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Summary
“I thought you were asleep,” he said.
“I’m not.” Athos was sitting in the alcove under the window, with his back to the wall and his elbows resting on his bent knees. He had taken off his doublet to use it as a makeshift seat. His cloak hung over the window, and the lit candle stub sat on the floor between his legs. He watched Aramis as he approached slowly, and the candlelight painted dancing shadows on his face and throat.