Anne sat on the floor in the Dauphin's nursery, her beautiful baby boy cooing and kicking in delight. She smiled at him, mimicking his sounds and waving a golden rattle around, the sound sending him into amused raptures. Her behaviour was thoroughly inappropriate according to courtly standards. But she did not care. She had dismissed her ladies and spent the afternoon on the floor of the nursery with Constance and her son.

"He becomes more animated with each passing day," Constance said, looking up from her needlework. She sat in a chair by the window to catch the most light for her delicate embroidery.

"Yes," Anne said. Waiving the rattle again, she laughed, the sound musical as the baby responded immediately, waving his limbs in excitement. He cooed loudly as if he had something important to say. "He is healthy and strong."

The words, "Like his father," hung in the air between them, silent but ever present. It was two days since Rochefort's death, two days since the world was righted once more. Anne was relieved that in some small way, Rochefort had managed to accomplish one small thing – the restoration of her person in the King's fleeting affections. Anne knew that it was temporary, but she was pleased to be able to converse with Louis without his usual indifference. The familial love she felt towards him managed to surface again, making relations between them less strained. He was contrite, she knew, for signing her death warrant. Anne could not muster the energy to be affronted. They had all been taken in by Rochefort. And in the process, they had all lost a little piece of themselves.

"His Majesty comes to see the Dauphin every morning."

Anne cooed in response to her son before nodding. "The King seems to be altering his approach where we are both concerned."

"This is not... a bad thing?" Constance inquired. With anyone else, the question would have been impertinent. But Anne and Constance had long since dispensed with such formalities. Despite the cavernous chasm between their statuses in life, Anne thought of Constance as if she were a sister. The truth was, there was no one she was closer to, no one who knew her as well or guarded her innermost yearnings with such forbearance and loyalty. She thanked God every day for bringing her Constance. The spirited woman was now among a handful of circumstances that managed to keep her loneliness at bay and secure some measure of her fledgling happiness.

"It is not, no," Anne said with regret. "My son will be better for it. He needs a father." He needed his father. Anne kept this thought to herself, as always burying it deep.

Constance continued to sew. But they knew each other well enough to know when the unspoken deserved to be given voice. Anne could not stop the selfish inquiry.

"How is he?" Anne asked softly, letting her son suck on her finger. She knew that discretion was now their sole purpose in life. Never again could there be any cause to call the paternity of the Dauphin into question. The reality of her duty did not make the sacrifice any easier to bear. Not when she looked down and saw Aramis in the soft curls of her son's hair, or the shape of his little fingers.

"I did not know how to tell you..." Constance began.

Anne looked up then, caught by the trepidation in the other woman's voice.

"What is it?"

"Aramis has resigned his commission."

Anne felt as though the room spun around her for just a little bit. Looking down at her son, she took a moment to gather herself, finding her centre by running her fingers down his chubby leg before caressing the sole of his foot.

Her lips moved but no sound emerged and so she swallowed, trying again. Anne was dismayed to feel tears burn behind her eyelids.

"He's left the Musketeers?" She had no idea how her voice managed to remain so collected.

"Retired, yes. At the monastery at Douai."

Anne's head snapped up. "Monastery?"

Constance came over and sat on the floor opposite her. The Dauphin was happy to see his governess and smiled broadly at Constance.

"I did not speak to him, but D'artagnan said that he'd made a pact with God while in captivity. In exchange for your safety and the safety of the Dauphin, he would devote his remaining days to God's grace."

Anne shook her head, needing to touch her son now more than ever. He was the only connection she had left to the man she loved. The only man she would ever love.

"I never had the opportunity to bid him farewell." Painful as the reality of their separation was, perhaps not having the chance to say goodbye was best. Living without him but knowing he was close had always been a comfort. Bidding him farewell, knowing she'd never see him again... she might not have been able to let him go.

"He was thinking of you, your Majesty."

"I know," Anne said, not hiding the tears in her eyes when her gaze met Constance's. "I asked him to go, to live a normal life. But he would not abandon his duty."

Constance leaned over and squeezed her hand. "You both mean the world to him. Your safety has always been his only priority."

"His sacrifice-"

"That is not how he would see it."

"He is honourable," she said with a wistful smile. "It seems unfair that he has to abandon the thing he loves most. Being a Musketeer-"

Constance shook her head, stopping Anne's words before saying with sincerity. "The things he loves most your Majesty, is right here." Her voice had lowered to a whisper, her eyes flicking between her person and the Dauphin. "There is no other sacrifice he would more willingly make."

Her throat closed again and she touched her son's unruly hair. "He will never see him learn to crawl, then walk. He will never see him become a man."

She saw sympathy reflected in Constance's eyes. But they both knew any other reality was impossible.

"He would want to see you happy... to know that his sacrifice has not been in vain. There is no greater love, your Majesty, than doing what is right, even if it hurts."

"I know." Anne wiped at her tears. "And I would honour him. Always."

Anne reached for her son, needing him near. Cradling him in her arms, she pressed her face close to his, breathing in his scent.

"Aramis, a monk?" she whispered, amused despite herself.

A small smile lifted Constance's lips. "There are bets at the garrison around how long he would last."

Anne smiled too. But she knew that this pledge was not one that he would've made lightly. The idea that she might never see him again was crippling. But the longer Anne held her son, the more she realised that a part of him, the heart of him, was always with her. Every time she looked at their son, she would see his father - she would recall his devilish humour, his charm and the way his smile could bring an answering one to anyone's lips.

And when she was alone, she would recall the thrill of his touch, the passion of his kiss and the only love she'd ever felt in his embrace.

She prayed God would bring him back to them – whatever the capacity. But until then, she would raise their son in honour of him. She would, she realised, live her life in honour of him.

Where his duty had ended, hers had now begun.