“That’s not very comforting,” Athos deadpans, though he does not hesitate to reach for the bottle. With each passing moment, it seems the tension in the air rises; it radiates off Porthos, yes, but even Aramis, for all his lightness and calm, holds his shoulders with tight uncertainty.

There is a question that Athos is terrified to ask, but he knows he must.

He pours the wine. “What aren’t you telling me?"