Hi everyone! I noticed there are a lot of Aramis stories around at the moment, and great as they are, I am missing d'Artagnan. So I had to write my own entry for October's Haunted House Fête des Mousquetaires challenge (go to the Forum to read and vote on the other entries which are excellent, even without d'Artagnan!) And look, I came in a whole 2000 words under the limit this time... It's in two parts, second one up tomorrow. Hope you enjoy it.

Echoes of the past

Spring is in the air today; it's in the warmth of the early sun through his window, the sparkle of the Seine in the distance, the mellifluous surge of birdsong as he washes and dresses quietly so as not to cause trouble for Constance by waking her husband too early. It's in the gentle humming he hears from the parlour as he tiptoes down the dark stairs, hand on his sword to stop it clanking. It's in the spring of her curls as she turns to greet him, breakfast platter ready in her hand. It's in the surge he feels in his belly as he thanks her, their fingers grazing as he takes the plate, suddenly losing his appetite.

He quashes his youthful response immediately with practised skill. He is used, now, to feeling this way around her and, much as Porthos teases him about being an ignorant Gascon, he refuses to countenance impropriety around her. She is too special for that. He has contented himself with becoming a friend, which he can see she sorely needs, and spends every spare moment thinking up ways to make her laugh. He's learned to push thoughts of her far from his mind as soon as he leaves the house every morning, finding he needs all his concentration and energy to keep up with the training regime Athos, Porthos and Aramis are putting him through.

Today though, as he walks the yawning streets of Paris on his way to the Garrison, the smell of spring tugs at his mind and instead of looking forward to finding out what training or mission is lined up for him today at the garrison, he finds himself yearning for the farm where he grew up. He longs to hear the sound of his mother singing as she made the morning bread, and his father stamping the dew from his boots as he came in from feeding the stock.

He'd been eight, the last time he heard his mother sing, before the illness struck her down and sucked the moisture from her skin and the warm glow from her eyes. Remembering that time, he has to stop suddenly, putting a hand to a wall still cool from the night's shadows, to catch his breath before squaring his shoulders and heading towards the market with a resolute lift of his chin.

And spring weaves its magic again as he threads his way through, luring him in with the bright colours of the fabrics being draped over stalls, the burst of laughter as a toothless onion-purveyor flirted shamelessly with the seamstress next to his pitch, the sweet smell of the Seville oranges brought up from southern fields, and the waft of warm herby bread rolls which make him feel hungry again.

By the time he reaches the garrison his natural optimism has overcome the pang of loss he'd felt at the thought of his first spring far from home, and he's whistling at the prospect of the day ahead.

He's just in time for muster and slips easily through the ranks to join his friends. He dares to think of them this way now; they've already shared so much, even though he's only known them a few months. He knows that some of the other musketeers muttered, to begin with, at his temerity in taking a place next to the great Inséparables, but he's stopped worrying about it, secure in his welcome.

Today there is no time for sparring and he feels a pang of disappointment as Tréville gives out the orders for the day. He is to help clear the house of an old noble family whose last remaining occupant has just died, leaving no heirs. The contents will be claimed by the Crown, and he understands that it is an honour to be entrusted with the task of cataloguing the valuables and keeping them safe from looters. He is aware of a sense of disappointment though, at the prospect of spending this glorious day inside an abandoned house, and he finds solace only in the thought that he will not be alone in this task.

It becomes quickly apparent that whatever distaste he feels for this assignment is nothing compared to the revulsion displayed by the other Inséparables. As soon as they are dismissed, before he can even turn to greet them, all three shoot off after Tréville and as they catch him at the top of the stairs he hears a low-voiced argument begin. At first he waits, but when they disappear into Tréville's office he feels self-conscious standing on his own in the courtyard, so he shrugs and heads for the stables to ready their horses. The argument is taking long enough that he suspects Tréville will not be swayed by whatever objections they are raising about this task.

He is right. When they join him five minutes later Aramis looks cross, Porthos sheepish and Athos... Athos looks bleak. d'Artagnan pauses in the act of cinching up Nuit's girth, and looks from one to the other, but without speaking or catching his eye they each collect their saddles and tack up their own mounts. None of them comment on the fact that he has groomed and bridled their mounts and brought them out to be ready for the trio, and he feels a flare of irritation at the way they sometimes take him for granted.

As they head out d'Artagnan notices a couple of odd looks from other musketeers in the courtyard, and he swears he sees Jean-Louis make the sign of the cross, but then Betrand nudges him and there's a burst of laughter, and he thinks he must have imagined it.

They wind their way through the narrow streets and courtyards and make their way across the Pont-Neuf. d'Artagnan hasn't yet tired of gawping at the mascarons, the stone masks depicting the heads of the ancient gods of forest and field, which decorate the bridge. They make him shiver with their blank eyes and fierce mouths, but he quite enjoys this reminder of ancient folklore. He doesn't know the left bank area well and he cranes his neck constantly as they head towards the Benedictine Abbey which stands outside the east gate, but to his disappointment – he'd been looking forward to spending some time breathing fresh country air, today – they turn north before the gate, heading back towards the Seine. At one point Athos peels off and disappears up a side-street but the others ride on without comment and after a moment's hesitation d'Artagnan nudges Nuit to catch them up. "Where's he going?" he asks, reasonably.

"Hire a cart for the furniture," Porthos grunts without looking at him.

d'Artagnan feels unsettled. Has he done something wrong? He thinks back but can't think of any unspoken musketeer law he might have broken. He holds his tongue for at least another two minutes before blurting out: "What's wrong? Have I upset you?"

Fidget tosses her head as Aramis reins her in abruptly. "No, lad. No... We just had a different idea about how to spend such a glorious day." He winks at d'Artagnan who relaxes and grins back, enjoying the moment of shared regret; content that, whatever is going on, it is not his fault.

Athos catches them up as they come to a halt opposite an imposing two-storied house on the corner of the Rue de la Coulombe. The windows are tall and crowned with elaborate carved stone pediments, but the stonework is crumbling and a couple of the glass panes upstairs are missing. The courtyard in front of the house has grass growing around the flagstones and the house looks as if it was abandoned years ago. He turns questioning eyes on Athos, but the others are already dismounting so he quickly follows suit, moving to take Athos' reins as the lieutenant produces a key from his pocket and mounts the steps to the front door.

It takes Athos several goes to turn the key, and Porthos has to help shoulder the door open. Aramis nudges d'Artagnan, hands him a couple of coins and points to an inn across the road with stables to the side. Obediently he trudges over, leading four horses, and secures them stable-space for the morning.

The others are still in the hallway when he rejoins them. He can't help but exclaim as he enters the dim interior, for the entrance hall is high-ceilinged and imposing, with a marble fireplace flanked by a twin set of split staircase sweeping to an upper balcony leading to the bedrooms. To one side double doors lead into a reception room which boosts an enormous fireplace, tall enough for him to stand in without stooping, and three floor-to-ceiling windows. His feet lead him into the room without pause, spinning slowly in a circle to take in the gilt framed portraits adorning every wall and the deep red of the curtains and furnishings. It takes a second turn in the dim light before he starts to notice the dust everywhere, the mouse-chewed chair covers, the stained rugs, the rotten floorboards, and the all-pervading stench of decay in the air.

There's a creak behind him and he finds Athos looking at him oddly. "Are you alright?" he asks bluntly.

d'Artagnan can't read his expression so answers honestly. "Yes. I've never been in a house this grand – apart from the Palace, of course!" Athos squints at him and d'Artagnan wonders if Athos has a hangover, even though the curtains are blocking most of the light in this room. He's been even quieter than normal, this morning. He decides to be helpful. "Where do you want me to start? Shall we take the pictures down – I could move a table over to stand on, and hand them down?"

There's an odd noise from the doorway and d'Artagnan turns to find Aramis and Porthos peering in. Aramis is opening his mouth to speak when Porthos nudges him and butts in. "Good idea, young 'un. I'll make a start out here."

"I'll help you," Aramis says quickly, and they both disappear.

d'Artagnan stares after them, then turns to Athos. "Am I missing something?" But Athos has crossed to a bookcase and opened the glass front. His hand hovers in front of the spines, and d'Artagnan is sure he sees the strong fingers trembling. Definitely a hangover, then.

He removes a pair of candlesticks from the nearest table and hauls it over to the wall, then starts lifting the paintings from their nails and stacks them in the hall. Athos has got his tremors under control and is steadily emptying the bookcase, although every time d'Artagnan looks at him he seems to be holding the tomes at arms' length. Perhaps he has a dust allergy. d'Artagnan redoubles his efforts and has soon cleared the walls, so he starts to gather trinkets and ornaments from the tables and sills.

The cart arrives and the carter manoeuvres through the iron gates of the courtyard and as close to the front steps as possible. Aramis and Porthos send the carter across to the inn, telling him to return in an hour, and claim the role of loading the cart. They are leaving the larger furniture for now, and the ground floor is soon emptied of its portable assets. In spite of the grand scale of the rooms, the contents are mostly shabby and d'Artagnan has a sense of disappointment. It seems the owners had fallen on hard times, or perhaps had simply lost interest in living. He's tried asking Athos about the family who lived here but Athos first ignored his questions, and finally told him abruptly to get on with his work. Feeling slightly hurt, d'Artagnan does just that, beginning to resent this musty house and its decaying contents.

d'Artagnan carries out the one item he finds to admire, a beautiful wooden box, intricately carved and inlaid with a marquetry depiction of a river scene in wood and mother-of-pearl, and places it carefully into Porthos' waiting hands. He stops to push a hand through his sweaty hair, oblivious to the smudges of dust he leaves on his chin and forehead. Athos appears behind him clutching a pair of vases which he hands to Aramis before sinking to the top step, breathing deeply through his nose. d'Artagnan looks at him, then at the others, feeling concerned, but they work steadily on, apparently oblivious to the pallor of Athos' complexion and the stricken look in his eyes.

d'Artagnan hands him his water bottle and Athos takes it wordlessly, drinking deeply. "Athos?" d'Artagnan wants to ask if he is feeling ill, but a flash of blue eyes silences him.

"Make a start on the upstairs. Leave any bedding and furnishings, just take the valuables. And hurry up, we haven't got all day!"

d'Artagnan feels another surge of irritation. He's worked as hard as any of them this morning, probably harder – and he hasn't even had time for a drink himself yet. But he stifles the feeling, and turns without a word to slip back into the dim interior of the house he is beginning to hate.

The upper landing is incredibly dark. He flings open the first door he comes to and finds the curtains are drawn, only a tiny sliver of light showing him a path across the room. He takes a handful of curtain ready to yank it open so he can see what he's doing and leaps back, stifling a yelp of surprise as the material rips in his hand. More cautiously he reaches higher with both hands, but when he puts pressure on it the whole curtain detaches from the top and he disappears under a heap of dusty fibres as it tumbles.

Grit fills his eyes and tiny somethings slither down the gap between his shirt and his neck. He feels smothered, weighed down by the heavy fabric, and he flails his arms, trips over a fold and nose-dives to the ground, hitting his face on something solid on the way down. He curses, tasting blood, and tries to stand, but he must be lying on the material because he's pinned to the ground, and the more he struggles to rise the more heavilycv the curtain seems to weigh on his shoulders. He's panicking now as he tries to breathe without inhaling dust and cobwebs. It feels like someone's lying across his back and he wonders if they are playing a trick on him.

"Get off me, dammit!" he yells finally, anger surging through him at the thought of one of them making a fool of him while the others look on. Aramis, it must be, he thinks, as the weight suddenly lifts. Porthos would be even heavier, and Athos would not stoop so low. He flails his legs, hoping to catch Aramis and pay him back, but his feet are kicking in thin air. He recognises the escape route this observation offers, and wriggles backwards, cursing quietly to himself, until suddenly he's free of the rolls of material and can stand up.

The room is empty. Of course it is, he thinks, sourly. They are probably hiding on the landing waiting for him to explode, before acting innocent. He decides dignity is his only recourse, and brushes himself down, turning to the light from the window to check he's not crawling with spiders – and sees all three men sitting peacefully on the side of the cart in the courtyard outside the front door.

His first thought is anger, as he realises they didn't bother to check if he was alright. They must have heard him hit whatever it was – he looks and sees a dressing-table on its side – with his face as he fell. He feels his cheek, wincing as he touches a bruise already rising there.

Then he wonders how they got outside so fast. Surely he would have heard them going down the stairs or clattering across the tiled hallway? Perhaps he'd imagined the weight across his back – but he'd barely been able to breathe! He stoops, and picks up the tattered remains of the curtain. It weighs little in his hands and he frowns, mystified.

He's aware of a prickling sensation as the hairs on the back of his neck slowly rise, and he quashes the feeling ruthlessly. He's hot, sweaty, thirsty, itchy with whatever has fallen inside his shirt and his face hurts, but he's not going to admit any of this. Whatever joke they've played on him – he refuses to countenance any other explanation, for there is none – he will rise above it.

So he carries on, gathering the small items that have fallen to the floor from the dressing table and wondering who once lived here. He doesn't even know if the last member of the family was male or female. This is a man's room, he decides, looking around at the furnishings. He feels a flicker of empathy for whoever once slept in this bed, three times the size of his own. Did he stand at this window and look out at the same rooftops and the flash of silver from the Seine, only two streets away, as he dressed in the morning? Or did he have someone to dress him, like the King?

d'Artagnan doesn't know enough about rich families to imagine this house in its heyday. But he's already more familiar with death and loss than he'd like to be, and he feels a pang as he looks at the paltry belongings he's gathered. Is this all that is left after a long life, he wonders?

He leaves his findings outside the door and progresses along the landing, thinking about his own family home. It's a whole winter since he left with his father, full of hope and excitement about their mission to Paris. He wonders if his uncle has hired a steward yet, as he'd requested in his last letter. If not, the hole in the roof over his room will have worsened over the winter and he feels a sinking sensation as he wonders if their belongings – what little they had – have been spoiled. The quilt his mother sewed him; the wooden sword he played with for years before his father finally gave him a proper sword at the age of thirteen; his grandfather's bible... were they still safe?

The second room is completely empty, so he turns across the landing to the third door. As he puts a hand on the knob he feels a weird sensation, like a tingling. It's almost painful and he snatches his hand away automatically. He touches it again more cautiously but this time feels nothing, so he turns the knob, shaking his head. The silence of the house must be getting to him. He remembers the three Inséparables, waiting outside while he slaves away on his own up here. When did they decide he was to do all the work, he wonders grumpily?

Then he takes in his surroundings and stops, feeling an odd reluctance to step further into the room. This one has not been deserted. It is clean and gently perfumed, and the trickle of light from the half-closed curtain shows him a room of treasures. A sumptuous bed covered in white lace furnishings, surrounded by soft white drapes shifting in an unseen breeze. Ornately carved wooden frames surround portraits of children on every wall. An enormous mirror over the fireplace reflects the light from the windows and paints candlesticks, silver trinket boxes and hairbrushes with a soft glow.

d'Artagnan feels like an intruder. This room obviously belonged to the last member of the family, and she presumably died here. He looks at the bed, glad that Athos has told him to leave the bedclothes. He doesn't want to disturb this room and the memories it holds. He can't help wondering if she died alone or whether she had someone to hold her hand. A flash of memory of his mother, lying in a very different bed, her face twisted in pain, his hand reaching out to hers and his father yelling at him not to bother her and to go and do his chores, hits him in the gut and he gasps audibly, then clamps his lips shut, ashamed of his moment of weakness. The ten-year-old memory of his last sight of his mother, denied the comfort of her touch that his questing fingers sought, still hurts, even though his adult self understands his father's concern to protect them both from the reality of her mortal illness.

He shakes himself. What is wrong with him today? He tries to live in the moment – has done for years – and never, ever lets himself remember the pain of losing his mother and the bleakness of the ensuing months when his father shut himself away with his grief and he was left to manage his own pain alone.

He feels the warmth of the sun stroking the back of his neck, and it brings him back to the moment. He takes a deep breath and looks around, deciding to leave this room till last. He also decides it's time he had some help, so he walks back across the landing to the second room which was completely empty, intending to open the window and yell down at the others to come and help. It's when he's reaching for the window latch that he notices the sun is shining straight in his eyes, and for a moment he doesn't know why that is important, until he remembers the feeling of warmth on his neck just now – in the room opposite.

He spins on his heel and strides back to the beautiful bedroom at the back of the house. He's right to be puzzled: even with the curtains drawn back the light is dim in here and the sun will not creep through these windows until early evening. He peers through the glass, wondering if something outside could have reflected light onto him, but finds no explanation. He glances at the mirror – and sees the reflection of a young woman lying on the bed, dressed in a beautiful pale blue gown, her bright red hair spilling across the pillows. He swings round so fast he cricks his neck, already stammering an apology for intruding before realising that the bed is still empty, its covers smooth and pristine.

With a feeling of dread he looks slowly back at the mirror – and sees only his own reflection, looking untidy and sweaty.

He swears, then claps a hand to his mouth and looks around, as if expecting the lady to reappear and chastise him. He wants to apologise but manages not to, knowing how ridiculous it would be to apologise to an empty room. As he exits again, he is sure he hears a faint giggle from behind him and stops dead, but cannot bring himself to look around.

Heart pounding, he stops on the landing and considers. He still has several rooms to check apart from this bedroom. Much as he would welcome the others' banter now, and still feels annoyed that they are lounging in the sun outside while he works, his pride and stubbornness reassert themselves. Athos gave him this job and he will not give in to whatever tricks his mind is playing on him.

He checks the next couple of rooms, finding them thankfully also completely empty. Reaching the last room, he feels another prickle of unease as he turns the handle and pushes the door open.

This room is not empty.