Four-hour watches were done through the night. Most of the more experienced Musketeers had shared the opinion that there would be an overnight attack, but D'Artagnan had disagreed. "He's trying to be unexpected," he'd reasoned. "So, he'll attack just before dawn when its darkest. He'll think we will be tired from watching through the night."

"If he's going to be unexpected, why do you expect him to do that?" Maurice objected.

D'Artagnan shrugged. "It's a feeling I have," was all he could say in response.

So, the night watch was still enforced with double the men. D'Artagnan took his watch just past midnight and was unsurprised by the quiet. He was surprised when the sun came up and nothing happened. But then he realized that their opponent was trying to mess with their minds, and planned to take them unawares.

But, the Musketeer regiment was made of sterner stuff than that. The soldiers held to their posts with determination not to let the suspense get to them.

Slowly, the inside of the headquarters began to smell less of death and illness and more of soap with a hint of broth being cooked. One side of the courtyard had been commandeered by the women, and a line of laundry dried quickly in the hot sun. D'Artagnan was actually impressed at how quickly morale seemed to have improved.

The air in the cellar was much cooler than anywhere else in the garrison. D'Artagnan found he had to be quick on his feet to keep out of the way of the working women. Weaving his way through the beds, he searched for his friends. He was pleased to see at least five of the musketeers sitting up and looking as though they were beginning to recover.

An older woman informed him, when he finally broke down and asked, that the worst of the ill had been kept away from the others. She kindly pointed him to where Aramis and Porthos had been moved to. D'Artagnan spotted Maria coming from that corner of the cellar, holding her left hand over her face and shaking her right hand.

"What happened to you?" the Gascon asked, unable to keep a grin off his face.

"Porthos took exception to the broth, and I took exception to his offense," Maria responded, her voice muffled by her hand. She continued on her way and called over her shoulder, "You deal with him."

Finding Porthos out cold, D'Artagnan wondered just how hard Maria had hit the large man and made a mental note not to get on her bad side. He took a seat by Aramis' bed. Just as the Spanish woman had feared, the cut on Aramis' arm had become infected, making the former priest's fever that much worse. A bowl of tepid water was all that was available to try to cool the man's forehead.

The young Gascon spent several hours, caring for his friends. He found himself dozing as the day stretched on. He started awake when he felt a hand on his shoulder. "Perdón," Maria said, moving to stand by him. She'd obviously gotten some sleep, her black hair in a messy braid. "You should return to your post."

"How is Treville?" D'Artagnan asked, glancing around. He felt a stab of guilt that he hadn't even looked in on his captain.

"Improving. His fever has vanished. I don't believe it will be long before he is trying to escape his bed."

Standing up, the Gascon noticed that there was a dark bruise surrounding her left eye. "Porthos got you good," he remarked. "Athos will never let him live this down. Neither will Aramis..."

They both looked down at where Aramis was muttering something unintelligible. "What would the inseparable musketeers be without Aramis?" Maria asked, seating herself on the edge of the bed. She wrung the water from the cloth and dabbed at the sweat on the ill man's face. "I cannot imagine such a thing."

"Aren't you worried you'll become ill?"

"If there is no one to care for them, what chance do they have of getting well?" Maria countered. "I could ask the same of you, D'Artagnan."

The young man shrugged in answer. "I had a similar illness when I was young," he answered honestly, "and I survived then."

"D'Artagnan!"

Looking up, Maria offered a wry smile. "Duty calls," she said. "Do let us know when it is safe to leave."

"What are you talking about?"

"Some of you musketeers are overly protective, and have not let us step foot past the gate," the woman explained, her tone patient. "I may not have a family to care for, but some of the other women have families they must see to."

D'Artagnan shook his head. "I wasn't aware that was happening. I'll have a word with the men at the gate. I don't see why the women shouldn't be allowed to leave," he said. "Only a fool would harm them."

"Sadly, I believe that most men who choose to fight against the musketeers are fools."

Knowing he couldn't argue with that, D'Artagnan left the cellar. It felt as though he hit a wall as he left the cool air and entered the heat of the afternoon. Sighing, he moved to join his fellow musketeers.

~*~

When night fell, over half of the women left the musketeer headquarters to return to their families. As the previous night, there was an unnatural hush around the garrison that made D'Artagnan uneasy. This time, the other musketeers on guard shared the feeling, making all of them on edge and jumpy as they scanned the streets around them.

The night seemed to stretch on. In the sky overhead, lightning flashed but no rain or cool breeze brought any relief to the men.

"If they don't get around to actually attacking us, I'm severely tempted to go out there and find them," Maurice muttered when he walked past where D'Artagnan was posted.

The idea had its appeal, D'Artagnan had to admit, even if the current plan had been his own. He'd managed to get a couple hours of sleep after he'd left his friends to Maria's care. He yawned, feeling the effects of the stress and non-stop work that was beginning to catch up to him.

Looking back, D'Artagnan knew he should have expected it to come then. It always did.

Still, when the bullet ricocheted off the wall, inches from his head, D'Artagnan bit back a curse as he jerked down. "Attack!" he shouted. "We're under attack!"

The darkness may have been their enemy's ally, but it did offer something in favor of the musketeers. The flash of the muskets were ever so slightly brighter in the dark of the night and gave the musketeers an idea of the direction they needed to aim. Shouts of pain rang out as the musketeers responded to the threat, their musket fire shattering the silence.

And then, in the middle of the fight, a barrel came rolling along the ground, landing in front of the closed gate. "Gunpowder!" came the shout.

Moments later, the gunpowder exploded. D'Artagnan was thrown to the ground, and he was quick to scramble up. "Keep them from getting in!" he shouted, spotting the gaping hole in the wall of the garrison. He cursed when he realized he was the closest one, and he bolted to take up position.

A tall man stepped in front of him, sword drawn. "Killing musketeers is a sport I don't think I will ever tire of," the man commented.

His eyes narrowing, D'Artagnan adjusted his grip on his rapier and attacked.

~*~

The few women who remained for the night knew the moment the attack happened. The slightly muffled gunshots reached their ears, and the two musketeers at the entrance of the lower levels straightened. The sound was enough to wake those whose fever had broken, and the women found themselves tasked with keeping the men in their beds.

"-happening?"

Being the closest one, Maria put her hand on Captain Treville's shoulder. "You must stay where you are, senor," she told him. "You have been very ill."

The captain's eyes were clear, though weary, and he squinted up at the woman in the dim light. "Doña Maria," he recognized. "Where are my musketeers?"

Swiftly, Maria glanced around the room. "Many are around you," she answered honestly. Treville lifted his head to follow her gaze. "I fear that several were lost to the illness. The rest, who are well, are defending us."

"We're under attack?"

"D'Artagnan has it well in hand," Maria assured him quickly. "I have no doubt that he will carry the day."

Leaning back with a sigh, Treville closed his eyes. A moment later, though, he was struggling to sit up again. "Senor, you must rest!" the woman beside him urged, pressing down on his shoulders. "Whatever is wrong, tell me."

"My papers," the captain of the musketeers said. "They must not fall into anyone else's hands."

Frowning, Maria glanced towards the stairs. "I will have them brought, but you must rest," she finally responded. She waited until the man nodded, and then she got to her feet. She gestured for her maid, and said to the young girl, "Stay with this one. Make sure he stays where he is."

Nodding, the maid took a seat by the bed. Taking a deep breath, Maria walked to the stairs. "You shouldn't go up there," the older of the two musketeers said to her. "I have the feeling that you won't get shown any mercy just because you are a woman."

"First of all, I am confident that D'Artagnan will hold them off successfully," Maria responded with a slight smile. She held out her hand. "But if you are so concerned, hand me your pistol."

She bit back a triumphant smile as the man handed over the weapon without question. She checked it, remembering every step Porthos had once taught her, much to the obvious shock of the musketeer before her. Taking a deep breath, Maria climbed the steps, feeling the air become hotter and hotter the further up she went.

Moving quickly, and trying not to flinch at the gunfire that was happening outside, Maria reached the hall and ran up the steps to Treville's office. She found stacks of papers there and shook her head at the blatant disorganization. "All of these?" she asked out loud. Heaving a long-suffering sigh, she grabbed the closest handful that had official looking seals on it.

Resigning herself to the prospect of multiple trips, if the fight outside carried on much longer, the woman hurried down the stairs. She was halfway across the hall when there was a deafening blast at the front door. Ducking down instinctively, Maria held her hand over her face as wood splinters flew through the air.

When she straightened up, there was a man already stepping through where the doors had once been. Marveling out how steady her hand was, Maria raised the pistol. "Stop," she called out, letting the papers fall to the floor.

Her voice seemed to startle the man. "Madame," he greeted.

"Senor," she responded, spotting the musket in his left hand and the rapier in his right. "You have chosen your opponents most unwisely."

"You think I fear a woman?"

"I was referring to the musketeers," Maria corrected, unable to keep her smile from appearing momentarily. "You will not win."

The man took a step forward. "I'm not doing this to win, Madame," he said, his tone fierce. "Once I have seen justice done, I will accept whatever consequences come."

"What justice is killing sick men, or ambushing men doing their duty?" Maria countered, holding her ground. She tightened her grip on the pistol.

"It was necessary for the sake of justice!"

"The musketeers would have been the most likely to help you receive justice," Maria argued. "But you have made them your enemy, and therefore you are my enemy as well. I warn you. Lay down your weapons and surrender."

"The musketeers began this when they killed my son! Dion was my only child, and he was taken from me! The man who took his life will lose his life as well. "An eye for an eye'."

He kept taking careful steps in Maria's direction. Unable to actually bring herself to pull the trigger, she took a step back. "Tell me," she requested, trying to think quickly. The sound of the battle being fought seemed to have vanished as she focused on the man before her. "Which musketeer was it that committed this crime?"

"Treville," the man spat out. "He was supposed to guide Dion, teach him. Instead, he was cut down within days of receiving his commission. He was the last Beauchene. Now, my family line is gone, and my wife must live out her life knowing she will have no son to care for her."

"Where is your wife, senor Beuachene?" Maria asked, grasping the bargaining point he'd just given her. "Does she know what you have done?"

Beauchene tensed. "Amélie has nothing to do with this!"

"Does she not? Do you think that because she is a woman she does not feel the loss of her child as much as you?" Maria demanded. "I have lost a son and a husband. I know the pain she must be in, and what she will soon feel. You are making your Amelie a widow, and she will not forgive you for it."

Her words made Beauchene pause, just for a moment. "I will have my revenge," he insisted.

"And I will defend my friends," Maria responded. "Do not make me shoot you."

~*~

The full moon and the scattered torches were the only source of light in the fight. D'Artagnan thought he'd seen someone make it inside Musketeer Headquarters, but his opponent was keeping him very occupied. The young Gascon could only hope that the two musketeers inside, guarding the sick, would take the intruder out.

"You musketeers pulled inside your shell faster than a turtle," the mercenary man taunted. "I expected more bravery out of you."

There was a time when such words would have sent D'Artagnan into a rage. He took a moment to be proud of the fact that at least one of Athos' lessons had sunk in. "Well, they say that sometimes discretion is the better part of valor," he responded, blocking the attack that came towards him. "After all, we got what wanted: you, out of the shadows, where we can kill you properly."

Artus was a skilled swordsman, there could be no mistake about that. But D'Artagnan had the benefit of experienced lessons. He blocked and parried, and held his emotions in tight control. He ignored the roar of muskets that came from all around, focused only on taking out the enemy.

Shock showed in Artus' eyes when D'Artagnan's knocked his blade away. The mercenary took a step backwards. "Why are you attacking musketeers?" D'Artagnan demanded. As much as he wanted to dispatch the man without any further thought, he wanted to know why. "What have we ever done to you?"

"Its just business."

"Business?" D'Artagnan repeated in disbelief, raising his rapier. "Killing men who had never done you any-Argh!"

He staggered back with a cry of pain as a bullet plowed through his arm. When he'd recovered, not a second later, there was no sign of his opponent. Cursing, D'Artagnan started for the gaping hole in the wall.

~*~

"You haven't the nerve."

There was no way Maria would miss if she pulled the trigger. She knew it. But she couldn't bring herself to do it, even when he stepped right up against the barrel of the pistol. "Now, where is Treville?" Beauchene asked, grasping the pistol and pushing it down. "I can see that you are fond of the musketeers, and you must understand that I respect them for what they stand for. No more blood will be shed once I have my revenge. You can end it if you tell me where he is."

"No."

Grabbing her arm, Beauchene swung her around and pushed her away. Stumbling, Maria managed to keep her grip on the pistol and caught herself against the wall. Her hand was shaking as she brought it up again.

A gunshot rang out. Gasping, Maria let her hand drop. Beauchene went down on his knees and then fell forward to the floor. Turning her gaze towards the cellar doorway, Maria saw Treville lower the musket as he leaned heavily against the door frame. "He would not have hurt me," she said, when she could think of nothing else to say.

"He would have, if only to get to me."

"Who was he?" Maria asked, kneeling down to begin collecting the papers she'd dropped. She had to raise her voice over the gunfire and the clash of blades that suddenly seemed louder than before.

Treville looked weary, and simply shook his head. "Now is not the time, Doña Maria."

Slipping the pistol into her belt, Maria rose and strode towards him quickly. "You should not be out of bed," she chided, pulling the musket from his hand. She leaned it against the wall. "Come. Let your musketeers handle the rest."

"You are a managing woman."

"If I were not, you would be in far worse shape."

"Captain!" D'Artagnan exclaimed. Maria glanced over her shoulder in time to see the young man do a double take at the body on the floor.

"We will have words, D'Artagnan," the older man said to the musketeer. "Tomorrow."

Nodding, D'Artagnan straightened his shoulder. "I will see senor de Treville to his bed, and then I will see to your arm," Maria informed him. "Try to avoid me, and I will make you regret it."

"I don't doubt it," D'Artagnan told her honestly, even as he backed towards the fight that was beginning to die down outside.

Shaking her head, Maria maneuvered under Treville's arm and supported him.

~*~

In the light of morning, D'Artagnan considered the wrecked wall and gate of the Musketeer Headquarters. "Treville is going to kill us all when he sees this," he said out loud. He rubbed at the sweat that was beading up on his forehead. "Or worse. He'll have us standing guard for one of the king's parades."

"He'll show some mercy for actually winning, right?"

D'Artagnan glanced over at the newer recruit. "Some still got away," he pointed out. It was a sore point, and one he wouldn't forget for awhile. His opponent had vanished without a trace, and the Gascon knew that the man would turn up again at some point.

Looking slightly green, Paul returned to the work of carrying out the bodies. Three men had succumbed to the fever during the night, on top of those that had fallen in battle. Musketeer and mercenary. Shaking his head, D'Artagnan headed inside, thankful to get out of the sun, though the shade wasn't much better.

He'd already had a long talk with Treville, explaining what had happened while the captain was ill. The women that had taken over had been a bit difficult to explain, but Treville seemed to have taken it into stride. D'Artagnan was grateful that, with Treville still weak, the discussion had been shorter than it might have been on a normal day.

Going down the steps to the cellar, D'Artagnan winced when he bumped against the wall to get out of the way of an older woman who looked as though he was on a mission. The bullet wound he'd gained in the fight had been sewn shut the night before, though the stitches were uneven. D'Artagnan almost smiled, thinking of how dismayed Aramis would be when he saw.

Just as quickly, he shook his head. While the demise of their attacker had boosted morale, the sickness still had to be vanquished. Reaching the cool of the cellar, where the sick were still being cared for. The quiet he was expecting was gone, shouts ringing out. First thing, D'Artagnan saw Maria was coming towards him.

"D'Artagnan, there you are," the woman said, immediately. She turned on her heel and returned the way she'd come. "I need you to do something with Porthos."

"What?" D'Artagnan asked, taken aback. Fear spiked through his heart. "Is he-?"

"His fever has broken and he has just woken up. He's seen Aramis. He will not listen to reason."

Quickening his pace, D'Artagnan reached her side just as she was going into the small alcove where Aramis and Porthos were. Porthos was fighting to rise from his bed, two women struggling to hold him down. In the other bed, Aramis was thrashing wildly, in the throes of a feverish dream. "Porthos," he called out, his tone weak but desperate.

"Let me get to him!" Porthos demanded.

"D'Artagnan, no word I say will reach him," Maria said in a low voice to the young musketeer beside her. She went to the far bed, and bent over the still sick man. Whatever she was saying couldn't be heard, but her hand grasped Aramis' tightly.

That Porthos had been ignoring even Maria in his attempt to get to his friend -his brother- spoke volumes. Swiftly, D'Artagnan put himself between Porthos' bed and Aramis'. "Porthos, enough," he said, striving for the authoritative tone that came so easily to Athos. "You are barely well yourself. Let Doña Maria nurse Aramis back to health."

For a moment, he was afraid that he'd have to resort to more extreme methods to reach his confused friend. Then, Porthos' struggles slowed and he lifted his eyes. "D'Artagnan?" he rasped out. "What's happened?"

Motioning the women away, D'Artagnan crouched by the bed. "Its me, my friend," he assured him. "You've been ill. You're in the cellar of the garrison at the moment."

"Then, Aramis isn't-," Porthos broke off, closing his eyes. He fell back against the bed as if suddenly drained of all energy. "I don't know what I thought."

Glancing over his shoulder, D'Artagnan flinched as he saw Maria unwrap the bandage around Aramis' arm, revealing the inflamed wound there. "He's sick with the same illness that you," he said, turning his attention back. He was quick to put his hand on Porthos' shoulder. "As I said, Doña Maria is nursing him now. You know Aramis wouldn't dare die on her watch."

"Lucky Aramis," Porthos mumbled with half a grin. "I always knew she loved him best."

D'Artagnan heard Maria scoff at that. "You'd better watch what you say, Porthos," the Gascon warned. "Maria nursed you too, and you gave her a black eye for her trouble. You need to figure out how you're going to make it up to her."

"You're lying," Porthos accused, his words slurring together with sleep.

"Oh, he wishes you were lying," Maria remarked.

Turning, D'Artagnan watched her wash the wound. "How bad is it?" he asked, not sure if he wanted to know the answer.

"Bad enough," Maria responded, keeping her eyes on her work. "I'm leaving Porthos to you from now on."

"Thanks."

~*~

As so many nights before, lightning flashed through the sky. Standing on the edge of the hole in the wall, D'Artagnan watched, somehow unable to sleep. He'd spent nearly all his time, keeping Porthos from getting out of bed. With the help of another musketeer, they'd moved the large man to a different part of the cellar, far from where Aramis was being nursed.

It had been wiser for everyone connected to Aramis, especially when Maria had lanced the wound. The woman had walked from the bed, looking pale. She'd left one of the older women in charge and had vanished from the garrison, only to return an hour later as though nothing had happened. No one had commented on her red rimmed eyes.

"I don't know how much longer Aramis can survive with the fever."

Startled by the accented voice, D'Artagnan turned to find the woman by him. Her eyes were on the night sky. "I know you've done everything you could," D'Artagnan said to her, feeling a pain in his heart.

She shook her head. "I would gladly marry the worst of nobles if it meant Aramis would live."

"I don't think God bargains like that. Aramis would have mentioned it, I think."

Softly, Maria laughed, a sad note in her voice. "I can see him trying to bargain though."

Thunder rumbled overhead and D'Artagnan looked up sharply. While the lightning had teased them, never had it been accompanied by thunder. The flashes in the sky had increased. Maria's hand grasped his arm. "Will it rain at last?" she asked.

A chilled breeze hit their faces. "I think it is," D'Artagnan answered, keeping his voice controlled as hope flared. A single raindrop hit his face. Slowly, the young man held his hands out to catch the rain in his hands. At first, the drops were sparing, and then began to increase in frequency. "The rain has finally come!"

The grip on his arm loosened and then Maria's hand slipped away as she stepped forward. In the flash of lightning, D'Artagnan saw the rain come towards them like a wall. A second later the rain hit and he closed his eyes as the col drops hit his face. "We're going to be soaked!" he called out, not making a move towards protection.

Spreading her arms out, Maria spun in a slow circle. "I already am!" she responded, laughing out loud. "The heat is over, D'Artagnan! We can win this one!"

A moment later, the woman had her arms around D'Artagnan and she planted a kiss on his cheek. "Adele!" she called out, almost dancing towards the door where musketeers and women alike were marveling at the miracle of wine. "Bring the buckets! Anything to catch the rain! We have fresh water at last!"

As the young women reached out towards the rain, the older women ran to find any bowl to catch the rain. When a loud crack of thunder sounded and icy cold hail hit his face, D'Artagnan decided that as refreshing as the water felt, it would be wisest to get out of the elements. He grabbed Maria's arm and pulled her along, since she didn't seem inclined to get out of the rain.

He was as soaked at her, and he wiped at the water running down his face. "You should get dry," he told her, making sure to keep his eyes on her face. He reckoned that getting accused of staring at the scar on her face rather than the repercussions that would be sure of coming if he was caught noticing how her gown was sticking to her figure.

"Hope, D'Artagnan, is a beautiful thing," Maria told him, a broad smile on her face. She turned and hurried further inside. "Open the windows! Let the air cleanse everything. Let the rain come in and we will deal with it later. Fresh air will be as much a healing aid as anything!"

"You think it will help?" D'Artagnan asked, astonished by the sudden change in mood.

"I know it will!"

~*~

Life had returned to Paris. Riding through the streets, Athos glanced at the people who were repairing damage from the storm that had hit the city. The air was cool with the hint of fall in the light breeze. The only sign that tragedy had struck was with the abundance of black gowns and armbands worn by many.

The month in the country had brought nothing but boredom to Athos, and he was eager to return to his friends. He'd half expected some kind of communication from his friends, and was slightly concerned that so much time had passed without a word. There hadn't even been a change in the guard sent by Treville as had been discussed.

"Athos!"

The older musketeer was unable to keep the fond smile from his face as he spotted the exuberant Gascon youth who had come into his life so unexpectedly. Some of his concern faded on seeing D'Artagnan well. "I take it your Constance has survived," he commented by way of greeting as the younger man rode up to him.

Reaching over, D'Artagnan gripped his arm. "I am pleased to see you," he said honestly. "Yes, Constance is well and has returned to the palace. She was anxious to have everything ready for the queen."

Ever observant, Athos quickly spotted the hole in the brim of D'Artagnan's hat. "What happened?" he asked.

"Its a long story," D'Artagnan responded, his tone evasive as he pulled his hand back. "How was the country?"

Frowning, Athos caught the reigns of Buttercup to keep the young man in place. "Do not try to lie to me, D'Artagnan," he warned.

Heaving a sigh, D'Artagnan nodded. Relaxing his grip, Athos sat back in his saddle and paid attention as the young man explained about the attack on the musketeers. Knowing he needed to report to Treville as soon as possible, Athos nudged his mount into a slow walk.

By the time they reached the garrison, D'Artagnan had admitted to having lost his opponent. Athos held his tongue, knowing his young friend was bothered by the fact enough that any remarks would be taken very badly. He swung down off his mount and took a moment to take in the damage that was only just being repaired.

"And where were Porthos and Aramis in the middle of this battle?" he asked, looking over at D'Artagnan.

Visibly, the Gascon became uneasy. "Well," he said, his tone hesitant. "Treville wasn't the only one to fall ill."

Swiftly, Athos grabbed D'Artagnan's arm. "Porthos and Aramis were ill, and I was not informed?"

"There was no one to carry the message, Athos!" D'Artagnan protested. "A third of the men that stayed in Paris were lost to the illness." Athos' grip tightened. "But Porthos is completely recovered now."

"And Aramis?"

"He's still regaining his strength. A physician -and Dona Maria informed me I am stretching the application of the term- bled him and the cut became infected," D'Artagnan explained. Breathing out, Athos released the young man. "The rain was a miracle that saved his life. We had about given up hope."

A young girl rushing past with a basket of linens raised Athos' eyebrow. "Is there a reason there are women here?" he asked.

"They came to help care for the sick," D'Artagnan explained with a grin. "Dona Maria organized the whole thing."

"Somehow, that doesn't surprise me."

"Athos!" Porthos called out, stepping out into the street. He strode towards his friends, and caught Athos in a quick bear hug. Though weeks had passed since his illness, Athos could feel that Porthos had lost weight from the ordeal. "I about thought that the king had decided to permanently move to the country."

"The cardinal would hardly allow it," Athos responded. "I must report to Treville."

"He's behind closed doors with Maria," Porthos informed him. "Did D'Artagnan tell you how she was prepared to defend us all with just a pistol?"

Athos glanced over at D'Artagnan, who shrugged. "She did have a pistol and the crazy Beauchene was dead on the floor," the younger man said.

"Mind your tongue, D'Artagnan," Maria's voice said sharply. She was crossing the hall with a bent over woman all in black. "The man's widow has suffered enough without your thoughtless words."

D'Artagnan flinched, taking a step back. The older woman pressed a handkerchief to her eyes. "I know that my husband was driven by grief," she said, her voice trembling. She pulled away from Maria. "Our son talked of nothing but becoming a musketeer. I should have done more to dissuade him, to comfort Adolphe."

"What has happened is no fault of yours, and Senor de Treville assured you of this." Shaking her head, Madame Beauchene continued on her way. Maria glared at D'Artagnan. "Well done," she scolded.

"I take it all the excitement was here while I was away," Athos commented.

Maria glanced at him, and a smile flicked across her face. "Well, it's about time you returned," she remarked in response. She swung her cloak onto her shoulders and fastened it at her throat. "I am returning to my uncle's house. Aramis is ignoring my instructions to stay in his bed, and so I will leave him to your care."

"She fusses too much," Aramis called over from where he was leaning against the doorway. He, more than Porthos, looked frail, the weight lost to the fever obvious to all.

Still, on seeing his friend, Athos felt as though he had returned home. "It is because of my 'fussing' that you still live, Aramis!" Maria said without looking back. "I must go."

Immediately, Porthos held out his arm. "Allow me to escort you," he said.

Athos and D'Artagnan exchanged amused glances. Some things never changed. "You may not," Maria told him. "And all of you know why."

The three musketeers looked at each other and then over at Aramis, who lifted his shoulders in a shrug. "I can think of no reason you would refuse the escort of a friend," Athos told her, knowing full well that she was referring to their argument over Firmin.

Throwing her hands in the air, Maria proclaimed, "I wash my hands of you all!"

"I thought you had something you wanted to tell them," D'Artagnan said, his tone innocent.

If looks could kill, Athos reckoned that the Gascon would have been dead several times over. "What is it?" Porthos asked as Aramis pushed himself away from the wall in order to get closer.

"You swore you would not say a word of the matter!" Maria hissed at D'Artagnan, which only raised Athos' suspicions. She heaved a large sigh and turned so that she was facing them all. "This is neither the time or the place for this discussion, but as D'Artagnan has brought it up, he's right. There's something I must tell you."

~*~

Wincing in pain, Artus watched the bandage that was being around his hand. "Well, that was a waste of time," the woman working said. "Did you even get paid?"

"Not enough."

Scoffing, the woman stood up and put her hands on her hips. "That is why you never get involved in someone else's revenge, Artus," she scolded. She moved to walk away, but the man grabbed her hand. "Let go of me."

Firmly, Artus pulled her down on to her lap. "Chloe, you know I need you for planning," he said to her. "Its not someone else's revenge. I have a score to settle with a musketeer now."

"Oh, did someone finally best you?" Chloe asked, her tone entirely devoid of sympathy. "I warned you it would happen."

"He had the upper hand, but next time, once I've bidded my time, it will go very, very differently."