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No one would mistake Anne for the queen of France now.
Without her finery, most of her golden curls cut frantically off, she could be any woman struggling through the streets with a fatherless baby clutched to her chest, cheeks and mouth bruised, expression grim. There’s a stiffness to her spine, though, a dignity that even Rochefort could not take from her.
They spend another night in a small inn miles and miles away from Paris, where no one looks twice at them except to pass cursory looks at their breasts, and little Louis, who looks more like Aramis every night they spend away from his father, gurgles on his back among the dirty blankets, and finally draws a smile to Anne’s lips.
Constance’s husband is dead and her world was in tatters and she will follow Anne anywhere, no matter how many times she is told to go while she still can. It’s more than loyalty that keeps her by Anne; it’s more than relief that causes Anne to drift into her side while Louis sleeps, pressing kisses that verge on the desperate to Constance’s lips and throat and collarbones, fingers fisting in a dress that’s seen better days, might see worse ones yet.
In a few more days, they’ll be out of France, a country away from the soldiers still seeking them for treason, and maybe she’ll be able to breathe with something other than fear.
Late, late, Constance watches Anne’s uneasy moonlit sleep, musket in her lap.