“I see you plenty.” The words have more ice in them than Athos, perhaps, intends. He has always held himself apart from his friends, even in Paris, even in their closest moments. They hate it, he knows that, but there are some things he has trouble finding the words for. Now, though, for all the time they have spent together, the hunts they have gone on, the drinks they have shared, the gulf still stretches wide in a different sort of way.

Softer, he says, “I do not hate you. I could never.” He reaches for more wine.