All of them, D’Artagnan knew, worried about Athos. Aramis might be the only one who worried for his soul, but Porthos and D’Artagnan spent plenty of time musing on the state of his body. As, doubtless, did the devoted and absolutely loyal Grimaud, who now led D’Artagnan to a room far better appointed than should have been expected of any musketeer living in Paris. Most of the furnishings there declared as loudly as words that they’d been brought back from Athos’s ancestral domains.

Grimaud extracted a linen shirt-much finer than anything D’Artagnan had ever worn-and an old-fashioned and worn doublet from one of the clothing presses, and clucked at something within the press. D’Artagnan, who had heard the sound of glass or ceramic just before that, looked at Grimaud, and their gazes met in perfect understanding.

As Grimaud helped D’Artagnan into the shirt-a little long, but not much larger than D’Artagnan’s own, or at least not large enough to look ridiculous, since D’Artagnan was much more sturdily built than the muscular but spare to thinness Athos-D’Artagnan said, “Has… has your master been suffering a great deal from his old trouble?”

Grimaud sighed. “Not so much, sir. Now and again though the… since you joined their group, the troubles of a different sort have kept him from brooding on his own quite so much as he used to. And with Monsieur le Comte, you know, it is memories and… and the thought of what might have been that brings his trouble about.”

“You mean that having found himself faced with murders has been good for my friend?”

Grimaud inclined his head. “I’ve thought so. There is nothing, you know, like a little intrigue and a lot of danger in the present to keep the past at bay. Only today, when he came in, Monsieur D’Artagnan, I will confess that I looked into his eyes and I thought…”

“You thought?”

“I thought he looked as though he’d seen a ghost.”

“DID you see a ghost?” D’Artagnan asked, as he came into the salon where his friends had been speaking desultorily, while waiting for him.

Athos looked at him, surprised. The boy was wearing clean clothes-Athos’s, but they looked, Athos thought, better on the Gascon. And he looked as if he was just slightly weakened. Perhaps a little dizzy from the medicinal application of brandy, but he wasn’t stumbling near enough to allow him to speak foolishness.

And yet, when Athos looked up at him, he wondered if it was foolishness. Instead of ridiculing D’Artagnan, he shrugged and said, “Where did you come by that notion?”

“Grimaud,” D’Artagnan said, simply, as he settled himself into a chair, “said that you looked as though you’d seen a ghost.”

Athos tilted his head to the side, examining the Gascon. It had been sometime in the last few minutes, while Aramis had been coy about his seamstress and Porthos had made the usual mess out of his attempts at explaining his actions, that Athos had realized he would have to tell them what he had seen, as well as what he had done.

He wasn’t sure which of his pieces of news would cause the most uproar amid his friends-the sudden resurrection of a long-dead countess, or the clear-eyed way in which Athos had walked into the Cardinal’s trap, rather than allow it to close on his neck when he least expected it.

He sighed deeply. “I have, in a way,” he said. “Save that I believe a ghost would have disconcerted me less. But first, I’d like to know what Aramis has to say about…”

“The attack?” Aramis said. He had sat himself down on one of the more elaborate armchairs, immediately beside Athos, probably, Athos thought, because he didn’t want Athos looking directly at him as he questioned him. “As I said, all of you know about my… friend.”

“Seamstress,” Athos said, both amused and confused that Aramis was not using the term he usually used.

Aramis shrugged. He’d pulled a handkerchief from within his sleeve, and was examining its lace edging with utter care. “She… is a lady of the highest nobility and she resides in the palace.”

“I would expect nothing less,” Athos said.

Again Aramis shrugged, when in the past he would have looked either very gratified or somewhat upset when they penetrated the meaning of his words. He looked up at Athos, sidewise, and his green eyes seemed full of worry. “Well, after I spoke to Hermengarde, I went to my friend’s lodgings. I… well… for various reasons I was in need of a friend and she was the nearest.”

Athos nodded and forebore to say anything. He was fairly sure the reason was that Aramis had had to walk along certain hallways which awakened memories of his dead lover, Violette. He’d noticed that when the four of them had to go to the royal palace for any reason, Aramis avoided that area of the palace like the plague. And, in fact, since the most common reason they had to go to the palace was to stand guard there, he did his best not to go inside at all, but to take a post outside, near the entrance, and stay there.

“Well, while I was in her room we… argued. It is possible… That is… I angered her, and she is a woman of strong passions. I would not swear that she did not send assassins after me. Though I wouldn’t believe it likely. But I…” He half rose and sat himself again, and gave Athos a look so full of piteous protest that it was plain he very much wished himself elsewhere, and he very much wished not to have to go on with his revelations.

Athos said nothing, just continued looking his enquiry at his blond friend. If Aramis thought he could escape telling what worried him, he did not know what Athos, himself, would have to reveal.

Aramis sighed, heavily, as though realizing no one would facilitate his escape. “As I was leaving her room,” he said, “I saw on a table, a letter, written and sealed to someone…” He took a deep breath. “Enfin, to Caesar, the duke of Vendôme, the half-brother of the King.” As though he’d spent all his speech braving himself for this, he said, “I was going to simply show you her handkerchief, but I gave it to Hermengarde to dry her tears, and then I ruined one I thought was mine on D’Artagnan’s arm, in the palace. Now I find I still have mine, and am at a loss to find which handkerchief I did ruin.” He shrugged.

“Well, where did it come from?” Porthos asked.

Aramis shrugged again. “I found it on the ground at my feet, in such a position that I thought it could only have dropped out of my sleeve, and since it was clean, I used it to tourniquet D’Artagnan’s arm.”

“It’s in the kitchen,” D’Artagnan said, starting to rise. “Perhaps we should get it, before it is fed into the fire?”

Porthos, seated beside the youth, put a massive hand on his shoulder. “I’ll go, my friend. It is not likely I’ll understand this intrigue of court ladies and handkerchiefs.”

Though Athos thought this was the absolute truth, he said nothing else, nor did any of them, until Porthos galloped back up the stairs, a square of blood-soaked linen and lace in his hand. He handed it to Aramis. “It is most certainly not yours, though it might very well be the handkerchief of your seamstress. In which case, I’d very much like to know why you were carrying three handkerchiefs along on your sleeve.”

“He uses them as safe conducts,” D’Artagnan said, sounding somewhere between tired and amused.

“Safe conducts to three ladies?” Porthos said. And added fervently, “Sometimes, Aramis, I get the sense that you wish to sleep with every woman in France.”

And Aramis, looking down at the handkerchief with an expression of the greatest horror, said, absently, “I do. Twice.” And as he said it, he passed the handkerchief to Athos, allowing him to see the embroidered initials in the corner, MAR.

“Marie Michon?” Athos asked, at the same time that Porthos, having reached some sort of conclusion from what Aramis had said, exclaimed in a sullen tone, “If you so much as look at Athenais…”