and she would probably be fine. As long as Elodie didn't take too long. Still, she couldn't help but reach into the cradle and stroke the fine hair on the little girl's head. The baby did not stir.

Elodie crept past Asher sleeping on the floor and closed the door to the apartment as quietly as possible. She felt quite like a criminal sneaking around the garrison at night. She made her way up to the captain's office soon enough and sat down at the desk. It took her a while to find the tinderbox in amongst the clutter. Once she did, she struck the flint and steel, igniting the charcloth. Holding the fire precariously she held the brimstone match to it, then once it was lit, she used it to light one lone candle. The soft glow of the moonlight in the room was replaced by the much brighter glow of the candle. Ready to start her letter, Elodie sighed at the blank paper in front of her. She had little experience with writing, and on top of that, the topic in concern was a sensitive one. Elodie wished Porthos was there with her. She wished he was there to help her. But he wasn't. He was in a place she had probably never heard of fighting in the war that had cost her the life she once had. She prayed every day that God would keep him safe, but she still knew that every day could be his last. Yet she never wrote to him. This would be the first time.

Porthos,

This letter is to inform you that my first husband is alive. In this, I am forced to choose between the two of you. Though I am deeply conflicted, I cannot ask you to choose for me.

For the time being, Asher is staying with us, though naturally, somewhat separate. Words cannot describe my gratitude for all you have done for myself and for Marie. Please know that I do love you very much.

You may be angry, but I know you to have the goodness in you to forgive him for this unintentional intervention in our lives.

Stay safe,

Elodie

Her handwriting was large and clumsy, but readable. It was done. She had wasted many pieces of paper in the process, but it was done. As Elodie gently blew on the drying ink, she began to hear the tweeting of birds outside and looked to the window to see sunlight creeping in. Rather hurriedly, she waved the letter in the air before folding it carefully. Then she dug around for any sign of the wax d'Artagnan used. Elodie was finding out that the captain was unbelievably disorganised. Finally, she found it, and just held the flame of the now much shorter candle to it. The dark crimson wax dripped into a smooth puddle on the edge of her letter like blood. Elodie held the finished letter in her lap for a moment, staring at it. Her husband's name shaped by her hand glared up at her. She couldn't help but imagine Porthos receiving it. He would be overjoyed to hear from her after so long, but his heart would sink upon reading just the first line. Elodie dreaded that moment, although she would not be there to witness it. It pained her deeply that it was she who was going to do that to him. She swallowed her sadness and blew out the candle with a sharp puff. She left the room as she found it.

Despite being awake all night, Elodie was not tired. Asher had taken a job pouring gravel on the Rue de Terre and she wouldn't see him until the evening. It was nearly midday when Elodie was taking a break from her own chores. She was in the stables with Marie held facing outwards, petting a horse. Marie had been terrified of horses up until a week ago, now it would seem that she and Bella the horse were best friends.

"You like that?" Elodie asked the baby in a soft diminutive voice, "Nice horse. Be gentle."

Marie clumsily patted the mare's tan back, and Elodie guided her hand to stroke it lightly. Then Elodie heard d'Artagnan's voice over the clanging of swords in the yard where some musketeers were practising,

"Did he say how many?"

"No sir."

"Well that's helpful."

"Sorry, sir."

"Don't worry about it, it's not your fault."

Elodie came out from behind Bella and curiously walked towards d'Artagnan and three other musketeers who all had their blue capes hanging over their shoulders. D'Artagnan was mounting his horse when Elodie asked,

"Are you leaving for the palace?"

The captain looked down at her as he adjusted his hat and settled into the saddle.

"Yes."

Elodie shifted Marie to hold her on her hip and she dug into her skirts. The letter she had written the night before was pulled from her pocket bag and she held it out to d'Artagnan.

"Could you pass this on to Aramis? It needs to get to Porthos."

"Of course, but it may be some time before-"

"I know," she said with a sigh. D'Artagnan just rolled his lips and nodded before taking the letter and tucking it into his doublet. Now that the letter was in someone else's hands, she felt disconnected in a way. Things were being put into motion, but Elodie was no longer the person in control. Porthos was going to find out. She still wished he wasn't. He was a general in the middle of a war, she was sure he had more important things to concern himself with, but he was going to find out and there was nothing she could do about it. Nor would she know what he had to say for a long time, if he had anything to say to her at all.

Asher had been asking to sleep in her bed since he started living in her rooms. Every time, Elodie declined him. He didn't seem to understand why. If he did, he didn't care.

"You're my wife, Elodie," he said on the eighth night. Elodie let out a frustrated sigh as she finished cutting up a boiled carrot and put the small pieces into a bowl along with the much neater cubes of a potato.

"I know things aren't as straightforward as you'd like them to be, but unfortunately it's not as simple as 'I am your wife'-"

"But you are my wife!"

"Stop it, Asher," she said curtly. Asher followed her around the table where she put the bowl down and followed her still as she went to pick up Marie who was playing with her rattle on the floor of the bedroom.

"Why are you so worried about him!? He's not here! If you insist on staying in this hell hole of a city instead of coming with me to rebuild our home, then fine. But the least you could do is show a little affection!"

Holding her daughter close to her chest, Elodie shook her head amusedly,

"You act as if I've gone cold, but you and I both know that it was you who was always cold to me. Our daughter's existence is a miracle in itself."

"What are you saying?"

Elodie sat down at the table with Marie in her lap and gently took the rattle from the baby's grip. Not looking him in the eye, she said,

"I'm saying you barely touched me in the two years before you left, why the sudden interest?"

Her question was met with silence. This time, it was not a particularly comfortable one. Elodie dragged the bowl to the edge of the table and took a piece of carrot and held it in front of Marie. The little girl considered the squishy orange cube for a moment before grabbing for it and shoving it in her mouth. Before she finished eating it, she was grabbing for more from the bowl and Elodie let her, she only held it so Marie wouldn't knock it over. Asher stood behind them in the doorway.

"What are you doing, Elodie?" he asked. Elodie glanced back at him,

"I'm feeding Marie," she said indignantly.

"You know what I mean. What are you doing in this place? You don't have to stay for him. This is your life."

"I know it is. That's why I'm staying here. For now," she said. 'For now'- did she only say that for Asher's benefit? Even she did not know.

"This is my home. It's where my friends are, where I have purpose. Porthos gave me this life. I came here with nothing and he just gave it to me," she said, her shoulders rounding with a happy disbelief.

"I owe him so much, the least I can do right now is give him time and stay right here until he sends word. If he wants me gone, then we're gone. If he wants me to stay, then I'll figure it out-"

"Wait. What?" Asher interjected. He walked around to the other side of the table and stared Elodie down, which made her feel uneasy.

"Are you saying that we are not a given? You'd actually stay with this man if he asked?"

Elodie shook her head,

"Damn it, Asher-"

"Tell me," he said, crossing his arms, "here and now who do you choose!?"

Elodie just stared at him blankly. She wasn't ready to answer that. For over a week she had been asking herself that question and she still had no answer. Marie started crying, her chubby hands and chin covered in a bright orange mush. She had been picking around the potato.

"WHO DO YOU CHOOSE!?" boomed Asher, making Elodie jump. Marie bawled harder and Elodie began crying as well. She shrank into the chair, hugging her daughter protectively. She really didn't know what he was going to do. He was so angry, his face turning red with rage. Then suddenly that anger died down and turned into indifference.

"To hell with this," he said, turning towards the door. He stormed out. Elodie jumped again at the sound of him slamming the door. As she tried to calm herself and her child, bouncing the baby in her lap and breathing shallowly, her eyes were drawn to the dead sunflower lying on the windowsill.

Two musketeers who had heard the commotion came to her that night, concerned. Elodie assured them that nothing was wrong and they believed her. One of the youngest musketeers, Lorenzo, said he would kill Asher if he ever abused her. Elodie acted instinctively when she told him that she'd kill him if he ever touched her husband in an unduly manner. That shut him up and the rest of the garrison too. Though she was sure d'Artagnan would hear of it when he got back, and then she'd never hear the end of it.

She told Constance the truth. Some of it anyway.

Afterwards, Elodie insisted neither of them concern themselves with what happened, and the pair continued to sit and chat with cups of wine in Constance and d'Artagnan's place. They both had their eyes on Marie as she crawled about, indecisively moving between toys. As Constance leaned down, smiling and cooing at Marie, Elodie looked at her friend. Though it wasn't something they talked about, they had much in common in that they were both widows who had remarried to musketeers. Constance and d'Artagnan's love story was one Elodie admired very much. Particularly Constance's courage in the face of adversity. If it hadn't been for the Queen's acceptance of the couple, they might not have made it. Constance had been a married woman when she met d'Artagnan. Back then she would've been plagued by a similar conflict and guilt that Elodie was now going through.

"Constance…" began Elodie.

"Hmm?"

Constance didn't look up from gazing at Marie. Elodie hesitated, unsure of the conversation she was about to delve into. Then Constance looked up at her expectantly and saw the apprehension on her face.

"Elodie?" was all she said, and Elodie carefully asked,

"If Bonacieux walked through that door right now, would you feel obligated to return to him?"

Constance paused, blinking for a moment before turning her attention back to Marie who was hitting the floor with the handle of her rattle.

"Your situation is different and you know it," she said lightly. Elodie shifted to the edge of her chair,

"Is it? Your husband died and then you married d'Artagnan. My husband died and then I married Porthos. The only difference is that my husband came back."

"It is different," Constance replied, looking back up at her friend, her expression earnest, "For one thing I was already in love with d'Artagnan long before Bonacieux died."

"But would you have left Bonacieux? That's what I'm asking. If suddenly he came back and wanted you to be his wife and not d'Artagnan's, what would you do?"

Elodie knew she was being pushy. To be prodded with questions about her late husband, Elodie knew how she would feel if it were her; but Constance was the only person she knew who might understand.

"I don't know…" Constance breathed, "He attempted suicide once when he thought I had gone off with d'Artagnan. He said he'd do it again if I ever did."

"That's awful," whispered Elodie.

"There was no real love in that marriage at all… After that, I only stayed with him so he wouldn't kill himself. That is, until d'Artagnan was willing to sacrifice himself for me. Well, after that what else was I going to do?" Constance said with a laugh. Elodie's tone remained serious.

"So you wouldn't? If Bonacieux came back from the dead, you wouldn't leave d'Artagnan for him?"

"No," came Constance's quick response. She seemed surprised by it, "No I don't think I would. I'm a different woman now. I don't let men push me about," she said cheekily.

Elodie was silent. She stared at a small knot in a plank in the floor, trying to find her own answer, but her mind was blank. She had thought about every option she had so many times that her mind just wouldn't let her reflect anymore. When she looked back up, Constance had stood up and was walking over to her. She sat on her haunches, a hand on Elodie's in her lap.

"So what should I do?" Elodie asked her. Then her face crumpled and she broke down in tears, "Constance what do I do?"

As Elodie sobbed and Constance stroked her hair as she held her, little Marie saw her mother in distress and crawled over to the armchair. She pulled herself up by the edge of it and stood to reach with one arm up to her mother, while she supported herself on the chair with the other. She babbled loudly and confidently and got Elodie's attention. She sniffed and let go of Constance to turn to see her baby standing up.

"Oh Marie," she gushed, and picked her up. She hugged her daughter close to her as she cried some more, Constance rubbing her back in the most calmative fashion. Marie-Cesette, her darling child. No matter what, Elodie had to do what was right for her.