The Musketeer's Seamstress - By Sarah D'Almeida Page 0,13

Right then that streak manifested itself in venetian breeches in velvet ornamented with Spanish lace, and an embroidered doublet whose sleeves showed a profusion of needless ribbons and buttons. All of this was topped off with a sky blue cloak and the hat of his musketeer’s uniform, which—in Porthos’s case—seemed to have been ornamented with a few more plumes than was normal. And D’Artagnan had dressed as he usually did, his wiry, muscular build lending elegance to the blue grey uniform of the guards of Monsieur des Essarts and the oval, olive-skinned face that showed between collar and plumed hat displaying well-trimmed facial hair and well cared for black hair pulled back with a leather tie.

But despite this superficial care, both of them looked exhausted. Porthos’s eyes showed dark circles around them, marring his fair skin. And D’Artagnan’s normally deep set eyes now seemed to be looking through a tunnel of shadows. And even D’Artagnan’s youthful exuberance could not disguise the taut and worried line of his lips.

They nodded at each other and didn’t speak, like strangers meeting for a difficult mission and unwilling to clutter it with unnecessary chatter.

Porthos raised his hand to knock at the door, but Athos grabbed at his wrist and firmly pulled the hand down, before knocking at the door himself. Porthos’s knocking could, on a good day, eclipse the trumpet of the apocalypse.

Athos wondered if Porthos had knocked the night before and if so how many of the neighbors had looked around their shutters and behind their curtains to see who was trying to knock down the door. And how many had seen the state Aramis was in.

However, there was little for it. The time had passed to remedy that. Only thing he could do was not make it worse. Athos noticed Porthos’s shuffle of impatience when their knocking wasn’t immediately answered and raised his hand to knock again.

The door opened to show a young girl, the daughter of the family that rented lodgings to the musketeer.

Athos bowed to her and said, “We’re here to see our friend,” before pushing on, past her and up the stairs, to Aramis’s lodgings.

There his knock went unanswered, but his whispered, “It is I, Bazin,” at the crack of the door, brought a satisfying sliding of the bolts from the other side.

“My master is within,” was all Bazin said, pointing at the door that led to the inner room of the lodging. Aramis’s room.

“Is he awake?”

Bazin nodded. “He’s washed and dressed, and now he waits you.”

This was very much like Aramis. Like any of them, truth be told. Over the years of their friendship—which had enlarged a month ago to include the Gascon D’Artagnan— they had always dealt with private crisis by holding a war council and listening to the advice of their fellows. That Aramis treated this no differently might mean that he harbored no guilt.

Or it might mean that he trusted all of them to protect him despite what his private guilt might be.

And he was—as much as Athos hated to admit it— probably right. While Athos wasn’t sure that Aramis hadn’t committed murder, he was very sure that the murder—if such it had been—would have been justified.

He knocked at the door to the inner room and Aramis answered, “Come,” in what could reasonably be described as his normal voice.

The room, twice as large as Bazin’s pass-through room, still looked too Spartan for the Aramis that Athos had come to know. There was just a tall, dark, curtained bed that had probably come with Aramis from his estate, a tall wardrobe and, in a corner, a writing desk, with plain paper.

But Athos, who had known Aramis for very long, knew that the wardrobe concealed enough blue suits to outfit a whole regiment of the musketeers, and in silk and velvet enough to make even Porthos jealous. He’d seen those suits on Aramis often enough. He’d also wager that some false drawer on the desk, or some false bottom on the wardrobe concealed perfumed sheets of paper ornamented with a crest. Though Athos had to admit he’d never seen those, he could not imagine Aramis writing his duchesses, his countesses, his princesses, on plain and unmarked paper.

However that were, today Aramis was dressed in clerical black, as unadorned as Bazin’s outfit. Still cut in the latest stare of fashion it consisted of venetians falling from waist to ankle, and a loose doublet with a ruffle that covered the hip. But unadorned and plain for Aramis. A breviary,