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Authors: Sarah d' Almeida
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sketch. I could draw the boy’s likeness, and copy it, so that each of us would have a quick drawing of him, to be used in asking people if they have seen him.”
“You’re a painter?” Porthos said.
Aramis looked up, a defensive expression in his gaze. “Not a painter,” he said. “I merely do a little sketching. In pen and ink or in coal. A very quick likeness. My mother . . .” He blushed and cleared his throat. “It is a pastime of my mother’s and she taught it to me when I was very young.”
“No doubt,” Athos said, drily with just a hint of humor in his voice indicating that he was joking. “Thinking that like all well-bred young ladies you’d need the art.”
Aramis blushed, the color coming to his face in a tide. He reached for his sword, but never allowed his hand to touch it, making himself drop his arm straight alongside his body, instead. “Do you wish me to do it, or not? Whatever you think of the ability, or even of how I came by it, doubtless it would be useful, would it not?”
“Please,” Porthos said, before Athos could open his mouth. “It would be very useful, yes. In fact, I don’t know how we can do it without your help.”
“Indeed,” D’Artagnan agreed, seemingly catching on.
“It would be very useful to all of us.”
They both glared at Athos, who only nodded and said, “Very useful.”
Bazin was sent to Aramis’s lodgings for paper and the sort of charcoal used for this work. While he was gone, the four friends debated what to do.
“The best we can do, I think,” Aramis said. “Is to ask at any lodgings around here where a noble family might be who has a son who looks like this. How far do you think he walked, Porthos?”
Porthos shrugged. “I got the impression he didn’t walk very long,” he said. “Half an hour at most. He sometimes said he had run the whole way and while . . .” He felt his throat close at the thought of how young the boy was. “He was very young and therefore full of energy, I don’t think he could have run much more than a quarter league, perhaps? ”
“So it would have to be lodgings hereabouts,” Athos said, thoughtfully. He’d placed himself at some distance from the corpse and leaning against a wall, looked at all of them detachedly. “Within the area that we, ourselves, live.”
“His suit is not very good,” Aramis said and, before Porthos could protest that it was fabric of the best quality, he added. “It is good velvet, I’ll grant you, and well cut. But it was not cut for him. It is too big in places and too small in others, and the breeches are much too short.”
“Sometimes,” D’Artagnan said. “Families of minor nobility do buy—”
“Used suits,” Aramis said, levelly. “Indeed, I am not a fool. I know that families do try to save money, particularly when the boy is young and still growing. But mind you, if they are minor nobility, or even”—he waved away an objection none of them had attempted to make—“if they are the highest nobility but he is the youngest of many boys and inherited his brothers’ clothing, then this would be a child who would be sent for errands everywhere. Everyone in this area would have seen him—from wine merchants to laundresses. In the country the youngest son would get charged with minding the livestock or exercising the horses. In the city, he’ll be sent for a bottle of wine for his father and a silk kerchief for his mother.”
“And so you suggest?” Athos asked.
“That we go out,” Aramis said. “I shall take Porthos, and we shall go to the palace. To the people we know there.” He allowed himself a quirk of the eyebrow. “From maids to noblemen, I’m sure if the family has gone to court at all someone will have seen the boy or heard of him. I’ll ask around, also, to theology professors and monks and see if anyone had taken him on to teach him, since his family intended him for the church. And I think you and D’Artagnan could
“You’re a painter?” Porthos said.
Aramis looked up, a defensive expression in his gaze. “Not a painter,” he said. “I merely do a little sketching. In pen and ink or in coal. A very quick likeness. My mother . . .” He blushed and cleared his throat. “It is a pastime of my mother’s and she taught it to me when I was very young.”
“No doubt,” Athos said, drily with just a hint of humor in his voice indicating that he was joking. “Thinking that like all well-bred young ladies you’d need the art.”
Aramis blushed, the color coming to his face in a tide. He reached for his sword, but never allowed his hand to touch it, making himself drop his arm straight alongside his body, instead. “Do you wish me to do it, or not? Whatever you think of the ability, or even of how I came by it, doubtless it would be useful, would it not?”
“Please,” Porthos said, before Athos could open his mouth. “It would be very useful, yes. In fact, I don’t know how we can do it without your help.”
“Indeed,” D’Artagnan agreed, seemingly catching on.
“It would be very useful to all of us.”
They both glared at Athos, who only nodded and said, “Very useful.”
Bazin was sent to Aramis’s lodgings for paper and the sort of charcoal used for this work. While he was gone, the four friends debated what to do.
“The best we can do, I think,” Aramis said. “Is to ask at any lodgings around here where a noble family might be who has a son who looks like this. How far do you think he walked, Porthos?”
Porthos shrugged. “I got the impression he didn’t walk very long,” he said. “Half an hour at most. He sometimes said he had run the whole way and while . . .” He felt his throat close at the thought of how young the boy was. “He was very young and therefore full of energy, I don’t think he could have run much more than a quarter league, perhaps? ”
“So it would have to be lodgings hereabouts,” Athos said, thoughtfully. He’d placed himself at some distance from the corpse and leaning against a wall, looked at all of them detachedly. “Within the area that we, ourselves, live.”
“His suit is not very good,” Aramis said and, before Porthos could protest that it was fabric of the best quality, he added. “It is good velvet, I’ll grant you, and well cut. But it was not cut for him. It is too big in places and too small in others, and the breeches are much too short.”
“Sometimes,” D’Artagnan said. “Families of minor nobility do buy—”
“Used suits,” Aramis said, levelly. “Indeed, I am not a fool. I know that families do try to save money, particularly when the boy is young and still growing. But mind you, if they are minor nobility, or even”—he waved away an objection none of them had attempted to make—“if they are the highest nobility but he is the youngest of many boys and inherited his brothers’ clothing, then this would be a child who would be sent for errands everywhere. Everyone in this area would have seen him—from wine merchants to laundresses. In the country the youngest son would get charged with minding the livestock or exercising the horses. In the city, he’ll be sent for a bottle of wine for his father and a silk kerchief for his mother.”
“And so you suggest?” Athos asked.
“That we go out,” Aramis said. “I shall take Porthos, and we shall go to the palace. To the people we know there.” He allowed himself a quirk of the eyebrow. “From maids to noblemen, I’m sure if the family has gone to court at all someone will have seen the boy or heard of him. I’ll ask around, also, to theology professors and monks and see if anyone had taken him on to teach him, since his family intended him for the church. And I think you and D’Artagnan could
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