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Chapter 42

Birds flew through the rafters, dust, shit, and feathers fluttered to the floor of the old church. Pews had been stacked against the far wall, a few windows were broken, and the sun's rays highlighted the stone floor. Dirt, debris, and time had worked its way across the room and took with it integrity, purpose, and beauty. One of the front doors was off its hinges and lay on its side against the foyer wall. A painting of an unknown monk hung above it, covered in dust and cobwebs.

Indistinguishable voices echoed. They quickly hushed as the sounds of steps entered the halls. The woman, Ella, dressed in a long skirt, heavy cloak, and white blouse kicked at a broken pew leg, gripped the handle of her pistol that was hooked to a belt cinched around her waist, and kept it steady as she walked toward the back of the sanctuary.

"Well?" came the heavy accent. Boris sat in the large chair beneath the stained-glass window that depicted a woman holding an infant with several cherubs surrounding her. "Where are the others?"

"Dead," Ella said flatly. "The musketeers are alive and well," she said and shifted her hips as she looked annoyingly at the men around her. She walked to the table that held several cups, a port of wine, and the remains of their meal. The long twisted curls of her black hair danced around her face after escaping the woven braid pinned behind her head. She poured herself a cup of wine, carried the cup, and then turned toward him and said, "The poison didn't work."

"Nonsense!" Sasha said. He stepped from the pillar he was leaning against. His long fingers clutched at the collar of his cloak that draped nearly to the floor and kept him warm due to a persistent chill. It hung over his shoulders and nearly drowned his appearance. Exaggerated laugh lines ran along each side of his mouth and permanent creases were between his gray eyes. His years of creating poisons and identifying cures had caused his skin to thin and look ashen beneath the light of the sun. "They should all be dead." His accent was thick, but his voice was heavy, graveled, and unwavering. "If they were given the poison as instructed," he turned and looked at Boris, "unless your men failed to follow my instructions — as simple as they were."

One man who had traveled to Allier stepped forward and said, "I used this." Leopold tossed the wooden dart hidden within a sewing needle case at Sasha. "It's what you gave me." He said and then rested his right foot on the fallen podium and leaned forward with his hands on his thighs. Short blonde hair spiked upward, and his long mustache curled into the waves of his beard that hung below his neck.

Sasha opened the case and noted the needle. He carefully pulled it from the confines and held it up to the light and squinted as he examined the tip. "How far did it go in?"

The man shrugged. "I hit the musketeer's neck. I didn't measure how deep it went. If it was supposed to work like you said, why would it matter?"

Sasha cocked an eyebrow skeptically and asked, "Where's the other one?" He then looked at the other eight men who gathered around the around the room. Despite his appearance of weakness and fragility, Sasha reached and grabbed the other small box that was tossed at him.

"It broke," Blaz, the man who tossed it, said.

Sasha opened the box and looked at the needle that had broken and the jagged edge that lay nestled within the velvet lining. He pursed his lips and frowned. "Fools. I told you what had to be done!"

"The wine didn't work either," Ella said, and leaned back against the table. "I mixed it, poured it, and served it. I watched the musketeer drink it… and yet," she paused, "he managed to fight off that fool, Jarvis, just yesterday. The other one, d'Artagnan, didn't eat or drink. But," she said and winced, "I think he killed Anselm… he didn't arrive at the meeting location and members of the community became concerned when word spread about a poisoned musketeer."

"Maybe the little shit told them the antidote?" Blaz said and ran his fingers through his long blonde hair. "The boy could never hold his tongue and your antidotes are too simple for such complex poisons — perhaps that is something you could fix."

Sasha laughed and said, "Says the boy who nearly died until I saved your life. Be grateful, Blaz, that the antidote was simple. Otherwise, you would be nothing but a rotting corpse right now."

Blaz swallowed and rolled his eyes. He crossed his arms over his chest and stood with his shoulders back.

Boris exhaled and leaned forward. He rested his elbows on his knees and looked at Sasha. "What happened?" He motioned toward the boxes and Ella, who looked at him and nodded.

Sasha frowned and said, "The poison I created was the same as the others… there was no difference."

"Then what happened?" Boris looked harder at Sasha.

Sasha looked again at the needles and then at the men that surrounded Boris. He swallowed, cleared his throat, and then he looked at Ella. "Do you have proof they all survived?"

Ella shook her head and frowned. "No," she said, "just the two from Autun."

Sasha raised an eyebrow skeptically and looked at Boris. "The musketeers in Allier? Did they survive?"

Blaz shrugged and looked at those who had ridden with him. "The big one survived… we don't know about the other."

Sasha nodded and took a deep, knowing, breath. "How many again were poisoned? Two?… And yet one of them survived — the other is unknown?" He curled his lips downward and said, "No… that is unlikely."

Boris licked his lips and inhaled deeply through his nose. "Are you suggesting someone betrayed me?"

Sasha raised his eyebrows. "I'm saying the poison was the same."

Frustrated, Boris leaned back, and picked up his cup of wine and finished it. "Rochefort is expecting them to be dead — that is the arrangement I made." He looked at his men and Ella and then tossed his cup across the room. It struck a pillar with a clang and fell to the floor, where it rolled until it stopped next to the step.

Sasha stepped into the center of the room and looked at those around him. He noted the cobwebs that hung from the rafters, the dust, and bird manure that collected, and the birds that flew out the broken windows above the sanctuary. "Who hired Rochefort?"

Boris frowned and pressed his fingers between his eyes. "Nobody, you fool. Rochefort hired us."

Ella pushed herself away from the table, and then slowly poured the wine from her cup while she walked across the podium. With long, elegant fingers, she touched Sasha's right shoulder and ran her hand along his back before she positioned herself next to him. "There have been many leaders, but only one apothecary," she said and looked at two men who nodded, and then stepped away from Boris, leaving him and others on the podium.

"Rochefort hired us," Boris said with a frown. "I agreed to do this… to kill the musketeers."

"And who put Rochefort into place?" Sasha asked. He narrowed his eyes and tsked. "A wise man knows to keep his friends close and his enemies closer, Boris. Only fools betray the Spanish."

Boris huffed, crossed his arms over his chest, and kicked his left foot before him. "Why would they need to know—"

"They don't," Sasha said. "But who else would kill King Louis' best Musketeers with poison… threaten them, yes, but kill them?" He frowned. "No. Rochefort is a Spanish spy, put into place to weaken France's position as they approach a time of war. Killing the king's musketeers would only raise questions, cause doubt, and leave us vulnerable."

Boris swallowed, nervously licked his lips, and narrowed his eyes as he looked at Sasha. "You betrayed me? You betrayed us? What poison did you give Rochefort?"

Sasha curled his lips into a smile and gently patted Ella's hand. "You should have told him no, Boris. Rochefort answers to the same men that I do." He looked toward the wine and the cup on the floor near the step. "The Spanish will one day rule French lands, but they will do it on their terms regardless of our involvement."

Boris looked at his cup on the floor and then looked toward the wine.

"I will send your necklace to Rochefort," Sasha said. "I'm sure he will understand the message." He took a deep breath, looked at the men standing behind Boris who stood off to the side and watched. "Rochefort is a boy in love with a girl he cannot have. We all know the ending to that story." He looked at Boris. "Now," he dusted his hands and adjusted the cloak over his shoulders, "I must repair the damage that has been done."