Porthos's eyes twinkled warmly as they drank. He did not know Constance very much, certainly not well enough to warrant calling her Constance by most people's standards, but he did feel a great deal of affection for her regardless. It was not even just that d'Artagnan was so clearly in love with her, but what Porthos had seen of her - her courage, her temper, her skill with a sword, her capacity to slap Aramis and threaten to continue with him in the same breath - they were all things that had endeared her to him. She wasn't cowed by Musketeers, and she had welcomed them in her home time and again, whenever they had had need of it.

So he was glad if she could find her happiness at last. Bonacieux had never deserved her.

"What are you drinking?" he asked, amused, as he peered at the oddly coloured drink in her hand. He had mostly stuck to wine, ever since coming here; it was too good and too strong to pass up on, the sort of wine one only expected to have at court, here readily available to anyone with a little coin.