Constance used the tips of her fingers, newly kissed, to press against d'Artagnan's mouth as she scoffed. The expression she wore was something between flattered and an awareness that while he was a besotted fool, she was the fool who found that fact charming. The action was in echo of one so long ago, the memory twisting through her as sure as the one of his hand guiding hers on the gun during his lessons.

"Flying isn't mad enough for you?" she asked him on an incredulous note, eyebrows raised high. How she even could be surprised, she considered on reflection, with all she knew of him and the way he threw himself into the world as if every moment might be his last. As if every experience had to be taken at full tilt or not at all.

Her face lifted to follow the path of his finger, and where she knew it was mad, she could not help but want to try it. "If I fall," she swore, letting her words trail off on a threat she only half meant, too fond of scolding him to miss the chance of it when he wore that open expression of anticipation on his face.