Chapter Eight: Thy Silence

Leaning back against the wall of the gymnasium, d'Artagnan watched Jacqueline dueling left-handed with her shadow. Having just returned from patrol, he'd known she'd be there. She had been there every morning since she'd hurt her shoulder and would be there, he presumed, for two weeks more: the month of her forced vacation.

Jacqueline stood with her back to the morning sun streaming in the high windows, and advanced and retreated, her feet sliding and turning intricately, her sword a blur of thrusts and parries, too fast to follow properly.

Almost every Musketeer at Headquarters had spent some time watching her either covertly or, as d'Artagnan was, with open admiration. Lieutenant d'Orsay, left-handed himself, had even taken her in hand and shown her some techniques peculiar to the left-handed fencer. D'Artagnan had finally begun to pick up some of the disciplined patterns in what Jacqueline was doing. And as he watched it go on and on, he understood something else.

This was more than mere training on the part of someone who'd injured her sword arm. In these relentless, driven repetitions d'Artagnan had begun to see that Jacqueline was masking, as best she could, the emotions rising within herself. D'Artagnan didn't know what those emotions might be, but he thought he could guess. Every afternoon Jacqueline disappeared into Siroc's laboratory, shutting the door, not to emerge until long after dark.

D'Artagnan hadn't been able to observe a change in the inventor, though, except perhaps a tighter guarding, a shielding of the self. D'Artagnan, who had seen him grow from a reclusive, jumpy teenager into a young man who spoke and fought with equal confidence, had never seen Siroc with a tighter rein on his heart. And this puzzled him more than Jacqueline's behavior.

He watched the dark-haired woman going through her systematic drills without fuss or wasted motion of any kind, and when she stopped, bent double and panting, he went over to her and offered her his handkerchief. Jacqueline took it, not looking up to see who offered it, and then straightened, mopping rivulets of sweat from her face.

"Oh, d'Artagnan." Her voice went flat as she offered him the damp cloth back, mouth thin, eyes grudgingly grateful.

"Good to see you, too," he said, smiling. "Haven't seen much of you lately."

"Well, you know where to find me." Jacqueline went to hang up her weighted practice foil, annoyance and frustration evident in tone and voice. "It's not like I'm going anywhere."

D'Artagnan followed her over to the wall. "Yeah, well, I've been meaning to talk to you about that. You should take it easy, Jacqueline. Or easier, anyway."

"I have work to do. The leave wasn't my idea; you can thank Siroc for that." He noticed dark smudges under her eyes that hadn't been there before. When had they appeared? And were they from restlessness and worry, or something less…natural?

Privately wondering what else she could thank Siroc for, d'Artagnan took down a foil of his own. "Funny you should mention Siroc. The two of you've been spending an awful lot of time together," he said, with studied nonchalance

Jacqueline stared at him, not-quite-scowling. "What are you saying?"

"Nothing." He bent to stretch so he wouldn't have to meet her eyes. "Just wondering what the two of you are up to." 'Or down,' he did not add; she'd skewer him.

She gave him a skeptical look and lowered her voice. "If you must know, he's teaching me to read so I can pass the Examen." The thought of the test, now in less that six weeks, made Jacqueline's stomach twist, and so she put it out of her head.

"You don't know how to read?" was d'Artagnan's first question. He kept it to himself. "Why didn't you ask me? I could teach you."

"D'Artagnan." Her look reminded him eerily of Captain Duval's as d'Artagnan tried to convince him that of course the girl leaving his room had been his cousin. He shrugged, but both of them were remembering the last time d'Artagnan had tried to teach anybody anything. He and Ramon had ended up at each other's throats after half an hour, the cards forgotten. "I prefer someone who doesn't try to seduce me every five minutes."

"Oh." D'Artagnan tried not to look as relieved as he felt. "So he doesn't know you're a –you know?" He waved his hand, still not looking at her, torn between relief and jealousy.

Jacqueline rolled her eyes. "No, d'Artagnan, he doesn't. Why do you care?"

"Well, I just thought- two of you spending so much time locked together- I mean, locked in his lab. Anything could happen." He tried a few passes at the air, rapier flickering in time with his feet.

"No, it couldn't. You're the only person who tries something whenever you're alone with a girl for five minutes. Siroc doesn't know, and besides, he's different." Jacqueline did not feel like explaining to, him, here and now, just how Siroc was different. She didn't want to sound like a lovesick flirt.

D'Artagnan spun on one heel to face her. "Yes, he is. He's had a lot of terrible things done to him, before he joined the Musketeers."

Slightly taken aback by his quiet, serious tone, Jacqueline took a step toward him. "His back?"

D'Artagnan nodded. "His back- and other things. So if he finds out, and you hurt him, I will kill you myself." The button of his foil danced a foot from her face.

"He won't find out," Jacqueline said, shaken by his utterly serious, matter-of-fact tone. "He's my friend too, you know."

"Lovely." D'Artagnan whisked his foil back, smiling with everything but his eyes. "Glad we had this little chat. Care for a match?"

"No." Fussing with her sling, Jacqueline crossed to where she had laid her jacket and picked it up. "I've got to go wash up. We're reading Descartes tonight."

"Sounds fascinating. Have fun." Jacqueline rolled her eyes and started for the door, still fiddling with the sling, and nearly ran into Ramon, coming in at a half-trot.

"Mail's here," he said, sidestepping and holding the bundle out of her reach as she snatched for it. D'Artagnan jogged up, making Ramon hold the letters higher, laugher uproariously at the attempts of his shorter comrades.

"Patience, amigos, patience!" he gasped as they danced around him.

Jacqueline cut her eyes at d'Artagnan. "Get him." Ramon ran. The two of them chased him out of the gymnasium and through the corridors, dodging officers and maids with laundry baskets until Ramon spotted a welcome open door and took refuge inside Siroc's laboratory.

The inventor looked up from a coil of copper tubing as Ramon dodged around a workbench. "Mail?" D'Artagnan and Jacqueline, the definition of hot pursuit, followed shortly. "You can't do this every month, you know," he said, reaching for a wrench.

Ramon did not deign to answer, as the other two had cornered him next to a shelf of glassware, still holding the letters out of their reach. Jacqueline, however, had had an inspiration and was tickling the tall Spaniard mercilessly. As he tried to fend her off, d'Artagnan made a flying grab for the letters, dangerously close to a rack of test tubes.

With a sigh of exasperation, Siroc put down his wrench and went to take matters in hand. "You'll break something," he muttered, pushing between d'Artagnan and Jacqueline to glare up at Ramon. "Give me the mail," he ordered, holding out a hand, not amuses in the least.

To the surprise of the two watching, the taller man acquiesced, handing the coveted missals over meekly. "Thank you," Siroc said, and retreated to riffle through them. The other three ranged around him with barely contained impatience.

"One for Ramon- from your sister, I think." He held it out. "And two for Jacques."

"Who from?" d'Artagnan wanted to know, smirking.

"'From whom'." Siroc corrected, pursing his lips and looking to Jacqueline.

"Mimou," she said, after a moment, "And Gerard, all the way from America." She and Siroc shared a grin, hers of accomplishment, his of pride: she'd read the address perfectly, and without any prompting.

"And three for d'Artagnan," the inventor said, looking down. "Charlotte in Rousillon, Celeste in Alsace, and- Fredrika? I don't know her, do I?"

"Oh no!" d'Artagnan groaned, still smiling broadly. "She was my mother's upstairs maid. Always used to follow me around. Annoying…." But he snatched the letters anyway.

Siroc looked down. There was still one letter left. He turned it over to see his name on the back. "That's odd." The other three exchanged looks; Siroc never got mail. They watched him break the seal and scan the contents.

The blood drained slowly from his face, leaving in the color of his linen shirt. He blinked twice and shook his head as if to clear it. And then he crumpled the letter, shoving it into a pocket. "I'm afraid you'll have to excuse me," he said after a moment, voice husky, and steered them politely but firmly toward the door.

"Who's it from?" d'Artagnan wanted to know, trying to peer at the letter.

Siroc licked his lips. "Ah, Le Journal des Sciences wants to publish one of my articles on mechanized flight. It's a very great honor. If you don't mind, I'd like to be alone."

Shooing all three of them outside, he shut the door in their inquisitive faces. And then he locked it.