"Impossible," Aramis grunts, selecting his old coat. It's far easier to hide his weapons among its voluminous depths, and he's made enough changes to his many belts and supply pouches that they fit nearly as well beneath as they ever did around and above. He hands Athos the silver dagger he's left on their entryway table, and Porthos an extra pair of blessed silver knuckles.

Going to plan his wedding feast, followed by a hunt of something evil with his favorite people in all the world. "Do all men have perfect days like this?" he wonders aloud.