The Musketeer's Seamstress - By Sarah D'Almeida Page 0,3

beseeching sinners beneath their sparkling green livery.

If Aramis flung himself out . . . If he threw himself out towards it . . .

He narrowed his eyes, calculating the distance, which was more than that of his outstretched body were he laid in the air between it and the balcony. And worse, the thickest part of the tree was a good story below.

His body had been honed through years of duels and sword practice. He knew his muscles could perform amazing leaps in the heat of combat. But here, in midair, with nothing to push against, how was he to reach for the saving branch of the distant tree?

And even if he managed to get down there, how could he save himself, naked and—he looked down—somehow smeared with Violette’s blood? How could he escape the palace and its well guarded entrances? Everyone knew he was in here with Violette. Or, if not, everyone would guess when they found his uniform tossed casually over one of her chaises.

He took a step in the room, not so much intending to retrieve the uniform, but thinking of the uniform, the image of his blue tunic in his mind and a vague idea that he should pick it up impelling him.

And he heard the crack of the door, as it gave under the assault of young men’s shoulders.

If he jumped, it would be suicide. But if he stayed here, they would kill him. Suicide was a sin.

Without thinking, with no time to plan, he scrambled up onto the little stone parapet. He put the handle of the knife between his teeth. He could always use it on himself if it looked like he’d be captured alive.

He would shame neither his mother nor his friends.

He crossed himself. And then he jumped, somersaulting, his body twisting midair, his arms reaching hopelessly towards the impossible hold of the distant tree branches.

A Hierarchy of Branches; Running from Fate; Where Fear Gives Not Only Wings, but Ears

ARAMIS’S finger closed on twigs and an abundance of leaves, mere tips of branches and no stronger than a toothpick.

Half disbelieving, he grabbed them, hard. But he’d barely got a hold on them, when he felt them give under his weight, snapping, as he fell. He scrabbled madly with sweaty fingertips, waving them around, till his left hand closed on another branch, scarcely thicker. Which in turn gave way letting him grasp a yet thicker branch, which also gave under his weight, letting him drop again, tilted and kicking out with his legs, waving his arms, trying to find—

He fell hard, straddling a branch, bark and leaves and sharp twigs introducing themselves to his notice with a bump so sharp that his eyes teared and he managed a scream around the handle of the knife in his mouth.

A scream which, his half-conscious brain realized, would only bring pursuers to him.

Blinking the tears away from his eyes, he took stock of the tree, which was, fortunately, verdant and, this low, had dense enough foliage to hide him. Or at least, it would be if he weren’t straddling one of the lower branches, his naked legs, covered in fine blond hair, hanging on either side of it and his naked feet dangling freely below.

Quickly, scraping both legs on the bark, he jumped up, and stood on the branch. He was aware that scratches covered his legs, and that his muscles hurt. But he had no time to think about it. He scurried along the branch, towards the center of the tree, trying not to disturb the foliage.

Remembering his view from the balcony he judged that the outer wall of the palace should lay against the branch directly opposed to this one. He ran along the branch to the other.

From beneath came a confused babble of sounds, a noise of voices raised in that tone people use when asking each other what to do next.

Aramis reached the farthest point of the branch where he could safely stand. The wall of stone, which rose beyond that, was only visible as a glimmer of grey between the leaves. Too far away to reach even with extended arm.

The voices on the ground became audible enough that he could understand what they were saying.

“He must have gone this way,” said a shrill voice, clearly a woman’s or a young man’s.

“He can’t,” countered the more sensible voice of a male. “How could he jump from the balcony and survive?”

Aramis, his blood pounding in his ears, his vision dim, and all of