"Hoping," she corrected herself, confused as to how one word slipped out in place of another, although it was a must both explained by and distracted away from by the glass in her hand.

Sober, Constance likely would not have mentioned what had happened, the memory of the King ordering her death only to rescind it a minute later being one she wished she were able to forget. Her actions did seem mad if considered objectively. Just the thought of a cloth merchant's wife stealing the crown Prince of France believing she could save him might have seen her locked away on principle.

"Dr. LeMay's cures weren't helping, and he was so sick and so small." She paused on the bubble of sadness the memory of the baby breathing so raggedly, then allowed it to slip away for the lightness of her head and what seemed then a surprising intensity rolling off of Aramis. "I had to help him, if I could. I've seen steam help before."