Chapter Text
Autumn had arrived, but no one had told the weather.
The gardens still held the warmth of August, stubborn and golden, as though the season had changed its mind halfway through. The sky was a deep, clear blue; the sun was lower now, but no less generous. Leaves had begun to turn at the edges — a flush of amber here, a thread of copper there — but the grass still held its colour, and the breeze, when it came, did not carry any promise of cold.
The court had dressed itself for celebration. It had been planned to span the entire week, a joint display in honour of the King’s and Queen’s birthdays: splendour layered upon splendour, meant to be seen by all.
Tents of cream and gold stretched across the park grounds with their open sides fluttering gently. Long tables gleamed beneath linen cloths, already laid with fruit, crystal, and silver. Musicians tuned their instruments beneath shaded awnings. Somewhere near the hedges, peacocks strutted with arrogance, indifferent to the crowds that paused to admire them.
Delegations arrived in steady procession.
Foreign banners were raised and lowered as carriages rolled to a halt along the gravel paths. Courtiers announced names and titles with ceremonial gravity, each arrival marked by bows, flourishes, and the careful choreography of courtly exchange. Gifts were presented and received.
Athos stood at attention with the other Musketeers in their best uniforms. The cloak was heavier than usual; the heat pressed against it mercilessly.
“This is cruelty,” Porthos muttered under his breath. “I was promised autumn.”
“You were promised duty,” Aramis murmured back. “Autumn was never part of the agreement.”
D’Artagnan suppressed a grin and let his gaze roam across the gardens. “At least it’s pleasant duty,” he said. “Look at them all. Half of Europe has come to bow.”
“And the other half has come to watch,” Athos said quietly.
His eyes never stopped moving. He tracked the flow of bodies, the subtle shifts in posture that accompanied each arrival. The guards at the perimeter. The servants weaving through the tents. The King’s faintly bored expression.
Celebration had a way of dulling vigilance. It was precisely when people believed themselves safe that danger preferred to surface.
Another delegation stepped forward.
“…Montreval, envoy to His Majesty from—”
The name passed without emphasis. Athos marked the man briefly — well dressed, composed, the faint stiffness of someone conscious of being watched — and let him go.
“They’ll keep us standing here all week,” Porthos murmured. “Banquets, processions, balls. I’ll seize up like a statue.”
“An improvement,” Aramis said with a half smile. His gaze drifted, as it often did, to the Queen and her immediate circle. It lingered. Then stilled.
“Well,” he murmured, amusement threading his voice. “That’s interesting.”
Athos glanced at him sideways. “What is?”
Aramis inclined his head just enough to indicate the Queen’s entourage. “You’re losing your edge, my friend,” he teased. “Look near the dais.”
Athos followed the line of sight to a figure stepping in and out of the ceremonial rhythm. Then the details resolved themselves. Dark hair, long lashes framing intelligent eyes. He could not fully hear her voice, but he recognized it in the cadence of her gestures as she spoke quietly to the Queen, then turned to address a foreign dignitary in fluent, unaccented tones.
Claire d’Arville held a small folio at her side. Her fingers moved swiftly as she translated, clarified, and smoothed the exchange of words between parties who shared no common tongue.
Athos felt the recognition settle without surprise.
Of course.
D’Artagnan followed their gazes and cocked a brow. “And here I thought she’d simply vanished again.”
“What is she doing here?” Porthos muttered. “Besides watching us roast.”
“By the look of it,” Aramis said, amused, “she’s working.”
Athos watched her move through the crowd, slipping between languages as easily as she once had between shadows. Just then, she looked up, and her eyes found them instantly.
A flicker of recognition, and then a flash of mirth. The corner of her mouth curved just enough to acknowledge the sight of four Musketeers standing rigidly at attention beneath the sun, polished and solemn as part of the display. She inclined her head so slightly it was almost imperceptible.
Athos felt something tighten, then release.
At once, the King rose. The Queen followed, placing a hand on the King’s arm as they turned from the dais.
The shift was immediate. The procession back to the palace began to form.
Guards opened lanes through the crowd who had gathered to watch. Nobles gathered at the front in the order dictated by lineage and favour. Lesser officials and attendants fell in behind them as the procession stretched toward the main avenue.
The Musketeers redeployed at once.
Athos moved toward the outer flank. He took in the new configuration: the avenue narrowing ahead, the crowd pressing closer on both sides, a narrow corridor of movement funneling everyone forward.
He noted Claire’s position without looking for her. She was further back now, among the Queen’s attendants and aides.
The music struck up again as the procession began to advance. Athos fell into step alongside the column at an unhurried pace.
“You chose an interesting place to reappear,” he said without turning his head.
“Don’t tell me you’re surprised,” a familiar voice replied.
Claire’s shoulder brushed against his as she matched his stride easily. The scent of honeysuckle, warmed by sun and skin, carried on the heat of the afternoon.
From a distance, they would have appeared unremarkable: a Musketeer and a court functionary moving in parallel, neither acknowledging the other.
He glanced at her then. She wore no finery that marked her as noble. Her gown was pale blue, chosen to blend rather than draw the eye. Her hair was styled high at the back of her head, gathered loosely to leave her neck bare; soft curls escaped at her temples and nape, secured by a silver hairpin shaped like an arrow.
“Working for Her Majesty,” he said. “You might have mentioned it.”
She smiled, her eyes still forward. “And rob you of all your suspicion? I’d never be so cruel.”
Despite himself, Athos felt the corners of his mouth curve.
“Besides, secrecy is rather expected in my line of work,” Claire went on.
“Which one?” Athos asked.
She glanced at him sideways, half amused, half warning. “Both,” she said. “My employer values discretion above all else.”
His gaze drifted toward the royal procession ahead. “Enough to maintain channels of her own.”
Claire tilted her head in acknowledgment. Music swelled around them as they walked on in silence.
Athos scanned the crowd as they moved: the faces turned toward the procession, the bodies edging closer, excitement loosening discipline.
“Are you here for a reason,” he asked at last, “beyond celebration?”
She raised a brow. “You make it sound ominous.”
Athos inclined his head. Up close, he could see the light summer flush in her cheeks. “You have a habit of being where things unfold, mademoiselle.”
“And so do you, monsieur.”
Claire turned to look at him then. Her expression was open now, enough to catch him off guard. “I mean no trouble. I’m here on the same duty as you,” she said. “To make sure nothing spoils the occasion. I would be delighted if this were the dullest week of our acquaintance.”
The avenue narrowed ahead of them. Athos adjusted his position without thinking and angled himself between her and the encroaching crowd. She watched him move without comment.
“Do try not to look so grim,” she said. “People will think you’re anticipating disaster.”
Athos shook his head to conceal the shadow of a smile.
The music swelled as the procession turned onto the main thoroughfare. Cheers rippled through the crowd.
Athos felt it before he heard it.
A tightening. A hitch in the rhythm. The crowd’s attention turning inward.
Then a furious shout cut through the celebration:
No peace with Rome!
And the gunshot cracked through the afternoon, shattering music, laughter, and the last warmth of the season all at once.