Seven Days of Joyeux Part 3

“Seven Days of Joyeux” is a Musketeer Space prequel novella by Tansy Rayner Roberts. For more Musketeer hijinks, check out the Musketeer Space Table of Contents. This festive novella is brought to you by my generous Patreon supporters.

Go back to Day 1.

Go back to Day 2.

Go back to Joyeux Table of Contents.

Athos’ beard itched. For the first time in the six months since he had started growing it out, he felt the urge to shave the whole bloody thing back to the light skim of stubble it used to be. His hair, too. It had started as a joke to tease Amiral Treville after she mocked him for his New Aristocrat airs and graces, and turned into a colossal game of chicken whereby Treville pretended not to notice it was there, and Athos pretended that he hadn’t done such a childish thing purely to annoy his boss.

They were at stalemate.

The long hair and beard had another purpose. Ever since Athos joined the Musketeers, most of the pilots in the fleet had regarded him warily – even when he looked exactly like the rest of them, basic buzz cut all over, he still carried himself differently and nothing could be done about the accent that marked him out as someone who belonged in a planetary parliament rather than a cockpit. His peers couldn’t help but be suspicious of who this New Aristocrat had been before he donned the flight jacket.

The only ones who weren’t suspicious of him were Porthos and Aramis, who treated him as a brother and an equal. Athos had not intended to find friends here, on Paris Satellite. He had been searching for absolution and the distraction of steady, not a new family.

So he kept the beard and let his hair grow out. Played the mischievous, manic fop when he was in a good mood, and the surly drunk when he was not. Gave them all as many excuses as they needed for the odd looks and the wary smiles. Meanwhile, Porthos rolled her eyes and complained about health and safety as his hair inched longer and longer. Aramis occasionally threatened to shave him in his sleep.

It was something he could control.

Today was not a good day. If Athos could stop his hands shaking long enough, he would have shaved himself raw already, scalp and jaw alike.

Instead, he sat in an uncomfortable metal chair in the corner of Minister Marie Chevreuse’s room in the hospice, thinking about the time that he fell asleep in Aramis’ apartment and woke up to discover that Chev had used her colour wand to paint his beard in rainbow stripes.

She looked different in sleep – washed out in this room with no colour. Even her purple hair only made the rest of her look paler and more sickly. She could do with a few rainbow stripes of her own. Finally, she grumbled herself awake.

Athos raised a hand in greeting, noting that his fingers barely trembled. That was an improvement on an hour ago. “Morning, ma’am.”

“Ugh,” the Royal Minister of PR muttered, cracking her jaw. “Why are you here? Of all people to be faced with first thing in the morning, you.”

“They won’t let me discharge myself yet.”

“You look terrible,” she said, regarding him critically as she struggled into a sitting position.

“Right back at you, sweetness.” It was a relief to be around Chevreuse, to be treated with her usual brand of half-hearted disdain. Better than the kicked puppy expression he had seen on Porthos’ face, when he first woke up from the haze.

“Oh, of course,” Chev said, flopping back on her pillows. “It was in the coffee this time, wasn’t it? No wonder it got you.”

“Not as badly as it got you,” Athos said, and flipped up the other end of her sheet to reveal the plastic medi-cast wrapped around her lower leg.

Chevreuse looked at it for a long moment. “Fuck.”

“Perhaps it’s the universe’s way of telling you that there’s no such thing as a perfect season,” Athos suggested. Even as he said it, he knew that was going too far.

She glared at him through narrowed eyes. “The game’s not until tomorrow. I have time to come up with a plan.”

“Seriously? Your ankle won’t be fully mended by the game, and even if they let you play on it – which they won’t – medi-intervention within 48 hours automatically disqualifies you.”

“I know,” Chevreuse said with an airy wave. “Mere details. Is my clamshell around here?”

Athos investigated the cupboard at the back of the room and found her belongings, including a bright green clamshell tablet which he passed to her.

“We’ve got three possible reserve players to choose from, so the Emerald Knights could still win the cup,” she muttered, calling up several windows of information at once. “But for the perfect season, it has to be us, the same players. We won fifteen games in a row, and now we’re going to lose the record on a technicality? It’s not bloody fair.”

The holographic head of Chevreuse’s assistant Rohan popped suddenly up out of the tablet. “Minister, I didn’t expect to hear from you today. We’ve cleared your calendar… how are you feeling?”

“I’m fucking terrific, Rohan, what do you mean you cleared my calendar? I’m expected at the Royal Repast at the Hotel Coquenard for luncheon, and I will accompany their highnesses and the Valour Ambassador to their various appearances across Paris this afternoon, before returning to Lunar Palais for the ceremonial supper at the Palace.”

“I was given to understand that you should not be on your feet for several days, Minister,” said Rohan apologetically. “You have been awarded sick leave until the end of Joyeux…”

“What?” Chevreuse snapped. “I can’t have a holiday in the middle of a holiday, this is when I have the most work to do! Unclear my calendar right now, or I will visit your family home and burn all the presents.” She slammed the clamshell shut. “Athos, weren’t you supposed to be on Repast duty?”

Athos nodded. “I was, with Aramis and Porthos, but Treville forced me to take 24 hours of leave thanks to the coffee incident.” He only had jumbled, dreamlike images of what had happened during the hours he had been overtaken by the nano-virus. He could have gone to work today like nothing had happened, he was sure of it.

But when he woke up in the middle of the night, he had found Porthos watching over him like he was a baby lamb. She kept lurching in his direction as if she wanted to hug him, but was afraid he might be bruised by her touch. Then when Aramis brought him breakfast, she all but avoided eye contact. Both of them had refused to support Athos when Amiral Treville marched into his hospice room after breakfast and announced his enforced leave.

Treville hadn’t yelled at him. That was the worst of it. She allowed him to negotiate 24 hours of leave down from her initial offer of a month, and then walked away leaving Athos feeling that he had been tricked into something.

Porthos and Aramis and maybe even Treville knew something that he didn’t, and he was almost afraid to find out what it was.

“You know,” Chevreuse continued. “If those festive terrorists have any sense of occasion at all, they’ll target the Repast.”

“I had considered that,” Athos agreed.

Her face broke into a grin. Finally, there was some colour back in her cheeks. “Want to be my date? I’m going to need help getting around.”

“I’m not carrying you,” he said firmly.

But that wasn’t a no.

Aramis had done many strange things in service to Crown and Solar System, but flicking through a hastily printed copy of the Tourist Guide to Valorous Festivals and Holidays was new to her.

It had illustrations. And she was the last person to be cynical about other people’s religious beliefs, but it all seemed so stupid.

Half of the references to Winterlight were poetry, which was all very well – Aramis was particularly fond of poetry under most circumstances – but not overly informative.

“And the rains fall, to renew and refresh, to wash away our tears,” mused Porthos, consulting her own copy of the slim booklet. Treville had printed multiple copies of the slim booklet and passed them out to all her Musketeers on duty today, for reference and research. “What does that even mean?”

“It rains a lot on Valour,” Aramis said, turning another page of poetic epigraphs that were not nearly informative enough in predicting what new fun act of sabotage was going to be perpetrated upon Paris Satellite today.

“What, it always rains on the third day of Joyeux? I mean, Winterlight, whatever. Every single time?”

“To hear Athos talk about it, it rains on Valour every day,” Aramis muttered.

“Athos never talks about his home planet.”

“He has twice, in five years. And both times, he complained about it raining.”

Porthos considered this. “Do we need to entertain the possibility that this festive terrorism is specifically happening to annoy Athos?”

“Oh, that’s what I need,” Aramis huffed. “Two paranoid best friends. Wonderful.” On the other hand, if it was happening specifically to annoy anyone, it probably would be Athos. He had that sort of luck.

They stood at ease, beside their two musket-class darts, in the section of the Lunar Palais Primary Dock reserved for royal transportation. Captain Claudine Jussac and two other red-jacketed pilots stood a little way from them, in front of the Church’s own sabre-class darts.

The Regent Royal, the Cardinal and their party were late, which meant that the levels of irritable tension bouncing between the Sabres and the Musketeers had reached dangerous levels, despite the fact that Aramis herself had been behaving perfectly. Calm, polite, restrained.

Sadly, Porthos’ continual filthy looks and Jussac’s inability to let anything drop made up for her own restraint.

So Aramis bantered with Porthos as much as possible, to distract her from the cranky Sabres. Hopefully they would get through today without starting a riot.

Filling the air with pointless banter and Elemental research also allowed Aramis less time time to worry about the end of her relationship with Chev, though in truth she had spent a lot more time fretting about Athos’ state of mind. She had to hope he would find something in that hospice to keep himself occupied.

Athos left alone with his own thoughts for a whole day was almost as dangerous as Athos attacked by mind-altering nano coffee that forced him to see visions of a traumatic former marriage.

“Heads up,” Porthos said quietly, as the door at the far end spiralled open, and the royal group approached.

Lalla-Louise Renard Royal was a beautiful sylph of a woman with sharp intelligence and a talented wit when she wasn’t ground down with exhaustion from public appearances. On days like today, when their beloved leader was charming and bright-eyed, Aramis remembered all over again that the Regent of the Solar System was exactly her type.

She considered it a point of honour that she had never mentioned this fact to either Porthos or Athos. For the sake of their blood pressure, they must never know.

As they approached, the Regent teased the Cardinal in an arch tone of voice. “Three ships, your Eminence? I didn’t realise you required quite such an entourage. I’m afraid her Grace the Duchess with think me terribly modest in only providing two for my own needs.”

The Cardinal was caught between embarrassment and irritation. “Naturally, your Highness, my Sabres are duty-bound to provide for your needs as well as my own…”

“Oh, your Eminence,” said the Regent with a smirk. “You’re not suggesting I travel in one of your ships, are you? Why, the Musketeers would be completely out of a job, and Amiral Treville would give me such a stern lecture about the look of the thing. Though if you would like to travel together, I’m sure we can arrange some kind of compromise…”

Aramis tried hard not to roll her eyes at Porthos as the matter was settled – Porthos would take the comedy double act of the Regent and the Cardinal together in her Hoyden, while Aramis would escort Prince Alek, the Duchess of Buckingham and her aide Linton Gray in the Morningstar. The rest of the assorted priests, assistants and hangers-on in their party would be transported in the three Sabre-class darts.

Ridiculous though the whole scene was, it was worth it to see the quiet outrage flitting across Captain Claudine Jussac’s face as she realised that she and her fellow Sabres were being snubbed in the name of royal diplomacy. Even the Cardinal knew that Porthos’ ship was the prettiest and most comfortable to travel in.

And oh, that meant that Aramis got to pilot the Awkward Sexual Tension Brigade that consisted of the Prince Consort and Buck the Hot Duchess Who My Recently Ex-Girlfriend Has Been Spending All Her Time With.

So fun all around, really.

There were many, many reasons why Porthos was in no danger of hooking up with Athos no matter what Aramis said or thought or did (or bet). At this stage, Porthos was pretty sure the only way it could happen was a workplace accident involving sex pollen.

Athos rarely hooked up with anyone anyway – and when he did, he made the most self-destructive possible choices. He had a higher ratio of affair-leading-to-duel situations than anyone else in the Musketeers (Aramis once worked it out with four spreadsheets and a pie chart), and that was up against stiff competition.

It was hard to imagine that Porthos and Athos having sex (accidentally or otherwise) would result in anything more dramatic than some mild embarrassment and a cordial handshake, and that basically took Porthos out of the running.

Apart from being male, Athos couldn’t be further from her type either. Porthos’ love life was calm and structured. She was drawn to capable, practical men who weren’t especially bothered by concepts like monogamy or commitment, didn’t take up too much of her limited leisure time, and made themselves useful whenever she had a problem to solve.

Aramis started a spreadsheet for this, too, which was how Porthos had recently discovered that she had eight current boyfriends ‘casual but active’ and at least fourteen who counted as ‘ex on good terms.’

Relationship drama had not ever appealed to her. Who could be bothered? She got into enough duels over political differences, the Sabre vs. Musketeer divide and, well, Athos, without adding her love-life into the mix.

She’d like to be able to say that her perfect, bulletproof casual boyfriend system was the reason that she and Athos were safe from each other, forever and ever. But the truth was more complicated than that.

The truth was that she had already met the man that she was probably going to screw up her perfect bulletproof system for, and it had been driving her up the wall.

An unexpected encounter with Chef Coquenard while he was pinching festive greenery for his table decorations was bad enough, but a known-in-advance meeting with him in his kitchen, which he ruled with a firm voice and a devastatingly artistic pair of hands, was positively lethal.

“And here, the poached duck with basil,” he said now. Porthos opened her mouth obediently and was rewarded by a warm, savoury taste filling her mouth.

She stood in the midst of the bustling marble-tiled kitchen of the Hotel Coquenard. Technically her job was to check on the final security arrangements for the Royal Repast that was being hosted in the main dining room in a few hours.

The Regent, Cardinal Richelieu, the Duchess of Buckingham, the Prince Consort and the rest of their party were currently at church services, with a bodyguard detail including Aramis and Jussac. Porthos had arrived here at the hotel an hour ago to discover that they was still making last minute repairs in the main foyer after damage from the previous day.

“It was in the coffee,” was all that Madame Coquenard, the long-suffering but efficient hotel owner-manager told her, before sweeping off to hurry up the workmen and ensure everything was perfect when the Regent and her people arrived.

Porthos had checked with the hotel security, examined the automated systems to her satisfaction, and now stood in a corner of the hotel’s beautiful marble-tiled kitchen, being seduced with tiny mouthfuls of the feast that was to come.

The duck was definitely a seduction. She could tell by the little smile playing on the mouth of Chef Coquenard as he drew his fingers back far too slowly from her mouth. Trouble was, it was a seduction four years in the making, and she had an awful feeling that they were approaching the main course.

Hotel Coquenard hosted several royal events a year, thanks to their excellent service record and extremely photogenic banquet room. Somehow it always came down to Porthos in this kitchen with the pleasant-faced, ordinary-looking chef and his extraordinary hands.

She could fall in love with hands like those. Coquenard was a creator, an artist in the kitchen, but he didn’t hesitate to do basic tasks for himself either. He would take a vegetable knife off one of his apprentices and chop it into perfect, even slices, demonstrating the technique as if he never had to think about it. Porthos had once seen him take over the job of scrubbing pots, because the dishwasher had scalded her wrist and the pots had to be cleaned immediately.

Of all the things in the world, Porthos was a sucker for a man with practical skills. The fact that he liked to watch her face while she tasted whatever beautiful new food combination he had designed, did not help her to resist his charms at all.

It wasn’t even the fact that he had a wife she rather liked which had held her back for – damn it, years now. It was pretty clear to everyone who knew them that Madame and Chef Coquenard had one of those marriages which had transitioned into a friendly business arrangement a long time ago.

No, the trouble was that Porthos suspected this was a man who would not fit into her usual comfortable, easy-going system. Once she had him, she wasn’t going to want to let him go.

“And now, dessert?” suggested Chef Coquenard, his eyes mischievous as if he was offering more than a taste of chocolate steam upon a cube of frozen cherry juice.

Porthos opened her mouth to reply, when the kitchen door banged open. To her surprise it was Athos, wearing one of his ‘I am not officially a Musketeer today even if this garment is almost identical to what I wear on duty’ jackets. He held the door open for Chevreuse, who came in on platinum crutches, her shattered ankle still wrapped in a medi-cast.

“Not interrupting anything, are we?” asked Chev with a cheeky gleam in her eye.

Porthos felt the urge to hurl a blancmange at her.

Chef Coquenard was delighted. Unlike every other chef Porthos had ever known, he adored being visited in his place of work. He was just so friendly. “Minister Chevreuse, I thought we were to be denied your palate today!”

“I wouldn’t miss one of your meals, Remy,” she said warmly, and the two of them fell into a discussion about the wine that was to be served at the Repast, and whether he was willing to discuss the various courses live on cam-feed for the viewers at home.

Porthos sidled over to Athos. “Resting up, are we?” she asked, a little sharper than she intended.

He raised both his eyebrows at her. “Still not admitting you have a crush on the chef, are we?”

She was not going to let this turn into a fight, if only because it would be exceptionally bad timing to throw his own terrible taste in lovers in his face. She was still upset by that horrible business yesterday, and the dead husband she wished she didn’t know about. “Athos – you should have stayed at the hospice.”

His blue eyes went very cold. “Stop staring at me like I’m wounded, Porthos. I like to keep busy.”

She accepted the point. A bored Athos was a terrible thing to inflict upon Paris Satellite. “Fair call.”

“Also, I want to catch the bastards who are doing this,” he added, with an edge to his voice. “Festive terrorism my arse. It stopped being a joke yesterday, and I don’t fancy seeing what kind of chaos it will cause when the rains fall.”

“Rain on a space station doesn’t sound like a good idea,” Porthos agreed. “So what do we do?”

Athos tapped her on the nose. “Watch, listen, and try not to get distracted by tall men with saucy wooden spoons.”

Porthos scowled.

“Move it, Athos,” ordered Chevreuse all of a sudden, hurling herself at him with her crutches over one shoulder. To Porthos’ surprise, Athos reached out and caught Chevreuse before she could hit the ground. How many times today had he been forced to practice that move? Chevreuse barely seemed to have noticed the near miss. “There’s no water-based sprinkler system in here,” she said frantically. “The hotel uses sonic wave for flame prevention. If the rains are coming down, it’s not here.”

Well, yes. Porthos had already established this fact with Madame Coquenard, but unlike Chevreuse she hadn’t seen it as a down side. Plans which required the royal family to be bait should never be anyone’s first choice.

“No one uses anything but sonic wave anymore,” Athos said irritably. “Unless you count…” and he stopped.

“Cathedrals,” said Porthos with a sinking feeling in her stomach. “The Church of All made an edict against the use of sonic wave in places of worship, years ago. They all use vintage sprinkler systems.”

Athos and Chevreuse exchanged horrified looks, and they reached for their comms in the same instance.

It could have been worse, Athos mused. The Cardinal was furious that the ceiling of the finest cathedral in Paris had opened up and poured water down on the royal party during the ceremony of the candles. The Regent, however, took it in good humour. Prince Alek and Ambassador Buck both thought the whole matter was hilarious, especially once everyone had been dried off by sonic wave, and the two of them told the story to the assembled guests at the feast with great pantomime humour, as if they had been friends forever.

“Naturally neither of you got rained on,” sulked Aramis, sitting between Athos and Porthos at a side table. Her hair was frizzing out of its tight “on duty” top knot.

“Just as well, since I am off duty and not even supposed to be here,” said Athos calmly, sipping from a glass of champagne that probably cost more than his weekly rent. He glanced over at the main table. Chevreuse had clapped and smiled (with everything but her eyes) during the third retelling of the ‘And then the rains came down’ story. After that, she shuffled everyone around so that Buck and Prince Alek were practically at opposite ends of the royal table. Athos wondered if anyone else had noticed.

“It’s over for today at least,” said Aramis. “Though Treville has ordered the Fleet to search every church and cathedral offering night services in honour of the Repast, in case there are more planned.”

“Eh, once you’ve saturated the most powerful people in Paris, anything else would be an anti-climax,” said Porthos.

“And no one tried to jump off a balcony, so let’s call that a win,” said Athos, only to receive two very dirty looks from his friends. “Too soon?”

There were six separate services for dessert, each no larger than a medium-sized tablespoon. By the end of it, the air was alight with the scents of vanilla, rose and caramel, none of which did anything to improve the excellent champagne. Athos made sure that the champagne felt duly appreciated while everyone else flirted with tiny tortes and sorbet spheres.

As dessert made way for after-dinner dancing, Athos stayed at the bar. Aramis found several dance partners despite being officially on duty, and Porthos was simultaneously attempting to catch and avoid the attention of Chef Coquenard, which was a warning sign of something Athos did not want to think too closely about.

He found his eyes flitting far too often to the unassuming Mr Linton Gray, who did not dance except when it looked as if Prince Alek was about to approach the Duchess of Buckingham, at which point he offered his hand rather quickly to his boss and whirled her around the dance floor.

“So I’m not the only one with a crush,” Porthos said lightly, passing him.

Athos frowned. “I don’t have a crush. I’m trying to figure him out.”

“That’s what they all say.” Porthos picked up his champagne glass and drank a mouthful.

“There’s something about him that doesn’t fit.”

Porthos smiled at him over the rip of his own glass. “Ask him to dance and maybe you’ll find out.” She pulled a coin out of somewhere and tossed it idly back and forth. “Heads or tails. Heads, you dance with Mr Gray.”

“Tails, you tell Chef Coquenard you fancy the apron off him,” Athos replied sharply.

Porthos scowled, and gave him his drink back. “No bet.”

“That’s my girl.”

Five minutes later, Porthos was dancing with the chef, and gave Athos a challenging look as they swept past him. He ignored it.

“Hey,” said Chevreuse, joining him at the bar.

“I am not going to carry you around the dance floor,” Athos said firmly.

“Wasn’t going to ask. I’ve done my duty, wined and dined the Ambassador and made sure that all the necessary media snaps have been taken. Not that anyone’s going to be looking at cam feeds of polite smiles on the steps of the hotel when there’s footage doing the rounds of the Regent and the Cardinal being rained on in church.” Something like pain crossed her face. “I suspect that there’s a pic of Prince Alek in a wet shirt that’s going to go viral.”

“Congratulations?” Athos ventured. He wasn’t entirely sure what the point was of this particular interaction.

Chevreuse gave him a tired look. “You get to keep me company while I drown my sorrows about the sports-related disaster that I’ve avoided thinking about all day.”

“That’s entirely within my skill set,” Athos agreed. “Champagne or some sort of vaguely festive rum punch?”

Chevreuse leaned across the bar, making eye contact with the bartender. “I would like a mojito the size of my head, thank you very much.”

Athos continued to pay his respects to the excellent champagne. “You’re off the clock? Completely disinterested in anything to do with royal PR?”

“Completely,” Chevreuse said with deep conviction.

“So the fact that the Prince Consort is currently eye-fucking the Duchess of Buckingham across the dance floor doesn’t bother you at all?”

Chevreuse swore and looked discreetly over one shoulder. Athos didn’t have to follow her gaze to know that Prince Alek and Buck were dancing closely with their respective partners, but making steamy eye contact with each other at the same time. They’d been doing it for the last three dances. “I hate everything,” said Chevreuse, banging her head lightly on Athos’ shoulder. The large, icy mojito was placed in front of her, and she stared balefully at it. “I should have ordered one big enough to drown myself in. Do you think anyone’s noticed them?”

Athos should not be finding this amusing. “I noticed, and I have to be the person in the room who cares least about royal gossip.”

“You make a good point.” Chevreuse took a deep swallow from her drink and then pushed it away so she could lay her forehead against the bar. “This job is going to kill me. Time to run away and join the circus instead.”

Athos nodded in sympathy with her, and they drank together in silence for a while.

By the time Chevreuse was halfway down her mojito, Prince Alek and Buck had managed to dance together once, almost setting the nearest hover-chandelier on fire with the vibes between them before they were tactfully separated by other dance partners. They continued to meet each other’s gaze at any opportunity.

“I thought her being here would be good,” Chevreuse moaned, darting occasional looks over her shoulder. “We were friends, years ago. I thought, Buck’s a good sort, it will be fun to have her around. Maybe she can even take over some of my duties while I’m resting up from this bloody leg injury, since Ambassadors can…” and she stopped talking.

Athos wasn’t especially interested in what she was saying, so he wasn’t offended by the strangled pause as Chevreuse ran her words silently through her head, then grabbed for the clamshell in her silver handbag. She called up a series of documents that looked like legislative papers, and read through them in silence.

It was the most peaceful moment Athos had enjoyed all day. He motioned for a refill of his glass, and idly watched Porthos refusing to dance again with Chef Coquenard, who was incapable of taking her stubbornness as any kind of insult. The chef smiled, bowed and kissed her hand.

Someone was playing a long game there, though Athos couldn’t tell which of them it was.

“I am the queen of everything,” Chevreuse hooted, smacking her clamshell closed. She chugged the last of her mojito as if she actually was trying to drown herself. In a happy way. “I am the goddess of loopholes, and they should build a fucking statue in my honour.”

“It’s your modesty I most respect,” Athos said gravely.

“I can’t play in tomorrow’s final, and we can’t use a sub without us losing the ‘unbeatable’ record, right?” Chevreuse said, about to burst out of her skin.

“Possibly I’m not the ideal audience to which you should be making this revelation. I didn’t even care that much about fleur-de-lis before I started drinking tonight.”

“Good point.” She turned away from him, placing a call through her clamshell. “Su!” she shrieked into it as her fleur-de-lis teammate who wasn’t the Prince Consort came up on the screen. “You’re never going to guess how brilliant I am. We can have it all! We use Buck as the substitute. Ambassadorial privilege means she can replace any member of the government in a public appearance as if she was that person. It’s a goddammed loophole and we are going to sail all the way through it to victory, baby!”

Conrad Su was equally excited by this idea, based on the loud exclamations and swearing that came out of the screen. The two of them made plans for the following day, and then Chev closed her clamshell in triumph and ordered a second mojito to celebrate.

“I don’t mean to put a dampener on this,” said Athos. “But do you think it’s a good idea that our esteemed Ambassador spends any more time with his Royal Highness? Where a best case scenario means they will bond further by sharing the passionate afterglow of victory?”

Chevreuse blinked several times, and then groaned. “I hate everything again.”

Athos sipped his champagne. “Tough choice.”

“No, no it’s not,” she said after a long moment. “Damn it. I work twenty hours a day for these bloody royals. Fleur-de-lis is the one thing I have that’s mine and even then I spend half of it worrying about press conferences and cam feeds so the Prince comes out looking like a fucking hero. They owe me this. They owe me this one game, and I’m going to take it.”

“The pain meds are wearing off, aren’t they?”

“Shut up. Yes.”

“Drink faster. It helps.”

Come back tomorrow for Day Four: Misrule.