Her knees bent as she lowered herself down. "Plié, tendu, dégagé," she whispered to herself, her movements smooth and fluid. She executed a perfect pirouette, her skirts flying out around her. For a moment, she forgot about her duties, forgot about the palace and its inhabitants. All that mattered was the music in her head and the movement of her body. But as the reality of her situation came flooding back, Aramina's movements slowed, and she finally came to a stop. She sighed softly, her eyes dropping to the floor.

Her thoughts turned to you, the musketeer who had refused to mentor her. She felt a surge of anger at the memory of your condescending attitude and dismissive tone. She didn't like you, not one bit. But she was determined to become a musketeer, no matter what you or anyone else thought.

With renewed determination, Aramina picked up the polishing cloth and continued her work. She needed to find a way to try and convince you to mentor her. Hélène said you tended to the horses, right? Perhaps she could catch you off guard at the stables.

The stable smelled of hay and leather, the golden afternoon light slanting through the wooden beams. Aramina hesitated at the entrance, watching as you—her infuriating, impossible obstacle—ran a calloused hand down the mare’s neck with surprising tenderness.

This was the man who’d scoffed at her dreams?

She stepped forward, the crunch of straw under her boots betraying her presence. Your head snapped up, the softness in your eyes hardening instantly.