[ He feels revulsion at the marks on d'Artagnan's wrist and cannot think why. They all have scars, some thick and ugly, some tiny and easily hidden. But there's something unnatural about the thought of this woman draining his life away because of hunger, or injury. His fingers twitch like he wants nothing more to reach out and touch him, but d'Artagnan is pulling his sleeve down and Athos only lets his grip tighten on his glass as he takes a stronger, more full swallow of his wine. ]

We spoke once. About her affliction. She asked me not to speak of it to you. [ He glances over, careful and assessing. He had no real opinion of her beyond the need to keep an eye on what she and her brethren do. But now? Now he finds Mademoiselle Gilbert something of a threat. ] I thought she was merely concerned about your reaction. But you must have already known, to have let her take from you when she arrived.

[ He glances away, lifts his glass once more. ]