Chapter Text
September, 1769
If I could do it all again, I would never have chosen this life. Then again, I don't think I ever had a choice.
The ship bobbed over the waves, and spray, almost like mist, was splashing up onto the deck. My feet were wet, and my hair was blowing into my face in dark tangles. Wonderful.
My ship was coming from London, where I had lived with my grandparents after my mother passed me into their care. After their rather unfortunate deaths three months ago, I was made come to America, to meet my only living family: my birth mother.
As death took him slowly and painfully, my grandfather had told me: find Achilles Davenport. He will look after you.
"There's land, captain!" a sailor yelled from the crow's nest, above my head. I looked to where he was pointing, and I saw the outline of the city of Boston shimmering on the foggy horizon. The city that was to be my home.
How funny that though this was my life, I had no say in how I lived it. My grandfather had arranged for a ship to America just before he and my grandmother died, settling the fact that I was to move. Not just move house, but move country.
My best friend, Thomas, stood at my left side. I had grown up with him, friends since the beginning, and his father had managed to get himself a new job in the New World, meaning Thomas and his family would move alongside me, to which I was grateful. The last three months had been difficult, not only dealing with my grief, but also the fact that I was on a ship and I was mortally terrified of the sea. He was my rock, my anchor (if you would pardon the pun), and if I was honest, I didn't know where I might be if it weren't for him.
At the sailor's call, he grinned. But when I didn't smile back, his smile faltered, and he put his arm around my shoulders. "Cass, it's going to be okay. They're your parents. And don't worry; I'll be living near you, so if you get any trouble, you know where to go."
I nodded sadly, my mind elsewhere. "Yes, I suppose. I just miss them, that's all."
"I miss them too," Thomas said. "Ryan and Sophia were good people. You carry that with pride."
The closer we drew to the harbour, the more I felt like I was unravelling like a spool of thread. Gone was my old life living with my grandparents in our large house near Queen Anne's Square. Never again would I walk the streets, nor would I speak with them again; never practice combat with my grandfather, never sew with my grandmother. I felt as though my heart was in my hands, bleeding, dripping onto the deck below, staining my shoes.
The ship lurched to a halt, and I staggered once or twice, placing a hand on the wall to steady myself. The luggage bag between my ankles was a weight, keeping me somewhat upright, and when I bent to pick it up, I noted once again how light it was. I didn't have many possessions: I believed that memories were kept in feelings rather than superficial objects. Following Thomas down the gangplank, I glanced around at the people gathered at the harbour, hoping to recognise someone, though unfortunately the people of this city were far scarier than I had imagined. Savage even, uncivilised - how could I possibly live here?
Thomas nudged me and nodded to a young couple who was eyeing me with interest. The woman tilted her head, a smile growing on her face, and I saw her mouth my name. Oh great. My cheeks burned.
Her face lit up and she rushed over to me. "Oh my goodness, Cassandra? I can't believe this! Oh, look how big you've grown! You're so beautiful!" Her hands were on my shoulders, her blue eyes wide. Suddenly she gripped me in a hug so tight I heard my spine crack.
Still beaming, she pulled back to look at my face once more. She was a lovely woman, with curling blonde hair and bright blue eyes. Her fair skin glowed in the sunlight, and her cheeks dimpled with her smile.
I looked nothing like her. Where her hair was light like spun gold, mine was dark and heavy; my eyes were quite unlike hers in colour, being a sharp green, like foxfire. Her skin was smooth and there was not a mark on her cream-coloured face, while mine was covered with freckles. When she smiled, she showed off straight teeth within a pretty smile; my teeth were slightly crooked and my smile nowhere near as pretty as hers.
"Oh goodness, you don't know who I am, do you? My name is Lydia. I'm your mother. This is Gabriel." She waved back at her husband, who had appeared behind her. "And this is Meredith."
A small girl, maybe four or five years old, peeked out from behind her mother's red skirt. Her blonde hair was pulled back by a blue ribbon, complimenting her blue dress. "Hi, Cassandra," she said shyly.
Gabriel gripped my hand in a warm embrace. "Hello, Cassandra." I looked more like him than I did Lydia. He had dark brown hair that curled slightly, and big brown eyes like Meredith, and he was pale like me.
Lydia smiled warmly. "Well, this is lovely! How old are you now? Ten? Eleven?"
"I'm twelve," I said. I'd always looked a bit younger than I really was. I had a childlike face, and when I was younger Sophia had often told me that I was a pixie. Of course, I didn't believe that anymore, but it was a nice thought: to be part of something darker, more magical, than oneself.
"Twelve? My, my, has it been twelve years?" Lydia beamed.
I glanced at Thomas, who smiled apologetically. Lydia linked her arm with mine, and began to walk slowly through the bustling streets of Boston, stepping around halted carts. A group of children were standing in a huddled cluster around something on the ground; when we passed I could see it was a snake.
Snakes and everything here? Sweet mercy, what had I gotten myself into?
*
The manor was huge. It was made of large grey bricks, with beautiful big windows around it. Brightly coloured flowers, pink and purple and yellow and orange, adorned the window sills and large balcony. A young woman with sparkling eyes and smooth, dark skin greeted my parents at the door, offering to take their jackets and my bag.
"Thank you, Nadia." Gabriel flashed her a grateful smile.
I looked around in wonder at the grand hall. It was brightly lit and smelled of spices and flowers. To my left was a lovely dining room, with six chairs at the dark wooden table. On the right was a living room, with a lit fireplace and a few chairs. Portraits hung on the walls, some of the family, some landscape views. There was one in particular that caught my eye. It was of a beautiful territory with vast forests and mountains. The artist seemed to capture the untamable wild of this area in the picture. Past the living area was a kitchen, where Nadia stood at the stove, stirring something in an iron pot.
"Merry?" Lydia asked the child. "Would you like to show Cassandra her room upstairs?"
Meredith obediently took my hand in her tiny one, and led me up the wooden stairs. She made quite the tour guide. "This one is mother and father's one, this is Nadia's, this is father's office, this is my room, and this is your room." She dragged me to a large room on the left, at the end of the hall. I took a cautious step into the spacious area. It was painted a plain white, with warm brown floorboards. A four-poster bed occupied the right wall. A pair of double doors opened up onto a large balcony, the one I had seen from the front of the house.
Meredith smiled toothily. "Do you like it? Me and mother put all your furniture in it for you, and a man came in and painted your walls white!"
I bent down in front of her. "Thank you, Meredith. It's lovely."
Chapter Text
Three weeks into my new life in Boston, and already I was at a loss. What was I supposed to do here? I had no purpose, I had no friends, I had no life. My entertainment usually came from visits to Thomas or tagging along with Nadia when she went shopping.
I found her one day while she was doing the washing, and I offered to help her. She and I had grown friendly; she was not a slave, as I had discovered, but a free woman working in the house. Gabriel's family was of high societal standing and could afford such luxury. I asked if she was going into Boston today.
"Yes." Nadia nodded. "I just need to get the list from your mother, and then I'll be off."
I took a deep breath. "May I join you?"
Nadia looked at me in surprise. "Come with me? I'm just running errands–" She saw the look on my face and sighed. "Oh. This is about that, isn't it? I'll ask your parents, but I cannot promise anything."
(I had previously told her of what Ryan had said to me, and though she told me nothing with her words, her eyes betrayed her: she knew who Achilles Davenport was.)
I followed her into the dining room, where Gabriel and Lydia sat, taking sips of tea from their fancy china cups. I caught a few of their softly spoken words and gathered that they were talking about Gabriel's job.
"Gabriel, Lydia?" Nadia asked. "I apologise for interrupting."
"No, no," Gabriel said. "It's all right, Nadia. What is it?"
"Is this about the money?" Lydia looked to Gabriel, who handed her a purse. She passed it to Nadia, along with a piece of paper with a list of supplies written in Lydia's hand.
Nadia took them and said, "May Cassandra join me?"
Lydia frowned. "Are you sure?" she asked me. "You'll be gone for a few days at most. Sometimes it takes time for things to be shipped in."
I nodded eagerly. "Yes. I'd love to help Nadia."
Gabriel nodded. "Very well. You may go. But be careful - there's been a lot of tension down there lately."
I followed Nadia out the door and over to the stables. She stopped by the horses and turned to me. "Can you ride?"
"I've ridden before. Is that the same thing?"
"It will do."
We travelled in silence. Beyond the green swelling hills rose mighty slopes of forest up to the lofty steeps of the mountains themselves. Right and left of us they towered, with the afternoon sun falling full upon them and bringing out all the glorious colours of this beautiful range, deep blue and purple in the shadows of the peaks, green and brown where grass and rock mingled, and an endless perspective of jagged rock and pointed crags, until these were themselves lost in the distance, where the snowy peaks rose grandly. Here and there seemed mighty rifts in the mountains, through which, as the sun climbed higher, I saw now and again the white gleam of falling water.
"I've never seen such beautiful trees before," I said. "Back in London, in the city, all the trees were these small, scraggly things - and we never had this much open space."
"I can imagine," Nadia glossed over it and got to her point. "So, Achilles Davenport?" She glanced at me. "You have no idea why?"
I shook my head, feeling some of my dark hair fall loose from its low bun. "No. Grandfather just told me to find him, and that he would look after me."
Nadia sighed. "I know the man. Grouchy old bastard at first, but he'll take good care of you. He used to be–" she lowered her voice– "an Assassin."
"Excuse me?"
Nadia turned to face me fully now, her expression somber. "Tell me, child. Did Ryan attempt to teach you to defend yourself, or fight in any sort of way?"
"Some things, yes."
"And what about weapons? Did he teach you about them?"
"Some." It was all coming together now. The skills, insisting that I learn to fight, throw a knife, fire a gun. It all made sense. When I was younger I just dismissed it as Ryan being a bit over-protective of me, but now I understood. "He taught me to fire a gun and throw a knife. That sort of thing."
"It is not to be taken lightly. He taught you this for a reason. He wanted you to be safe."
"Well, here I am," I said. "I've made it this far, right? How bad could things get here?"
This time, her voice was soft. "Oh, Cassandra. You have no idea."
A few hours later we came to a stop by a crossroads, by which one side led down a steep and rocky cliff, the other into the forest. "There," Nadia said, "that's far enough. You know, nobody's forcing you to do this. If this is not your wish, that is all right. But if it is your wish, follow this path down the cliff. It will lead you to a forest. Pass through it until you get to the bay. The Davenport manor is on the top of the hill."
I smiled at her, though my stomach clenched. "Thank you."
She turned and rode away, and I watched until I couldn't see her any more. Steeling myself, I urged my horse down the narrow cliff walk. The journey went smoothly, and soon I had reached the grey water of the bay, around which curved the mountains.
Quite a ways up the road, I saw a large red-brick house. A gently sloped and spiralling hill led to the door, and another worn-down track led to a stable, where I hitched my horse.
I dug through my skirt pocket, my fingers closing around the crumpled paper as I picked my way up the granite steps that led to the front door. Once I reached the rust-coloured door, taking a deep breath to perhaps steel my nerves, I knocked.
As I waited, I held my breath. What if Achilles wasn't here? What if he refused me? If he wasn't there, how would I get back to Boston? I didn't know my way around these parts yet. Would I stay here alone until Nadia came back?
The door swung open, making my heart leap into my throat. Standing there was naught but an old man, stooped over a cane, and he peered up at me from beneath the rim of his wide hat. "Yes?"
"Um. . ." Great. His first impression of me would be a stammering, pasty English girl. "I. . . I was told to seek this symbol." With a shaky hand, I showed him the paper.
Achilles shook his head. "No."
"Wait!" I placed my hand on the heavy door in an attempt to prevent him from closing it in my face. "My grandfather, Ryan Glade, told me that you would look after me."
"Ryan Glade?" The door opened again, and he narrowed his dark eyes. "Good for you."
I blinked. "He. . . he said he knew you."
"He spoke truth." The man nodded. "I did know him. But that was a lifetime ago."
I nodded in defeat, lowering my gaze to my clasped hands. "Okay, sir. I'm sorry to have bothered you."
He sighed heavily. "Granddaughter of an old friend," he muttered. "Surely, this universe is mocking me." He opened the door wider. "In. Now."
I followed him as he slowly shuffled down the hall and into what appeared to be a living room, which I was sure it would have been if the furniture had not been covered by long drapes of dusty white cloth. He perched on a wooden chair, gesturing for me to do the same.
Once I was seated, he looked me up and down with the scrutiny of a soldier. "What is your name?"
"Cassandra Glade," I said nervously, clenching my hands in my lap.
"Oh. Cassandra." Achilles said. His voice had a slow English drawl, quite different from Nadia's American one. "Ryan was a friend of mine when he came to visit us in the colonies many years ago. How is your grandfather doing?"
"He's dead," I said, fighting the lump in my throat. "The white plague."
His face gave nothing away. "I assure you he will be sorely missed. Are you staying with Lydia and her husband?" When I nodded, he huffed. "Was it Ryan's wish for you to be an Assassin?"
I blinked. "I'm sorry?"
"Child, surely you know why he sent you here?"
"Well, not really, no." I shook my head. "I never even knew until this morning that I was being sent to a former Assassin."
"But do you know what it is that Assassins do? No? Oh, child. So clueless. We fight the Templars. Assassins fight for freedom; Templars fight for order."
"Why not just unite the two?" I said. "Wouldn't you achieve so much more if you worked together? Freedom and order."
Achilles shook his head. "No. The Templars are our enemies, and can never be any less than that. We devote our lives to hunting them down and ending their lives before they cause more chaos."
"So you're heroes."
Achilles's brown eyes widened in alarm. "No, no. Do not mistake us for heroes. By joining the Brotherhood, we give ourselves completely, and utterly, to the Creed, giving up any chance we may have had of living a normal life. We kill people because our tenets command we serve a higher cause. We fight for freedom, but that comes with a heavy price."
Before I could say any more, there was a loud knock at the front door. Achilles muttered something inaudible under his breath and shuffled over to the door, swinging it open with a thud.
I stepped behind him to see who it was: a young Indian boy, maybe thirteen or fourteen. He wore the strangest clothes I'd ever seen, brown and seemingly made of some type of animal pelt, with feathers adorning parts of the sleeves. His almost black eyes were wide and nervous, though he needn't have been, seeing as a stone axe of some sort hung at his side, and a bow was slung over his shoulder. Bone earrings gleamed in the sun. He could easily have overpowered us both, despite his young age, yet he was nervous.
"Um. . . I–I was told you could train me." His voice shook slightly.
"No." With that, Achilles shut the door without a second thought. The boy knocked again. "Go away," Achilles snapped.
"I'm not leaving," the boy shouted back.
"Why did you reject him and not me?" I asked when Achilles angrily limped back to the living room.
"Because I feel that I owe it to Ryan to look after you. I know nothing of that boy, nor do I wish to. But you. . ." His words were kind enough, but his face was still sour, as though he had sucked a lemon. He pointed to the stairs. "If you like, you may take a bedroom that suits your fancy."
Once I had gone upstairs and selected a room, a loud bang sounded outside, followed by the scuffling of footsteps. Achilles limped up the stairs, every second step interrupted by the clack of his cane on the hard wooden floor as he went to the opposite bedroom. Going to the window beside him, I looked down to see the native boy at the back door, who staggered back when Achilles threw the window open.
"Please, all I ask is a moment of your time," he called up to us.
"I apologise if I have been unclear, or otherwise confused you with my words," Achilles said slowly, propping his arms against the window pane. "It was never my intention to mislead, so let me try to clarify: get the hell off my land."
Almost as soon as he slammed the window shut, the balcony door began to shake. "My God, that boy. . ." Achilles growled.
"Just hear me out!" the boy called again, his voice muffled by the door. "What are you so afraid of?"
Achilles yanked the door open and stepped out, which made the boy scramble back in fright. "Afraid? You think I'm afraid of anything, least of all a self-important little scab like you?" He knocked the boy's legs out from under him with his cane, earning a pained groan as the boy fell.
The end of Achilles's cane hovered under the frightened boy's chin. "Oh, you may dream of being a hero, riding to rescues, of saving the world," Achilles said in a voice as soft as death. "But stay this course, and the only thing you're gonna be is dead." Giving the boy a final jab with his cane, Achilles moved away. As he arrived at the open door, he turned to the boy still lying on the ground. "The world's moved on, boy. Best you do too." He brushed past me and slammed the door behind him.
The boy struggled to his feet. "I'm not leaving, do you hear me? I'm never leaving."
*
I'd always loved the rain. It was a lullaby, a gentle song from the sky to the earth, one of sadness and misery, as though the angels were sobbing. This night, however, it was an utter inconvenience. The shouting outside wasn't helping either. I rolled my eyes and stepped out of bed, pushing the curtain aside so I could see the stable, where the action was apparently going down.
Indeed, the Indian boy stood outside the stables, axe in hand. The bodies of multiple men lay on the ground around him. They were all soaked from head to toe, including the boy, and dark blood ran in puddles across the cobbles and soaked into the soil.
A movement to the left caught my eye, but I couldn't make out more than a mere shadow in the darkness.
Meanwhile, as the boy stood in the rain, another man crept behind him and smashed the side of his head with what looked like a club, and the boy collapsed into the bloody mud, now disarmed and likely disoriented.
That figure I had seen was now directly behind the assailant, revealing himself to be Achilles. A knife gleamed in his hand for just a moment before he stabbed the man towering over the boy.
When the man fell, Achilles helped the boy to his feet and turned away, limping back up the winding trail to the manor. I didn't bother to see what the boy was doing in my rush to get downstairs.
"The boy will be here soon. I just asked him to clear the yard," Achilles said, lowering himself into a chair. "If you want to make yourself useful, light the fire."
He didn't make conversation as I knelt down to light the fire. When I had done so, I sat back on my heels. "Why–"
The back door opened, letting in a gust of cold wind that made the fire sputter. The figure of the boy appeared in the darkened doorway.
Achilles gestured for him to sit in the small chair across from him. With no other option in sight, I settled on the floor. The boy walked over to the chair and perched on it. A sickening crack sounded out, and the chair snapped to pieces, sending the boy to the floor again. With horror, he picked himself up again, careful to avoid the splinters surrounding the wreck. "Sorry."
Achilles waved a hand. "Not your fault. This whole place is ready to come down. Goddamn miracle it hasn't already. Anyway, who are you?"
"My name is Ratonhnhaké:ton."
". . . right," Achilles said. "I'm not even going to try and pronounce that. Now, tell my why you're here."
The boy - Ratonhnhaké:ton - reached into his pocket and showed Achilles a piece of paper similar to my one. It bore that strange triangular symbol on it. "I was told to seek this symbol."
Achilles took the paper, glancing at Ratonhnhaké:ton. "Do you even know what that symbol represents? Or what it is you're asking for?"
"No."
"And yet here you are." Achilles raised his eyebrows.
Ratonhnhaké:ton gestured to Achilles as he spoke. "The spirits said that - that I–"
"These spirits of yours have been harassing the Assassins for centuries." Achilles cut him off, holding up a hand. "Ever since Ezio uncorked the bottle. . . Ah, but you don't even know what an Assassin is, do you? Well, best settle in then. I've got a story to tell, and it's going to take a while to get it all out."
Ratonhnhaké:ton dragged over a new chair and perched delicately on it, as though fearful of it breaking, but both of us listened with intent as Achilles spoke of Bayek, the forefather of the Assassins and devisor of the Creed, leader of the Egyptian Brotherhood; of Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad, the Master Assassin of Masyaf during the Third Crusade; of Ezio Auditore, the young Italian Assassin whose goal was plagued by a desire for vengeance, and yet he managed to bring the ranks of the Assassins higher than ever before.
When he finished, Achilles sighed. "Come. There's something I want to show you."
Ratonhnhaké:ton and I both stood, glancing at each other. He was taller than me, and the glow of the fire highlighted the side of his face.
"Careful. It wasn't a joke when I said this place was coming apart," Achilles warned as we walked into the hall.
"Why don't you repair it?" Ratonhnhaké:ton said.
Achilles sighed. "What's the point? Besides, I don't have materials for the job."
"So buy them."
A cruel laugh came from Achilles. "Look at me. You think I can just march into a store, purse full of pounds, and go shopping?"
"Yes," insisted Ratonhnhaké:ton, and when neither Achilles nor I said anything back, he frowned. "Why not?"
Achilles sighed again. "So naïve. . ." The elderly man reached up and held one of the candle sticks in the hall, pulling it down. With a mechanical creaking sound, a door opened up beneath the stairs. Achilles limped down slowly, and we followed at his pace. He led us into what appeared to be a combat training room with a dummy in the centre and weapons along the walls.
I remembered Ryan making me practice fighting techniques on a dummy. At first, I could barely hit it properly, but I improved. And he had me throwing knives at targets, again and again and again until eventually I scored a bullseye. Unfortunately, I never scored a bullseye since. Perhaps it was luck that time.
This dummy, however, wore clothes. Robes, of a sort; beige, trimmed with royal blue. They looked worn down and slightly dirty, as though the previous owner had worn them many times, almost lovingly, and never quite managed to wash all of the dirt out. Ratonhnhaké:ton reached towards these very robes and ran a finger along the sleeve. He then noticed a box on the floor, and bent to examine it.
Achilles jabbed him with the cane again. "Don't think you can just come in here, throw those robes on, and call yourself an Assassin."
Ratonhnhaké:ton straightened. "I did not—I would never presume–"
Achilles held up a hand. "It's all right. I know they have a certain allure." He sighed again - he seemed to sigh a lot - and shuffled behind us. "Very well. I'll train you. Then we'll know if you have the right to wear those robes."
"Thank you. . . um. . ." Ratonhnhaké:ton trailed off, unsure of what to call Achilles.
"The name's Achilles," he said. Taking a last look at us, he led us further into the basement to the furthest wall, which was boarded up with chipped planks. He gestured at us. "Come on, then. We've work to do."
He lightly tapped the boards with his cane, making an up gesture. Ratonhnhaké:ton obediently lifted the boards, revealing five portraits of different men. Ratonhnhaké:ton glared at one in particular, labelled Lee.
He looked at Achilles. "What do the Templars want?"
"What they've always wanted: control. They see an opportunity in the colonies; a chance for new beginnings unfettered by the chaos of the past. This is why they back the British. Here they have a chance to illustrate the merits of their beliefs: a people in service to the principles of order and structure."
Ratonhnhaké:ton still glared up at the pictures. "I have seen what is to come if they succeed. They have to die, don't they? All of them. Even my father."
Achilles's face was deadly serious as he answered, "Especially your father. He's the one holding the whole thing together."
Looking at the paintings, the Grandmaster's face now seemed familiar. From the corner of my eye, I looked at Ratonhnhaké:ton again, then back to the grey eyes of Haytham Kenway.
Ratonhnhaké:ton had better not screw us over.
Chapter Text
Morning was rather punctual in its arrival, though why, I did not know. Unfortunate, really. I could have done with the sleep.
Achilles, however, had other plans, for he was at the door bright and early, telling me to get dressed in the spare clothes he apparently kept in the wardrobe. Of course, when I looked, there were only the clothes of a young boy.
I wasn't the tallest girl, rather on the small side - and sure enough the clothes fitted. I'd never dressed in male clothes before; were breeches always this comfortable? I would have to invest in a pair of my own, I decided as I made my way, rather meekly, downstairs and through the dining room to the kitchen. Ratonhnhaké:ton leaned against the doorway and he glanced over when I passed; I purposely walked close enough to him that my shoulder brushed against him.
Why? one might ask. I will make it simple: he was cute.
"Get yourselves something to eat," Achilles said by way of greeting. "When you are both ready, meet me out at the stables."
As he limped to his study or his room or wherever it was that he mooched off to, I sat at the table and Sophia entered my memory - her soft voice, and the many lessons on the etiquette and manners a lady was expected to display.
Ratonhnhaké:ton struck me as a shy one; it came as a surprise to me when he sat next to me, lacing his fingers together. I'd seen his kind before - Indians had visited London before, the four kings had their portraits painted for all to see, with their dark hair and tanned skin and bright eyes.
Silence stretched between us, and neither of us looked the other in the eye. When it became apparent that he would not be the one to start the conversation, I said, "What do you think he will have us do?"
He shrugged. A great conversationalist, certainly.
I tried a different tactic. "How old are you?"
There was a pause before he said, "Thirteen summers. You?"
"Twelve." At least he was willing to speak. I was positive that I would curl up and die in a corner if he wasn't. I gestured to the table. "Might I interest you in–" I picked up one of the fruits– "a rather shrivelled apple? It may not be the prettiest of the bunch, but I'm sure it's got a great personality."
That cracked a smile from him, and his entire face lit up. Taking it gingerly from my hand, he asked, "Why are you here, training to become an Assassin?"
I took a bite of my own sad-looking-but-great-personality apple. "Well, it wasn't really my choice. I was told to come here, so I did. Besides, my grandfather was one, so I see it as more of carrying on the family legacy. Why are you here?"
"We are not so different, you and I," he said. "I did not get much of a choice in the deciding of my fate, either. I was told to come here, so I did."
He wasn't much of a talker either. I could already tell that Thomas would have a hard time getting along with him - Thomas was a fast-talker and generally had little patience for the quieter folk like Ratonhnhaké:ton.
Once we both had eaten, I suggested we meet the old man outside, to which he did not complain. A worn dirt path, overlooking the cliffs and the bay, led from the back door to the extensive stables where Achilles was now standing, feeding a handful of grass to a grey horse. There were two stable buildings in total, and they were connected in a perpendicular L shape. The courtyard before them had been cleared of any obstacles and carts, likely for whatever purpose Achilles had planned for us this lovely day.
And what a lovely plan he had for us that day. After an hour of verbal lecture and explanation, he had us spar one another in the blazing heat, using sticks as makeshift swords, and let me tell you something, I had never been more grateful for all the training Ryan had put me through while he still lived, God rest his soul, because with it I actually stood a chance against Ratonhnhaké:ton.
Even Achilles was impressed and teased: "You fight well for a girl."
"Considering I was taught by an old man, I shall take that as the highest of compliments." I rolled my shoulders, wincing slightly as one popped. "Are we keeping scores?"
"No." He raised his cane to examine the smooth handle. "Again."
Ratonhnhaké:ton and I faced one another, poised to strike, like a pair of cobras. We circled slowly, eyeing the other, waiting for the other to make the first move. The heat had us both panting and sweaty - what a great first impression I must be making upon him.
Getting tired of waiting for him to move, I made to strike down on his shoulder, but as swiftly as I had moved he blocked me and drove an elbow into my ribs, which made me stagger back.
He swiped at my stomach with his "blade", and I leaped back just in time, blocking the blow with my own weapon. I struck back with all of my strength, and he only just managed to block it again. Using the momentum, I kicked at his legs, which made him stumble, and I took advantage of that surprise to swing at him again.
He whirled away from me and I spun to face him, though I grew disoriented at the sudden movement. He seized the opportunity to catch me off guard by darting behind me to stab my back–
I brought my elbow back like I would strike his nose and whirled to face him, each with our "blades" against the other's throats. We stood like so, frozen and tense, breathing heavily, for a few moments, until Achilles said, "Good job. Get a drink, then give me some push ups."
The following days unfolded like so, with Achilles instructing us on what to do, occasionally stepping in to show us something, and each day passed in the blink of an eye. One of such days, after the intense training regime, I found myself sitting, cross-legged, on the large rock at the edge of the cliff overlooking the valley. The cool breeze was a relief against my burning skin.
After a few minutes, Ratonhnhaké:ton joined me, and we sat in a peaceful sort of silence, enjoying the simplicities like the clouds and the trees and each other's presence and company.
When I looked at him, he instantly looked back, so I smiled at him. "Tell me a little bit about yourself. If you're to be my fellow student, I figure we'd better get to know each other. Don't give me that look, I'll go first.
"My name is Cassandra Sophia Glade. I am twelve years old, and I'm from London in England. My parents gave me up as a child, so I was raised by my grandparents. When they died a few months ago, I came here to live with my parents. I also love raisin cookies and tea, though not together, because only heathens do that."
Ratonhnhaké:ton's dark eyes softened. "I am sorry for your loss."
"Me too."
"I suppose I am under obligation to divulge." He stretched his arms lazily. "My name is Ratonhnhaké:ton. I am thirteen years old. My village is in the Mohawk Valley. My father is Haytham Kenway, as we both know, and my mother died when I was four, at the hands of the Templars, hence why I am here now: to avenge her."
I blinked. "That turned very dark very quickly. I'm so sorry for your loss."
"As am I."
"Do you like raisin cookies?"
He cocked his head slightly. "I cannot say I have ever had them."
"I'll introduce you to them if you do something for me."
"What might that be?"
It was not a request so much as another question. "How does one not fluent in your language pronounce your name? I'm sure you would prefer for me to call you by your name and not by Ratahoogadoon."
He smiled with that cute half-smile of his. "If you would like, I can teach you."
"Please, for both of our sakes."
He pointed to the manor. "Can you climb?"
I leaned backwards a little. "No. My grandfather suffered with arthritis."
"Then I shall teach you that, too. Climbing, not arthritis."
And so life went on: every day, consistent, after our lessons and training, he would take me outside and try to teach me to climb trees.
"Watch where you put your feet," he was saying from above my head. "Avoid branches that do not look capable of holding your weight. See this one? You are going to want to avoid that, as it will snap." To prove this, he tested it with his foot to show how it bent beneath him.
Taking a deep breath, I stepped up and into the tree, following the same route he had taken - and I was grateful that he had taken the easiest path up.
Ratonhnhaké:ton's feet were not far from my head now. Using whatever muscles I had, I pushed myself up and stood, gripping the tree for support. Ratonhnhaké:ton crouched casually on the branch above me, leaning one arm against the trunk to keep his balance.
"Good job," he said
"So, going up was easy enough." I peered down, tightening my grip on the tree. "But going down shall be a problem."
"That is understandable." The leaves above me rustled as he made his way back down. "Just follow me."
He scurried down the tree like he was a little squirrel. His moccasins sent up a puff of light dust as he landed safely on the ground, looking expectantly up at me, and gave me a thumbs up.
Biting my lip, I tried to place my feet where he had placed his. All seemed to be going well until I came to the final few feet before I hit the ground, for though he had succeeded quite easily, I was smaller than him.
"Darling, I do appear to be in a conundrum," I said. "I might be too small."
"Keep trying," he said.
"No you don't understand, if I try to reach down, I'll fall."
"Let go then." When I glanced down, I saw him move to stand below me. "I will catch you," he said.
I grinned. "I don't trust you not to drop me."
He considered this for a moment. "A wise decision," he said, "however, you have little choice."
I sighed slowly. "Fine. If you drop me I'll call you Rootinhootindootin for the rest of your days."
"I really must get teaching you," he muttered. "Go to your happy place, Cassandra. Let go."
I remembered Ryan taking me to the lake just outside London. Ryan, Sophia and I used to sit on the stones, watching the lake water lap at the shore. I couldn't swim, so I would just plod along in the shallows, trailing the ends of my skirts in the water. I remembered Ryan's mighty laugh, and how, with each word he uttered, his blue eyes sparkled with amusement.
With that in mind, I let go and fell into his arms. The impact knocked all the air from me, and he stumbled slightly, but he regained his composure, likely thinking of my threat to butcher the pronunciation of his name - well, more than I already did on a daily basis.
When I got my breath back, I said, "Thank you. I suppose I shall have to take back my threat."
"Please." He placed me on my feet, keeping one arm against my back until I got my balance.
Every time I closed my eyes I could see my grandparents. When one says grandparents one would expect an elderly couple, but Ryan and Sophia were younger. Their faces were lined, yes, but only with the lines of laughter and worry - though signs of age had crept in at the corners of their kind eyes and the edges of their loving mouths. My family - gone just like that.
I thought of Ratonhnhaké:ton. He lost his mother, his only family, when he was four. Four.
How he managed to come back from that kind of loss was beyond me. Had he even come back yet, or was he still climbing? I knew nothing with certainty but this: I would be there to help him climb back out.
Chapter Text
When Ratonhnhaké:ton decided that it was time I learned to climb buildings, he dragged me outside, after another day of lessons, and began to teach me the basics. Already he had climbed to the upstairs windows, and he twisted around to look at me expectantly.
"Just follow what I did," he said. "You will get it in no time, I am sure. It is just about balance and speed."
"I don't do speed," I muttered, but he, being possessed of unusually acute hearing, caught my comment and said, "Hush. I do not condone complaining in my class."
"I'm not complaining, I'm just being self-depreciative. There's a difference." I wiped my hands on my breeches, taking a few breaths to muster up the courage to make the first leap.
He rolled his eyes. "Do not be silly. You can do anything if you put your mind to it. Look, I will even move aside for you."
I hauled myself up the first window, gripping the wall so hard that the rough bricks scored red marks on my palms. However, never one to let mere pain deter me, I pulled myself further, my muscles beginning to tremble, as I reached up to grab the space immediately next to Ratonhnhaké:ton, who gently took my wrist and pulled me up.
"Well done so far," he said.
Once I had a secure grip on the stone, Ratonhnhaké:ton climbed up again, onto the slate grey roof, and once more poked his head over the edge to stare at me disapprovingly in the hope that that might spur me on.
It only made me flip him off.
I reached up again, my arms feeling like they would become dismembered from my body. Bracing my feet against the wall, my other hand moved in quick skips along the bricks, tightly gripping the stone so I could pull myself up, breathing heavily.
I hauled myself to my feet and staggered slightly. Ratonhnhaké:ton must have seen my clumsiness, for he wrapped a hand around my upper arm. "Try not to fall. I do not want Achilles yelling at me to clean you off the pavement."
I stuck out my tongue. "And here I was, thinking you'd miss me."
"That is debatable," he said.
The next few days were spent much like so, and I slowly progressed from being a terrible climber to a mediocre one. When my last day at the manor arrived, however, I decided I would try extra hard in all of my chores, lessons, climbing - perhaps it was just my disappointment that Nadia would be here soon to bring me home.
When all of our work for the day was completed, I stood by the back door, leaning against the red brick wall, and from here I could see the cove and the tumbling forests stretching further than I could see, far off into the mountains.
I felt a tap at my shoulder and already knew who it was. "Good evening."
"Good evening," Ratonhnhaké:ton said. "Care to practice climbing one last time?"
"You say it like you're not expecting to do it again."
"I know the odds."
"Damn the odds," I said. "I will come back. I can't just stop now."
"Come on, then." He grinned with that half-smile of his that screamed mischief, and as he brushed past me I wondered if he might ever show that streak of mischief, which he had never seemed to display from behind his cool and quiet mask.
This time he didn't even wait for me to catch up to him before climbing all the way to the roof, and he looked down expectantly, like a squirrel peeking out of a tree.
Once again, I gripped the wall, but this time I was used to the flow of movements, and ascended a lot faster. I didn't even need Ratonhnhaké:ton's hand in order to stand, though he still offered.
When he sat down and crossed his legs beneath him, I joined him. The roof was steeply slanted, but closer to the top was slightly flatter, so that is where we chose to sit and bask in the late afternoon sun.
"I believe you wanted to learn my name." He looked at me, eyebrows raised along with his suggestion.
I gestured to him. "Lead the way, Ratahagadoon."
"That was better," he said, "though you still need work."
"That's why I have you, isn't it?"
I am unsure how much time passed when we were on that roof. Once I got his name right (Radoonhagaydoon - I need to write that down) we elected to simply chat, and through this, I learned a little more about my strange and elusive new friend.
"Ratonhnhaké:ton," I said just to get the feeling of the word on my tongue.
"Cassandra," he said, mimicking the way I had slowly pronounced his name.
"You know," I said, "most of my friends call me Cassie or Cass. You don't just have to stick with Cassandra. Normally, whenever I'm called Cassandra I'm usually in trouble or something. Not that I'm in trouble often," I said hurriedly, "I like to think I'm a good-ish girl."
Ratonhnhaké:ton looked confused. "I do not understand. Why did your mother not give you a shorter name if you are only called by a short one?"
I shrugged. "I don't know. It's just normal for a person's name to be shortened, I suppose. Perhaps it gives a sense of familiarity, perhaps it is just to save breath. I have no clue what your shortened name would be, however . . . maybe Rat-Man."
"Why were you named Cassandra, then?"
"Good question. Tell you what: you should meet my mother some day and ask her then."
Through the trees, I saw a familiar rider coming up the path. Nadia didn't seem to notice us on the roof as she tied the reins to a fence and strode up the stone steps to knock on the door.
I groaned. "No. . ."
"What is it?" Ratonhnhaké:ton mercifully did not try to sit up to see what was going on, as he was lying on his back in the sun, and so elected to trust my judgement.
Just as I opened my mouth, I heard Achilles say, "What?"
"I'm here for Cassandra," Nadia said. "I need to take her home."
The old man huffed loudly enough for me and Ratonhnhaké:ton to hear - he knew we were on the roof and deliberately said, "She's a good student, if only she didn't disappear so often . . ."
"Yeah, yeah, you wish." I slid down to the edge of the roof and let my legs hang.
Nadia shot me a confused smile. "How did you get up there?"
"I had a good teacher." I climbed down with Ratonhnhaké:ton not far behind. Once on solid ground, I turned and hugged him - obviously he was not used to such displays of affection, as he went entirely rigid, as though his spine had lost all ability to bend. I held that awkward one-way hug for a moment before stepping back; I would have to teach him to improve his technique, as I would rate that hug a solid two out of ten, and those two points were given only because he smelled nice.
"You must leave so soon?" he said sadly.
"I'm sorry, but I must go back," I said. "I'll be back soon. Don't cry too hard when I leave, it makes the eyes puffy."
He raised one eyebrow in challenge. "Watch me."
It was getting dark by the time Nadia and I arrived back at the house, and the flowers outside the windows were closing their petals for the night. Once we brought our respective horses to the stable, we went inside and immediately a high-pitched voice cried, "Cassie!"
Mere moments later, a flour-spotted Meredith careened out of the kitchen, slipping precariously on the floor, and she tackled me with a hug that would have sent a lesser person to their knees. "I missed you!" she cried. "Don't leave me like that again."
"No promises, darling, but I missed you too." I ruffled her hair, which made her smile up at me, showing off her milk teeth.
As I slipped my shoes off, Lydia walked out of the kitchen, dusting flour from her apron. "Cass, darling," she said with a smile. "It's great to see you again."
I smiled back, about to say You too, Lydia, but the hope etched into her face made me pause. "Thank you mother," I found myself saying. "It's good to see you too." When she hugged me, I did not hesitate to hug back. Ratonhnhaké:ton's words about his mother's death rang in my ears.
"So–" she took my hand and brought me into the dining room– "how was your trip to Boston?"
"It went well," I said carefully, "though I am left quite tired. I met some lovely people, and I even learnt a thing or two. However, after my long week, would you excuse me whilst I go upstairs and rest?"
*
March, 1770
Winter came with the flurries of snow - something I had only rarely seen in London. I had known that snow was cold, but when I went outside on Christmas morning I had not expected the rush of shock as my hands went red with the cold. Thomas had come over that day for the exchange of gifts and he took great pleasure in stuffing a handful of snow down the back of my neck. According to his tales, my shriek was high enough to communicate with dolphins.
In apology, we had exchanged gifts: he gave me a green dress and I gave him a pair of shoes. We each wore our respective new clothes all day, vowing not to ruin them with the snow, so that was the end of that adventure.
I'd sent something to Ratonhnhaké:ton as well, though I was very careful to mail it when neither Lydia nor Gabriel were watching. It was only a small thing, anyway.
It occured to me that he did not celebrate Christmas, nor did he even know what it was, and he would likely be very confused when he opened the box. Perhaps I should have sent a letter as well, but I was unsure how well he could read, as Achilles was still teaching him.
One particular day, I was walking through the busy streets of Boston with Thomas, laughing at street jesters and giving money where we could, and I voiced this thought to him. He said, "Literate or illiterate, he would have recognised that it was a gift and been like, Oh sweet, a pretty girl gave me a thing. What did you send him, anyway?"
"Like I'm going to tell you," I scoffed, "because then you will want one too, and your birthday's not until November."
Further up the snowy street, a dark carriage pulled up and a familiar figure hopped out, gazing in wonder at the city - this was likely his first time venturing into the city. Achilles climbed out after him, a little slower due to his leg. I had asked him once what happened to him and he only told me that an old student of his had betrayed him. He did not elaborate further.
"Don't stare." Achilles prodded Ratonhnhaké:ton, who was staring about in wonder.
"Sorry." Ratonhnhaké:ton shifted on his feet.
Thomas nudged me. "They're your friends, aren't they?" When I nodded, he said, "Shall we go say hi?"
"Please." I grinned, and he followed me over. "I didn't expect to see you two here," I said to them once I was close enough.
Ratonhnhaké:ton's dark head snapped up, and his eyes met mine. "Hello, Cassandra."
I stepped away from Thomas to hug Ratonhnhaké:ton, though I saw no improvement in his technique in that he remained stiff as a board. I would have to up my game if I were to get him accustomed to physical contact. "Thomas, Ratonhnhaké:ton. Ratonhnhaké:ton, Thomas."
Thomas put on a smile and held out his hand. "A pleasure to meet you, Rat. . . um. . . Raton. . . ?"
Ratonhnhaké:ton looked at Thomas's hand in confusion. "Uh. . . is your hand cold?"
"You shake it." I suppressed a sigh and demonstrated with Thomas. "Like so."
"Oh." He made no move to copy me, and Thomas let his hand fall in defeat.
"He's still learning his social cues," I said to Thomas. "This is Achilles."
Achilles, mercifully, shook his hand. "Thomas, a pleasure."
"The pleasure is all mine, sir," Thomas said with a grin, then looked back to Ratonhnhaké:ton. "Forgive me, but what is your name again?"
I thanked the Lord that Ratonhnhaké:ton was not impatient, for one might have gotten pissed off when asked multiple times by different people to repeat their name, but he, being patient, said slowly, "Ratonhnhaké:ton." When his lips curled slightly at the corners as Thomas butchered it yet again, I giggled.
Finally, Thomas gave up. "Much as I would love to continue this lesson, I am expected home for duties."
"We shall be on our way too," Achilles said. "The boy has some errands to run." He looked at the aforementioned boy and said, "Come on."
Thomas nudged me. "Here, your mother doesn't need you home just yet. I'll head on home, you stay with Achilles and. . . yeah."
"Are you sure?" I said. "The walk back might get lonely."
"I've got myself," he said, "I'm good company. It was good to meet you both." This time, he did not shake their hands, rather he kissed my knuckles as he always did, and departed, whistling a merry tune as he went.
"I suppose we are stuck with you," Achilles said. "No matter. The boy could use company on his errands."
As we walked after Achilles, rather slowly for his pace determined our speed, Ratonhnhaké:ton gaped at everything we passed. "This place is incredible! The people, the sounds and smells. . . I could walk these streets for days and know not even half its wonders."
"I thought the same as you, once upon a time," Achilles said. "These days, I much prefer the quiet of the countryside."
"But there is so much life here!" Ratonhnhaké:ton protested. "So many opportunities."
"For a few, my boy. For a few," Achilles said.
Much as I hated to admit it, he had a point. It would seem that, unless one was a middle-to-upper-class white man, one could not secure a stable lodging nor gain a dreg of respect. Most of the people who clogged the streets today were of the gutter, near-penniless, starved of possession. I, on the other hand, was born to relative wealth, as my grandfather had been a merchant, and Gabriel was currently an accountant for one of the many small bankers of Boston. Because of this privilege, I would never know what it was to feel as these people felt, to starve as they starved, to live in misery as they did, which was why I tried to help in any way I could.
A light snow had begun to fall by the time Achilles slowed to a halt outside a shop and turned to us. "There is a store close to here," he said. "You are to buy the items on this list." He handed a piece of paper to Ratonhnhaké:ton. "Tell them where the carriage is, and they'll see that it's loaded. Understood?"
"Yes." Ratonhnhaké:ton was prepared to leave already, but Achilles handed him a small purse of money. Truly, this was Ratonhnhaké:ton's first shopping trip.
"Good," Achilles huffed. "You're also going to need a new name." Ratonhnhaké:ton and I must have looked rather confused, for Achilles said, "Your skin is fair enough that you might pass for one with Spanish or Italian blood. Better to be thought a Spaniard than a native, and both are better still than I."
"That is not true," Ratonhnhaké:ton protested, but we both knew that it was.
Achilles looked at him from beneath the brim of his tan-coloured hat. "What's true and what is aren't always the same."
"And what would you call me, then?"
Achilles thought for a moment. "Connor. Yes, that will be your name."
Chapter Text
There was no end to Rato–Connor's curiosity that evening, and as the sun made its descent into the mountains and the sky turned from a dull grey to a clouded periwinkle, his dark eyes never ceased to sparkle in the pale light of the snow. Almost every person we passed gave him a strange look as he walked by, agape with wonder.
"Hey." I poked his cheek. "I would not recommend making that particular face in the future. People might think you a halfwit."
"Sorry." He shrugged. "I just find everything here so. . ."
I knew what he meant. "Yes," I said, "I do, too."
The snow was falling heavier now as twilight began to close in, and I was ever grateful for the thick linen of my skirts. Achilles had not yet managed to accustom Rat–Connor! to the appropriate attire of those of the colonies, as he still wore the hide clothing of his people. It must have been of sturdy stuff, for I did not see him shiver even once. I did, however, see that he wore the bracelet I had sent him. I had scarcely seen him since Christmas, as I had spent the holidays with my family, and then the snow had been so bad that I could not leave the house to get to Achilles's manor.
"You're wearing the bracelet!" I said, taking him by the wrist so I could further examine this revelation. It was only a simple leather thing that I had picked up from the market just before the snows hit.
"Excellent observation," he said. "Thank you for it. Though, I must ask, pray tell why I received it?"
"I really need to teach you about Christmas." I rolled my eyes, though there was no mal-intent behind the action.
A town crier was standing on the corner of the street as we passed, and a crowd had gathered around him to listen to him spitting out, "I grow tired of this. It seems that each day a new tax is levied, a new rule enforced, all without our consent. The Revenue Act. The Indemnity Act. The Commissioners of Customs Act. Oh, Chancellor Townshend must have thought himself so clever when he papered these thefts and made them law. But the Constitution says we have a right to refuse! That there will be no taxation without representation. Tell me - who represented us in parliament? Spoke on our behalf? Signed in our stead? Give me a name! Only, you can't! And do you know why? You can't tell me who represented us because nobody did."
When we at last came to a halt outside a corner shop named, very simply, General Store, I said, "I do hope that this is the shop that Achilles referred us to."
"If it is not, the old man will just have to deal with it," he said. "Would you care to join me indoors?"
I gestured to the door. "Ladies first."
He blinked. "Precisely."
I grinned. "You don't get it. I just called you a lady."
"Oh." He shrugged. "You first."
"Age before beauty," I said.
"Still you first."
"No pain, no gain," I countered back.
Now he was genuinely confused. "What pain?"
I punched his arm hard enough to make him stumble back in shock, and I laughed. "Come along, darling. In we go."
He made a particularly obscene gesture to me as he pulled the door open, and a blast of warm air hit us as we stepped inside. A fire blazed in the hearth at the opposite wall, colouring the wood plank walls and the stock that lined the shelves an aeneous orange colour.
"You lost?" a gruff voice asked from behind us. We both turned so see a rather large man at the desk. His navy jacket, though of a fine make, was stained along the sleeves and down the front, and he scratched at his dark beard, eyeing us thoughtfully.
Connor stepped up to the desk and lay Achilles's list flat on the worn-down wood. "I need the items on this list."
The man slid the list towards himself and squinted at it - in need of eyeglasses, perhaps. "Will you be paying with coin or trade?"
Connor placed the pouch of money on the counter between them. A greedy smile slowly crawled across the man's face as he weighed the bag in his hand. "Some of these things I have, some I don't," he said. "Lumber's hard to come by since my supplier up and vanished. I have the tools and pitch, though. Nails, too. Where do you want this delivered?"
"Our wagon is near the state house," Connor said, gathering the change into his hand. "Dark colour, dark horse. It cannot be missed."
As we headed for the door, I turned back and said, "Thank you. God bless."
The town crier was still on that corner on our way back to Achilles, and I pulled on Connor's arm to slow down so I could listen. A larger crowd had gathered around him, and they were shaking their fists to the sky and snarling along with him.
"Who stands in parliament for Boston?" the man was shouting now. "For New York? For Virginia? No one! But Old Sarum is represented. And Newport and Newtown. Seaford and Saltash! The list goes on. Rotten boroughs one and all. What is become of the rights of Englishmen? Are we not entitled to have a say in our governance? Who are they to silence our voices? To insist we be represented by strangers? Have you forgotten the Stamp Act and how we responded? We spoke up! We resisted! So they stood down! We were heard and it was repealed! But now. . . now too many are silent - or worse: they excuse it! The taxes are not so high, they say. The money is put to good use, they say. Fie, I say! Fie, we should all say. Though the taxes may be small, they were enacted and enforced without our consent. As to their use? They pay governors and judges! And if it's Britain pays them, it's Britain whom they are beholden, not us. Do none see the danger here?"
The familiar hunched figure that was Achilles stood in the town square, watching, expressionless, as hordes of angry colonists raged about, throwing shards of ice and snow at a group of eight Redcoats they had cornered outside the Town Hall. As I would learn later, the riots started out initially due to a wigmaker's unreasonable prices.
"What happened?" Connor asked, having to speak louder than his usual soft purr to be heard above the enraged sneers of the colonists and the desperate shouts of the redcoats as they were struck again and again by rocks and ice.
"That is what we're going to find out." Achilles started to hobble into the crowd. "Follow me."
He led us past large groups of both men and women shouting at the British soldiers; the colonists were armed with jagged-edged bats, great chunks of ice, rocks - anything they could get their hands on that would cause harm to the soldiers. They poked their heads out of windows and hung around corners, hurling abuse (and at times, the contents of their chamberpots) at the men in red.
"I say again: disperse!" the redcoat commander, whom I recognised to be Thomas Preston, was shouting desperately at the people from where he stood, trapped with his soldiers, outside the doors of the Hall. "Congregating in this manner is forbidden."
However, the people didn't listen. Men and women alike shouted at the soldier from within the crowd:
"We're not going anywhere, bug!"
"Oi! Why don't you go back to England?"
Preston didn't back down. "No good can come of this chaos. Return to your homes, and all will be forgiven."
"Never!"
"Not until you've answered for your crimes."
"You're right cowards, pointing your guns at unarmed folk."
The people began to push against the restraining redcoats, battling against their strength, and the assaults against the trapped eight became a frenzy.
"You don't scare us!" someone else yelled from within the crowd. "We ain't afraid!"
Achilles gently nudged Connor, pointing at a man with his cane, and murmured, "There."
I followed his gaze to a man dressed in navy clothes, whose tall and strong stature was befitting of an army general, and whose predatory stillness made him seem all the more dark and deadly, like. . .
"Is that my father?" Connor breathed.
"Yes–" Achilles's voice was as low and dangerous as death itself– "which means trouble is sure to follow. I need you to tail his accomplice." He gestured with his cane at the man that Haytham Kenway was speaking to; Charles Lee hovered just behind Kenway like a loyal guard. Their lips seemed hardly to be moving at all, so conspiratorial was the topic of their conversation. "This crowd is a powder keg - we can't allow him to light the fuse."
Connor blanched. "But–"
"But nothing," Achilles hissed.
The Templar men seemed to have finished their conspiring, for they abruptly turned from one another and started to walk in opposite directions, slowly so as not to distract from the screaming and riots.
Connor nodded, and took off after them; he weaved easily through the crowd, every bit as cool and composed as one who had grown up in the streets of Boston, and disappeared down an alley, on the tail of Kenway's accomplice.
I turned to Achilles. "What shall I do?"
"You can fire a gun, correct?" He began to rummage in his pocket.
"Yes." I nodded.
"Well, then." Achilles handed me a flintlock pistol. "You know what to do."
With a sinking heart, I took the gun and cartridges he gave me and loaded it like Ryan had taught me to.
"Don't worry." Achilles gently placed a hand on my shoulder. "The first is always the hardest. It is one thing to fire a weapon; it is another thing entirely to kill a man. Just do it the way you have practiced it." With that, he turned and limped away, leaving both me and Ra–Connor to our own devices.
I closed my eyes. All around me, the crowds surged and fought, pushing the redcoats back, and the soldiers, in turn, pushed them back - yet they did not draw their weapons. I stumbled as I was pushed aside in the heart of the riot.
A heavy hand, smelling suspiciously of fish, slapped down on my shoulder, and when I looked up, it was into the face of a man with eyes like a rabbit and what little hair that was on his head was slicked back with grease. When he opened his mouth, his two front teeth were missing. "Riot's no place for a kid," he said. "Get out of here. I hear tell there's a fire at the Town House."
Though I longed to flee, for fear of death, I couldn't, for Connor's sake. However, this man clearly would not leave me until I did so, and with a pained smile that I hoped resembled a look of terror, I turned tail and pushed my way past the raging crowd. Raising my eyes, I saw one of the soldiers stationed on the rooftop lift his musket and take aim; following his line of sight, it was with a flash of horror that I realised that he was aiming at Connor, who had reappeared at the edge of the crowd.
But before he could shoot, or I could do anything about it, Lee fired a shot into the air.
Chaos broke out among the cornered redcoats. One man, standing concealed by the shadows in the alley behind them, shouted at them: "Damn you, fire!"
Private Hugh Montgomery, panicked and confused by Lee's gunshot, and thinking it was Preston who had given the order, bade his men to fire. The redcoats did not question authority, and they opened fire on the civilians before them. The night sky was cold and dark and starless, and when I looked up I could see flurries of snow being kicked up in the people's desperate attempts to flee.
The soldier on the roof was using the screaming and gunshots as a cover to take aim again. As I lined my pistol up with that man, Ryan's many lessons came back to me in a flood.
Don't hesitate long enough for your mind to doubt. Once you begin to doubt your capability, that is when failure is imminent.
Letting out a slow breath, I steadied my hand and pulled the trigger. I shot straight and true, and the man collapsed with a yelp, clutching his leg; blood began to seep through his pale breeches.
Next to me, a young boy - scarcely the age of fifteen, I would say - fell with a cry, fingers clawing at the gaping bullet wound in his chest.
There was so much blood. Everywhere. Staining the snow. Staining my shoes.
But I could not show fear. Fear was perceived as a sign of weakness - and I would not be weak. So, biting down on the terror buzzing in my veins, I gripped the gun a little tighter and ran, pushing past the screaming wounded and the fearful survivors, into the dark of an alley, where I could now regather my thoughts and figure out a way to save myself and find Connor.
Chapter Text
I could not find Connor for hours, but when I eventually did, he seemed to be lost in the streets. He noticed me at the same time I did him - when we passed each other on the road - and he took my arm, pulling me into an alley.
"Excellent," he said. "You are here."
"Of course I am," I said. "I wouldn't ditch you in your hour of need."
"Hours," he corrected. "We need to find Achilles."
I pulled him from the alley and, ensuring my arm was firmly locked with his, crept up the road, sticking to the shadows as much as possible. Snow crunched under our feet - snow that was getting deeper with every step. My breaths had grown shaky by now with the force of my shivers, and the air fogged before me.
"Psst," a voice hissed from the shadows. "You there."
We both whirled around and reached for a weapon, and the man behind us took a step back, hands up, palms out. "Careful, now. . ." he said. "I'm here to help."
Connor's eyes narrowed. "Who are you?"
"I'm just a messenger." The man's voice was hushed; his face was bathed in darkness. "Mr. Adams wants a word."
"What?" Connor tilted his head in a manner not unlike a dog. "Why?"
"You'll need ask him that yourself." Already beginning to back away once more, the messenger continued: "He'll meet you tonight near Faneuil Hall; I suggest laying low til then."
Once the messenger turned and walked away like he had never spoken to us, Connor looked at me with wide eyes. "Please tell me you know where Fa. . . Fanu. . . the hall is."
"Faneuil Hall. It's named after a merchant," I said, and he rolled his eyes. "And yes, I know where it is. Local farmers sell their produce in there to prevent the streets from overcrowding."
"Yes, if you would please show me where to go, I will be on my way."
"Excuse me?" I glared up at him. "I'm going with you; I'm not leaving you in the middle of the city for you to get lost again."
"I am not lost," he retorted.
"Oh really? Where are you then?"
He took a quick look around, face blank, and said, "Uh. . ."
I suppressed a smile and pointed to a tree that towered above the buildings, surrounded by a fence to protect it. "See that tree? That's the Liberty Tree. There's even a plaque on it to prove it."
He stared at that tree for a few moments, then sighed heavily. "Guide me, O wise one."
It didn't take long to reach Faneuil Hall now that the riots had drawn the people from the streets. Knowing my way through the back alleys of the city, I guided us around the heavily crowded areas, past patrolling groups of guards, to the Hall, which was eerily silent this night. The carts had all been removed, so there was nothing there that might suggest the use of the building other than a few fallen vegetables on the straw-covered floor.
"Over here," another man called to us in a whisper. I started, gripping Connor's arm a little tighter, and couldn't help the feeling of satisfaction when his hold on me tightened too (though not out of surprise or fear, but comfort).
There was another man standing in the doorway of Faneuil Hall, arms crossed over his chest against the cold. In the dark I could not distinguish colours nor distinctive features, but he seemed to possess dark hair tied neatly back from his face, and a thick coat that I was instantly envious of. Even Connor was shivering by now.
Now that he had our attention, he stepped into the light of the street. "You're Achilles's kids. Cassandra and Connor, was it? I saw what happened at the Town House. A fine mess, that."
"Who are you?" I said.
"Samuel Adams, at your service." He held out a hand to me and Connor, which I shook and the latter looked at with the utmost confusion. Evidently, he had forgotten what I had tried to teach him earlier that day. "Achilles asked me to get you out of Boston," Adams continued while I shook his hand.
Connor, ever-distrusting, regarded him with cold scrutiny. "Explain."
Adams frowned. "The whole city's looking for you."
Just behind us, a town crier had started his nightly reports; Adams looked at us pointedly as the man called out in true crier fashion: "Oye, oye! A criminal stalks the streets - wanted in connection with the massacre at the Town House. Citizens are advised to call the guards if they see him. Ten pounds to whoever brings this madman to justice!"
Now Connor was a little more alarmed. "What am I supposed to do?"
As Adams went on to explain what my friend should do, the crier continued: "None can say for certain who fired the first shot, but we now suspect a man of native origin. Many speculate as to why he acted. A show of solidarity with the protesters? Or was it vengeance for an attack on his people?"
With a light nudge to my ribs that was his silent message of a temporary farewell, Connor was gone once more - and I was left alone with the stranger, who eyed me with curiosity. "Cassandra, correct?" he asked. When I nodded, Adams said, "I was unaware Achilles was taking apprentices again. It has been many years since he did so - and to take in a girl is more unusual yet. As far as I am aware, he has only ever taught one female student."
This was new. "What was her name?" I asked.
Adams shrugged. "I never knew her name - only her reputation around here and New York as the queen of organised crime."
We made general small talk, and I crossed my arms over my chest, tucking my hands under my arms; my fingers were throbbing with the cold. I suddenly regretted not going home with Thomas when given the opportunity.
Once the conversation fizzled out and the silence became uncomfortable, I tuned in to the idle chat of a group of redcoats who were patrolling behind us.
"If it gets any colder, my nutmegs are apt to freeze," one was muttering.
The second snorted. "What a beautiful picture you've painted for me. Thank you kindly for that."
The first ignored him and said, "If they haven't caught the man who took the first shot by now, I can't imagine they ever will."
"Aye." His companion nodded. "It's unlikely. But for a purse of fifty pounds, no harm in keeping an eye out."
"It was a mistake to let any of those troublemakers go," a third redcoat muttered. "Should've silenced them all and been done with it."
"What?" the fourth scoffed. "And have more martyrs for their cause? No. It was a mistake for them to fire at all."
"Are you mad?" the third demanded. "They'll see they can get away with it now. To stand down is to concede. We've empowered them."
"We empowered them when the men opened fire," the fourth snapped.
The third rubbed his hands together furiously. "The protesters shot first!"
"See how much that matters in the days to come," said the fourth flatly, "as they parade their dead and curse our names."
Remaining on my feet in this bitter cold was becoming a struggle. I leaned back against the icy brick wall, near collapsing in on myself, so strong was my shivering. Wishing I had thought to bring gloves, I resigned myself to silence, using every last ounce of energy to keep warm and upright.
Meanwhile, Adams had sparked a friendly conversation with the town crier, whom I found out was named Cyrus.
When Connor returned at last, his lips were turning blue and I admit, seeing him again ignited a little spark of hope in me that we might get out of this, and soon. As he passed me, I couldn't help it - I leaned forward to give him an awkward armless hug in an attempt to pass some warmth between us.
Adams looked up. "Ah, Connor. There you are. I'd like you to meet Cyrus."
Cyrus, the newly-acquainted town crier, regarded Connor with thinly veiled hostility. "Is he the killer?" he said bluntly to Connor, who visibly bristled.
Adams held out a consoling hand to each of them. "Peace–" he looked to me and Connor– "Cyrus is on our side. Or rather. . . for the right price he will be."
Now I saw why Connor had been sent off. Already the soldiers patrolling the streets were plastering posters to the walls - and the face on them looked strangely like Voltaire but with hair like Connor - I realised it was a rather poor impression of my friend, who was now, apparently, a wanted man. Likely he had been tailing soldiers and criers, ripping down their posters as soon as they had been put up. Pity - the likeness to Voltaire was uncanny.
Having learnt his lesson when Connor did not shake his hand earlier, Adams nudged me, seemingly of the impression that I would be more welcoming. "Watch and learn," he said quietly, passing a pouch of money to Cyrus.
Cyrus grinned then, and in the dim light of the street lamps he looked almost devilish as he took his place at the street corner. "Oye, oye!" he announced. "Word has reached us that the man responsible for tonight's shooting may have been in disguise. A hat and makeup tin were found near the scene of the crime. Witnesses describe a middle-aged gentleman of pale complexion fleeing towards the wharves, rifle in arm."
I felt Connor loose a silent breath. If he had not been so averse to physical contact, and if we had both not been shivering so hard, I would have hugged him fully.
Once the town crier had finished his message, Adams beamed at him. "Thank you kindly, Cyrus."
The other man patted his pocket, where he had stuffed the money before Adams could have changed his mind. "Pleasure."
Now turning to me and Connor, Adams said, "Come on, then. There's one more thing I want to show you."
We walked for an eternity; the night was endless and black and cold; the starless sky provided no consolation, no waypoint, no hope. I was tucked, quite firmly, into Connor's side, and his arm was over my shoulders so casually that I began to wonder at his previous aversion to contact. Perhaps he wasn't so guarded as he led me to believe.
He shivered again and I pressed myself closer to him, to share even a shred of precious warmth, and just when I was beginning to think that he would finally open up to me, I felt him flinch away. It was only momentary, but nevertheless - it was there. And it saddened me.
I might, under any other circumstances, have stepped away from him, perhaps crossed my arms protectively over myself, avoided his gaze, but the cold kept me pressed into him, drawn like moth to flame, and he remained silent and stiff. His arm, so tense, was now a weight on my shoulders that, with every step, reminded me of the miles between us. Of how far he truly was from me.
Eventually Adams brought us to a stop. Our collective breaths fogged the air, and I could hear my own heart beating so loudly in my ears that it near drowned the sound of our footsteps crunching in the snow. I was faintly aware of how cold my feet were - walking had become a struggle, as I felt as though I were standing upon chunks of solid ice.
"Best you two learn about the tunnels," Adams said.
"Tunnels?" Connor's voice was shaking slightly - the cold was gripping us both like talons of ice.
And in spite of it all, Adams still smiled. "The Masons have a whole network of them under the city. They're quite useful when speed and secrecy are required." With a strained huff, he heaved open a large door, which was similar to a storm cellar, and whose entrance was as black as the night; when opened, a gust of damp air like rot and mildew came out. I wrinkled my nose - or would have if I could feel my nose.
Connor, it seemed, shared my apprehension, for when he leaned forward to peek into the endless dark of the tunnel, I could feel him tense for a moment before stepping back. However, the look Adams gave us told us all we needed to know: that we would go this way or we would not go at all. Adams had mentioned to Cyrus wanting to get to the printer's office before more posters and propaganda might be made; I knew vaguely where it was but in the cold night, my mind was numb. I could only hope that he knew where he was leading us.
Unhooking a lantern from the wall next to the door, he turned to the pair of us and said, "Right, folks. After you."
Connor and I exchanged a look, after which he stepped forward to lead the way. As he did, I gripped his hand; he was so cold, but then again, so was I. He looked back at me, face twisted with confusion and perhaps discomfort, and his eyes flicked, momentarily, to our joined hands.
Shame suddenly washed over me, and I almost pulled away, but then he laced his fingers with mine and pulled me along behind him.
And in the narrow space between our palms, a rose began to grow.
*
The sun was beginning to rise, and it stained the sea with the palest slivers of gold. A sea breeze was cutting through me like a knife. After our trek through the rat-infested tunnels, carved with Masonic runes and damp with water dripping down the walls, after the visit to the printer (who had begrudgingly agreed to help us, though everything came for a price), Adams brought us to the harbour - and I had yet to let go of Connor's hand.
To my utter surprise, he had not made any attempt to let go.
"So now you've had a chance to see how it all works," Adams was saying, standing with his back against the bitter sea wind. "I've shown you three ways to turn the tide: remove posters, bribe people, or visit a printer to create your own propaganda."
Connor may not have had the most knowledge or experience of colonial ways, but his moral compass pointed true north. "This feels wrong. Why not just speak to someone and explain my innocence?"
"You can't be serious?" huffed Adams.
"We counter one lie with another," my friend said. "Words on paper instantly taken as truth, and all of it without question."
"They loosed this beast," Adams pointed out, "or have you forgotten? I merely helped you tame it and turn it 'round."
"My apologies," Connor said, softer. The cold had long since ceased to make him shiver; he was numb to it. "I do not mean to sound ungrateful."
That was just his way, I supposed. He was naturally blunt and had no qualms with speaking his mind - a quality that would get him into trouble. As English was not his primary language, he often had trouble articulating exactly what he meant, so more often than not, I gave him the benefit of the doubt, even if he did initially come off as arrogant or rude.
Adams waved him off. "Quite all right. I was much the same at your age. You'll grow out of it in time."
"And if I do not?" countered Connor. He was the kind of person to push boundaries just to see if they would move. "If I refuse?"
Adams considered this for a moment. "Then you'll likely wind up dead," he said quietly.
I clenched my teeth to stop the uncontrollable chattering of my teeth. Gripping Connor's hand a little tighter, I smiled at Adams as best I could and managed to say, "Thank you, sir. We wouldn't have made it without you."
He smiled back, his face glowing rosy from the cold, and said, "I would not leave apprentices of Achilles out in the cold. Speak with the harbourmaster and he'll see you home."
"Thank you for everything, Sam," Connor said, though the wind took every word from his mouth and twisted it to a harsh murmur. "I promise to one day repay the favour."
Raising an eyebrow, Adams only said, "Oh, I'm counting on it."
And I don't know what brought it on - maybe it was the cold; maybe it was the memory of Thomas earlier; or maybe it was just my hand holding his - but Connor held out his right hand to Adams, palm open, though tentative, and said carefully, "Like this?"
Adams looked down at his hand for a moment, a smile beginning to form at the corners of his lips. I could only stare at Connor's hand in the utmost surprise as Adams reached out and shook it. "Take care of yourselves," he said, offering his hand to me next. "And stay out of trouble."
After speaking with the harbourmaster, who obliged our timid request upon seeing Adams hovering behind us, and pointed us in the direction of the captain, who was standing on the dock to watch the rising sun, Connor relayed our request to him, while I stared at the ship that bobbed rather harshly on the choppy water. The mere sight of it brought back the memories of my voyage to the colonies: the sickening sea air, the storms, the rotten food. . . that and the fact that I still couldn't swim.
The ship was a great menacing thing, its silhouette dark against the horizon, and I glared at it like it was the source of my every woe. Connor gave my hand a quick squeeze to get my attention and said, "Come, Cassandra. It will set sail in a few minutes." By now, his lips were almost entirely blue (I was sure mine weren't much better) and I was almost convinced that our hands were frozen together, locked in an icy embrace.
I looked at Connor with equal measures of desperation and fatigue. "The ship will take us to the homestead. I need to get back to my own house."
Oh, my parents. . .
His voice, though wavering from the cold, was disbelieving. "You would rather walk back to your house in the snow than get a sheltered ride to the homestead and return to your home after. Nonsense."
The cold had dulled every sense by now, and as a result I was rendered unable to think of a witty retort, so all I said was a feeble, ". . . Yes."
He rolled his eyes and dragged me along behind him. "I see your point, in that you have none."
"But–"
"I will bring you home," he said firmly, "after we return to the homestead. I am sure your parents would understand, given what just happened tonight."
He had, by now, already dragged me up the gangplank, which swayed dangerously beneath my feet. My stomach lurched at the mere sound of the waves clawing at the shiplap. But his hand remained tightly holding mine, and if we weren't so cold, it might have hurt, and I couldn't help but take a shred of comfort from that small contact as we were led below decks, which was scarcely warmer than the winter air.
As the ship lurched into movement, I slammed a hand into the wall to keep myself steady. Connor, who was evidently smarter than me, was sitting on a barrel, leaning his back against the wall for his own balance.
It was only then that I realised that I wasn't holding his hand anymore.
He inched away from me when I sat next to him, both of us numb from the chill. Though he was shivering, he avoided my eyes with an air of awkwardness about him, as though suddenly sheepish for an action or thought. He clenched his hands in his lap, mimicking the way our fingers had been twined together, and said flatly, "We need to stay warm. It will be a long journey."
No need to remind me. I was anxious enough about the reactions of my parents.
There was a blanket hanging behind me. I reached up and took it, draping it over our shoulders. Connor twisted around to fix me with a look that I could not identify and he tensed again at the unexpected action. He remained rigid when I shuffled closer to him, until our shoulders were pressed together and the blanket was pulled tight around us.
For a long time, neither of us said anything, or even dared to move, for fear of upsetting the heat generated between us. I knew Connor was uncomfortable with the close proximity, but I also knew that sharing body heat was the best way to stay warm, so we had to compromise on that.
Perhaps the lulling of the ship wasn't so bad. With a careful look at Connor, as if shyly asking permission, I lay my cheek against his shoulder.
I wasn't sure if his trembling was due to the cold or tension, but then his arm circled around me and came to rest on my shoulder, and slowly - at first I was unsure if it even happened at all - he began to relax into me.
Just before I shut my eyes, I smiled to myself. Perhaps he wasn't so stony after all.
*
As soon as we opened the front door of the manor, Achilles drawled, "Welcome back."
While I stamped the snow from my shoes, Connor stalked past me and into the dining room, where Achilles was sitting in one of the chairs. In the months since Connor and I had been coming here, the coverings had been removed from the furniture, and there was life once more in the Davenport manor.
"You left us in Boston," Connor snapped.
The old man simply shrugged. "The training we've done here is all well and good, but experience is the better teacher by far."
Connor, true to his ways, was having none of it; he took no prisoners when he fought. "What of my father?"
"Into the wind, I'm afraid." Achilles leaned back in his chair and examined the handle of his cane, which was beginning to wear down.
"We have to find him." Connor was practically seething. Since meeting him, I had learnt that he was prone to anger.
"And we will." Achilles gave a careless shrug. "After the house has been repaired."
Before Connor could say something that he would surely regret, I stepped in to protest. "But he's out there, plotting who-knows-what."
"And what would you do when you found him?" Achilles fixed me with his disapproving stare, hard and unbreaking as stone. "If you found him? You're a pair of children with a few months of training. He's a man, full grown, who's spent decades honing his skills."
As he heaved himself from the chair, leaning heavily upon his cane, Connor and I shared a look - rather sheepish on my part, but he remained dark and furious. Where was the boy who had shared a blanket with me on the ship?
Prodding a heavy wooden box on the table with the end of his cane, Achilles sighed and said, "If you're going to stand a chance against the Templars, you're going to need these."
My heart was a bird fluttering in its cage behind my ribs as Connor, tentative and shy, reached out to brush his fingers against the rosewood box. After Achilles dipped his head in encouragement, I joined Connor and peeked over his shoulder as he slowly opened the box.
Two pairs of leather gauntlets gleamed in the morning light.
Everything in me; my heart; my bones; my blood; the very essence of my being ceased to function when Connor lifted them out of the box to behold their glory. The gauntlets hid wrist blades, a staple of an Assassin's arsenal. The fact that Achilles was giving them to us. . .
"Go on before I change my mind," Achilles grumbled.
Slowly, reverently, as though they were forged from glass, Connor lifted one of the pairs, gazing at the smooth leather in wonder. I reached out to gingerly brush a fingertip against the leather; the blade, held by a mechanism that would activate when one flexed their wrist in such a way, lay within its sheath, well-worn and dulled with age. After a good sharpening, the blade would soon be back to its former glory.
As Connor tried his on in wonder, there came a knocking at the window.
"Hey!" a man cried, pounding a desperate fist against the glass. "Help!"
Achilles sighed. "Connor, see what he needs. All I wanted was some peace," he added to me with a roll of his eyes. "Be a pet and light the fire for me."
Unable to disguise my joy, I grinned at Connor as he ran out to the man in the snow, and instead settled myself by the hearth and set about lighting it.
As I did so, Achilles said, "When you're finished, go find Connor and tell him that I have an asset to show both of you at the small shack by the shoreline."
"My parents will be wondering where I am," I said, hiding the slight shake in my voice by rubbing my hands together.
"Then you'll have to go quickly," he said. "I'm sure Connor will bring you back. Perhaps he can offer your parents an explanation."
I considered that for a moment. "No. If he so much as opens his mouth, my parents will turn on him. They'll think I was out all night because I was with him."
"Weren't you?" countered Achilles.
"Yes–" I shrugged uneasily– "but not in the way they'll think."
He scoffed. "If need be, I will explain to them what has occurred - if you are that desperate."
"Thank you," I said, "but they still don't know I come here regularly. They just think I really like buying beetroots with Nadia."
Anyone else might have expressed contempt for my dishonesty towards them, but Achilles, it seemed, was the only one who understood. So when I went out to find Connor, it was with a little more peace.
*
Connor wasn't very hard to find; I needed only to follow the tracks cut deep into the snow, and there he was, standing on the bank of a near-frozen river with two red-haired men, looking cold but no worse for wear.
The younger of the two men lay sprawled on the bank, soaked through and shivering violently. His friend said something to Connor and helped the former to his feet. The younger placed an arm over his friend's shoulders and, thanking Connor profusely, the two picked their way back into the forest.
When Connor met my eye, I tilted my head. "What happened?"
He watched them for a moment. "Terry fell in the river," he said, "I helped him out. He and Godfrey wish to open a local lumber mill."
"I'll miss the peace and quiet," I said, "but we could certainly use the wood."
"The manor needs a lot of work," Connor agreed.
"Among other things," I said. "Achilles wants us to meet him at the small shack by the shoreline. Apparently he wants to show us something."
"What is it?" he asked with a tilt to his head, and he shivered lightly. It occurred to me that he had not slept.
I shrugged. "An asset. Are you okay?"
He stepped back before I could reach out to him. "Fine. Why?"
My hand fell. "Oh. . . you just seem cold."
He only huffed and turned rather tersely. "Good observation."
Gone was the friend who had held my hand as we ran through the snowy streets of Boston; gone was the boy who had shared a blanket with me and let me lie on his shoulder. Something in him had changed so abruptly that my heart plummeted. The walk to the shoreline was silent as a result.
Achilles was standing in the shelter of a wooden shack next to a beach that glistened white in the snow. The flurries were growing thicker, falling heavier, and in that moment, I would have preferred to be anywhere else but in this snow, even if I was with Connor.
As we neared, the fierce wind carried with it the sound of singing. For a lurid moment, I thought it might be Achilles, but I realised that he was far too composed to be caught drunkenly singing sea shanties in the high winter.
"About time," Achilles muttered when we stepped into the cover of the porch, shaking snow from our shoulders. Tapping his cane lightly against the door, he said, "Will one of you please knock so we are not standing in this cold all day."
Unstartled, Connor stepped up and knocked on the door; the wood was thin enough that we could hear the man slurring from inside: "Go 'way."
Connor did just the opposite, spurred on by Achilles, and rather timidly opened the door to the dim room. The stench of whiskey hit me first, so strong that my eyes watered.
The room was small and scarcely furnished with a table, a chair with a wobbly-looking leg, and a filthy bed pressed into the corner. A man with grey hair and a weather-beaten face sat, hunched, over the table, nursing a bottle of whiskey. When the light hit him, he recoiled with a snarl. "I said go 'way, boy. D'ya not speak the king's English?"
However, as soon as Achilles stepped into the room, the man's demeanour took a turn. "Oh, I didn't see you there, old man–" he waved his hand– "I'd've set my home in order if I'd known you were calling."
"The boy's name is Connor and the girl is Cassandra–" Achilles glossed over the man's ramblings and got straight to his point– "They're here to restore the property."
"Restore?" the man echoed with a frown. He took a few moments to absorb this, but then his bloodshot eyes widened, and he cried, "Restore. Well, pardon my manners."
He heaved himself to his feet and staggered to the door; I gave him a wide berth as he stumbled onto the porch, seeming to care little for the snow that was hastily becoming sleet. I didn't want to know what those stains on his navy jacket were.
His gaze was fixed somewhere beyond the mist, on a huge, hulking silhouette that was rather reminiscent of a ghost ship. "She's still the fastest in the Atlantic," he said with a touch of pride. "Sure, she needs some attention - minor things, mostly - but with a little affection, she'll fly again."
"Who is she?" Connor said flatly.
The man slowly turned and gaped at Connor. "Who is she?" he cried indignantly. "Why, the Aquila, boy. The Ghost of the North Seas."
Ghost was an understatement. Tattered sails hung in rags from rotting yardarms; the central mast had collapsed entirely, ripping a gaping hole in the deck, wreathed in mist like it was the nest of some long-dead spectre.
Connor blinked. "The boat."
Now the man sputtered in shock. "A–a boat? She's a ship, boy, and make no mistake about it." He turned to Achilles in exasperation and hissed, "I thought you brought him here to restore order. I reckon he's the greenest thing on the frontier."
Achilles only sighed before looking at me and Connor. "When you're finished here, bring Cassandra home, Connor. Then come hack to the manor; I have something I want to show you."
I quietly thanked the old man for granting me a place to stay for the night; he only nodded and hummed under his breath while he walked back up the hill to his lonely manor.
"You said it requires repairs," said Connor once Achilles had left. "You able?"
"She does need work," the man said pointedly, sobering up just enough to correct Connor's pronouns. "A ship is a she, boy. And yes, I can refit her, but I'm lacking in the proper supplies. Some. . . some quality timber would help me get started." Instead of doing anything that might be of use to us, however, he slid down the wall of his shack and promptly passed out.
Connor and I looked down at him for a moment, and I resisted the urge to prod him with my shoe. "What should we do now?" I said instead.
My friend shrugged. "I suppose you should go home."
"Couldn't have worded it better myself," I said, though my teeth had begun to chatter. "You don't have to come with me."
"Nonsense." He waved me off. "Someone has to ensure you get there in once piece. How could I tell Achilles if you did not make it?"
"I hope you would say something nice at my funeral." I grinned.
He shook his head all too seriously. "No."
I sighed in defeat. "I knew it. So really you're bringing me home so you know where to hide my body."
"Congratulations, you figured out my plan." He led the way back up the hill, and I followed him in his tracks - though his strides were longer than mine, which made following his footprints that much more difficult.
When we reached the top of the hill, I debated taking his hand again - but when I looked at him, he was already stepping away from me, letting the cold distance between us be known. What on earth had changed in him?
Chapter Text
When we arrived at my family's house the sun was nearing its peak in the sky. I couldn't shake the feeling of dread no matter how much I joked with Connor; my smile felt too forced; my laughter too fake. He noticed this - of course he did, he noticed everything - but kept quiet about it. I was grateful - I didn't want his pity.
As I dismounted from my horse and handed him the reins, I said, "You had best leave before my parents see you. They are suspicious enough without seeing me with you."
He looked like he wanted to say something, but before his words could escape he snapped his mouth shut and nodded.
I patted his leg (he tensed as I did so) and hitched my skirts up my shins to better navigate the banks of snow. "I will see you again. Take care of yourself."
"Good luck," he said quietly.
As soon as I knocked on the door, twisting my hands through my skirt, it swung open to reveal a flustered-looking Lydia. Her hair flew out of its loose bun atop her head, and her eyes were gleaming like blue fire. "And what were you doing last night?"
"I can explain–"
"We allowed you to go out with your friend. We trusted you to return home, and you didn't."
"You don't know what happened there," I said, clenching my fists into my skirt. "You wouldn't understand."
"Thomas returned home early. Why didn't you?" She leaned against the door, almost as though blocking my entry. It only reminded me that I was still very much a stranger to this family, still a newcomer, an intruder. Would I ever truly be welcome?
I took a deep breath. "I met my friend there. He's nice."
"And you just left Thomas in the middle of Boston?" She gave a harsh laugh. "Some friend you are."
I could feel that burning in my chest, that prickling in my hands as my heart roared in my ears. "And what of your mothering skills? Or shall we just forget the fact that you abandoned me."
"Do you think I didn't regret it?" she hissed. "That I didn't think of you every day? If I could undo that part of my tapestry, I would."
"Then why did you?"
"This isn't about me," Lydia snapped. "This is about you and your blatant disregard for your family. Do you not think we worried? That we care? Because let me remind you, Cassandra, that there are others in your life. Do you think us fools?"
"No," I snapped. "I just think you were selfish to dump your own daughter and run away to America. What kind of mother does that?"
Honestly, I expected her to slap me. I expected her to shout and scream and fight. It would have been better than what she did: she closed her mouth, guard raised, and said quietly, "You can stay out here until you cool down. Don't even think to come inside until then." And then, in silence, she turned her back on me and closed the door.
I had every intention of staying out there at first. How long would it take me to walk back to the manor? Likely too long, and the longer I stayed out here, the colder I became. But my pride flinched every time I thought of opening that door, of taking the walk of shame up those stairs to my room, so I crossed around the house and scaled the wall by my room, using one hand to haul the window open.
Meredith was sitting on my bed when I crawled through the window. When she heard me, she whirled around with excitement, opening her mouth to cry my name until I held a finger to my lips to silence her. She nodded obediently and copied my action, sitting still on my bed once more while I shook the snow from my clothes.
But she couldn't quite keep the smile from her face when I hugged her. "I missed you," she whispered. "Don't leave like that without saying goodbye."
"I'm sorry, Merry," I whispered back, kissing the top of her little golden head. "I won't do it again."
"Where were you?"
"I met my friends in town." I sat down beside her, picking up my hairbrush from my nightstand, and began to brush her hair.
"Are they nice?" She smiled as I brushed her hair, which had grown past her shoulders.
I thought for a moment. "One of them is quite crotchety," I said, which made her giggle (though I did hush her). "The other is lovely, if not a little quiet."
"Which one is your favourite?"
I smiled at that. "Oh, I couldn't possibly choose. I should hate to hurt their feelings."
She giggled again and leaned against me when I hugged her again. "Mummy and Daddy are cross," she mumbled. "I heard them shouting."
"I know."
"Will they always be cross?"
I was silent for a few moments. "Not with you," I said finally. "It's me they're cross with."
"Why?"
"Because I did something and they didn't like it." Ignoring the twisting feeling in my stomach I said, "It's a dictatorship."
"What's a dicta-ter-chip?"
"Dictatorship." I smiled. "It's when a place is ruled by only one leader, who normally gains that position through brute force."
Meredith pondered on that. "Mummy is the dictator."
I pressed my fist into my mouth to muffle my laughter. "Don't tell her that, Merry. Dictators are ruthless. She might stop me from going out to see my friends again."
She looked up at me. "Then you should invite them here."
That wasn't a bad idea. I kissed her head again. "You'd better go before the dictator shouts at you, too. Little old me needs a nap."
My sister hugged me again. "I'm glad you're home," she said quietly.
Once she was gone, I lit the hearth in my room and lay on my bed, glaring at the snow falling outside my window. I missed Achilles. I missed Connor. Everything was better when I was with them. With a sigh, I turned to my side, now fully facing the window, and I found myself almost wishing that Connor would appear there, hair speckled with snow, eyes gleaming against the harsh white, mischief making his mouth curl.
I gave a slow sigh through my nose. This was no time to be wishing for someone to come for me. The only person who saved me was me. I just wasn't ready to confront Lydia yet.
*
I wasn't ready the next morning either, but found myself hungry, so I was forced to swallow my pride and go downstairs, gripping the bannister rather tightly. Meredith was not yet out of bed, though Lydia and Gabriel were at the dining table when I entered. Their conversation went silent.
"Good morning," Gabriel said.
I returned the greeting and sat, rather awkwardly, at the far end of the table, under the intense scrutiny of Lydia. "How did you sleep?" she said carefully.
"It went," I said.
It seemed she had calmed down sufficiently since the day before, because she said, "Care to tell us just what happened yesterday?"
I poured myself some orange juice. "You've doubtless heard of the riots at the Town House. It caused quite the traffic jam on the way home."
"You're all right?" Lydia gave me the kind of concerned look only a mother could muster, all thoughts of our previous argument banished for the time being. "You remain unhurt?"
"It was very cold," I admitted. "But I ran into a friend while I was there - he helped me get out."
"You haven't mentioned this friend before," Gabriel said. "It surely was not Thomas. Who is he?"
"His name is Connor," I said. "I've met him a few times - when I go shopping with Nadia. He let me stay at his father's for the night and he escorted me back here yesterday."
"Surely you could have come straight home," Lydia said. "You did not need to stay out all night. We worried for you."
"Connor is quite stubborn. Besides, it was so very cold." I took a too-casual sip from my cup.
Lydia and Gabriel exchanged a long look, and for a few moments there was a silence so thick I could have cut it with a spoon. I clenched one fist in my lap, determined not to let them see. Finally Lydia said, "I'm sorry we fought yesterday. I really don't want us to fall out over something so trivial."
"I'm sorry, too," I said, holding the cup like it would be taken from me. It would appear that we would not talk about yesterday's other argument yet, which was fine - I wasn't sure I was ready to get into that yet. Still, I welcomed Lydia's hug when she stood by me.
Once she was seated again, she and Gabriel exchanged another look, though this time there was an apprehensive excitement swirling between them. I thought it best not to pry, and instead took another sip of orange juice. They would tell me in their own time.
I did not have to wait long before Lydia was beaming at me with the sort of joyful abandon of a child. "Cass, we have something to tell you. Actually, we found out the other day, but you weren't exactly here so we couldn't tell you." When it became evident that Gabriel, smiling as he was, was not going to say it, Lydia faced me again, her smile growing ever-wider as she said, "We are expecting another child."
I sat for a moment, nursing my cup like a bottle of whiskey, before it finally clicked. "I'm getting another sibling?" Goodness, that does sound very selfish of me.
When they nodded eagerly and Lydia's eyes shone like sapphires, I beamed back at them. "Congratulations! Have you told Meredith?"
Gabriel shook his head. "No. We thought we would break it to you first, as you are the eldest and you can, quite frankly, handle news better. Would you mind fetching her?"
"Of course." I stood, draining my glass, and walked to the bottom of the stairs, sweeping a hand down my skirt to straighten the creases. "Merry," I called. When she peeked out of her room, I said, "Mummy and Daddy want to talk to you."
As she bounded down the stairs, she shared a conspiratorial smile with me, eyes darting to Lydia, and I laughed, ruffling her hair. She yelped in protest, batting my hand away.
They broke it to her gently (thankfully she did not think to ask, Where do babies come from?). "I'm going to be a big sister?" she gasped. Her smile outshone the stars. "When?"
"Around. . ." Gabriel looked, in question, at Lydia. "Christmas time?"
"Christmas. . ." Meredith echoed when Lydia nodded. My sister's face morphed in a momentary bout of fear. "It's not going to be my Christmas present, is it?"
"No." Lydia laughed at her, which made her frown. Meredith hated being laughed at. "You'll still get your present but you'll get your brother as an extra."
"Brother? You know what it is?" Her eyes could have been their own moons. "Did you ask a fairy?"
Gabriel smiled at her, his face laden with affection. "Yes. We asked the kind fairy who comes to our garden every day."
In reality, they had no idea which gender the child would be. How could they? Still, Meredith gaped. "There's a fairy?"
"Of course there is!" When Gabriel laughed, I couldn't help but think of all the tales of Father Christmas that Sophia had told me as a child. "Why don't you go outside and look for her? She likes to sit by the daisies."
But Meredith was already gone, much to our amusement. As I watched her careen out the door (almost running face-first into the wall), I smiled. And for the first time since I arrived in America, I was looking forward to the future.
*
August , 1770
I stood in the kitchen, helping my mother and Nadia with the chores. They chattered lightly together as they scrubbed the dishes, their sleeves rolled up to their elbows, though the ends were still soaked. I was drying these dishes to a shine as they were passed to me.
When we finished, Lydia tapped the top of my head with one dripping hand. "Cass, a word?"
"That was three," I said, wiping my hair.
"Sh." She rolled her eyes and playfully batted me. "Gabriel and I have spoken," she said, "and as your birthday is approaching, we have decided to bestow upon you a gift."
"A usual occurrence on one's birthday, I should think," I said.
"Hush," Lydia said with a laugh. "I'm trying to be nice. Seeing as you speak so highly of your friend, Gabriel and I would like to write to him to invite him and his father over for tea. We know how much they mean to you, and it would be nice to finally put faces to the names."
I pressed my hands to my heart, smiling so widely my cheeks hurt. "Thank you. Thank you!"
Lydia caught my arms and hugged me. "You're welcome, darling. We would love to get to know them."
"When?" I said.
"Whenever we post that letter. Mind doing that?" She pulled an envelope, sealed with wax, from her pocket. "Take Merry with you." Then she looked at my feet and clicked her tongue with distaste. "Oh Cass. . . your shoes are filthy. That muck is never going to come out."
I pulled up my skirt to admire my leather shoes, which were caked with mud. "They're not that bad," I said.
"Not that bad," she scoffed. "Do you hear that? That low, rumbling noise?" She held a hand up to her ear as though listening to some sound afar. "That's the sound of my mother turning in her grave. You can buy some new shoes while you're in town." She produced a few crumpled notes from her pocket.
"Thank you," I said and took the money. "Would you like anything whilst I'm away?"
"Right now," she said with a sigh, "my only wish is to see you wearing a new pair of shoes. Now begone"
I found Meredith sitting on my bed, looking out the window; she hummed the tune to one of my piano pieces to herself, unaware that I was behind her until–
"Merry!" I shrieked like a banshee and jumped on my bed, which made her bounce. Her laughter was music. "Do you want to come into town with me?"
"Really?" She joined me in standing on my bed and began to bounce, her bare feet creasing the coverlets like bird's feet in snow. "Sure."
"Put your shoes on, then." I held her hand as she jumped off the bed and skipped into her room. She knelt on the floor and slipped on her little leather shoes, tongue sticking out of her mouth slightly as she slowly tied her laces with the utmost concentration.
"Wait," she said and held up a hand. "I have something for you."
I pressed a hand to my mouth. "A gift? For me? It must be Christmas."
"Not Christmas, silly." She waved a length of green ribbon at me. "It's your birthday."
"How could I forget?" I sat on her bed and she climbed behind me, pulling my hair back to tie it with the ribbon.
"There." She leaned back to admire her work. "Now you look pretty."
"Are you implying that I wasn't pretty before?" I gasped.
"No," she said. "Now you're prettier." As I took her hand and led her outside, she looked up at me. "Is your friend coming with us?" she asked.
"Who's my friend?" I frowned. "Darling, I have so many, it's difficult to count."
"Tommy," she said with a beam.
"Right. Tommy." I nodded. "Shall we invite him? I'm sure he would like nothing better to do than go shopping with a pair of girls, hm?"
"Please?" She fixed me with a pair of puppy eyes such that I could not refuse her begging, and easily gave in to her - much to her glee. She was pleased, also, to show off to me that she knew the way to Thomas's house, and could hardly contain her excitement while she knocked on the door.
As soon as he opened it with a cautious, "Hello?" my sister cried, "Tommy!" and hugged him.
For a moment, he was taken by surprise, but then he was hugging her and ruffling her hair. "Good morning, ladies," he said, flashing a smile at me. "To what do I owe this pleasure?"
When I hugged him, his scent of lemongrass and spices washed over me. It always made me feel safe. "We were just–"
"Do you want to come shopping with us?" Meredith cut me off in her excitement.
Thomas and I shared an amused look, and, grinning, I said, "Well, there you have it. She's said it all. Would you care to join us?"
"Oh, I would love to, but I simply can't," he said, sagging against his door. "I've been taken with illness. Look, I'm shaking." To prove this, he held up an exaggeratedly trembling hand.
"No, you're not!" giggled Meredith.
"I'm not?"
"No," she said, tugging on his hand. "You're fine."
Now he grinned. "You hear that, Cass? Your sister thinks I'm fine."
"I'll grind you into a fine dust in a minute," I said, lightly prodding his shoulder. "Humour her."
"Oh, only if I must." He fanned his face. "This hot weather is not good for my fever."
While we walked into town, with Meredith pausing every few feet to examine interesting pebbles in the road, I turned to Thomas. "What was with the whole–" I mimicked him– "Hello? thing back there?'
"Oh. Sorry." He shook his head. "My brother has made some new friends and I don't much like them."
"Say no more." I nodded. "My mother wants me to buy new shoes. Apparently these are too muddy."
He squinted down at my foot when I stuck it out. "They're not that bad," he said.
"That's exactly what I said!" I threw up my hands. "But there's no arguing with a pregnant woman. She's nearly killed poor Gabriel."
"When is she due, again?"
"Apparently around Christmas," I said. "Just in time for me to introduce him to awful Christmas jokes. I really feel the need to pass on my legacy."
Thomas groaned. "For the love of all that is holy, please do not ruin that child with your awful jokes. One of you is bad enough."
"You hurt me." I clutched my heart. "Leave me. I'll post my letter all by myself."
"Who are you writing to?" He winked. "Anyone interesting?"
"The king himself," I said. "My mother got it into her head that she wanted old George over for tea, and you know how women get when something gets into their heads. . ."
"You're going to be an absolute nightmare of a woman when you're grown up." Thomas laughed. "God bless the man who marries you."
"Hah!" I said. "Joke's on you, no one will ever want to marry me. I'm going to die an old maid."
"We can be neighbours," he said, whacking my arm. "You can be an old maid who knits all day for her fifteen cats, and I'll be a cranky old man who collects birds in cages - these birds commonly go missing under mysterious circumstances, but I blame your cats - and the local children will hate me because I'll always yell at them to get off my lawn."
"You've put far too much thought into this," I said. "I mean, I would suggest that we make a pact to marry each other if no one else will, but. . . I don't want to."
He made a face at me. "I'd rather drown myself than wake up to that ugly mug every day." When he playfully shoved me, I pushed back twice as hard, and when Meredith ran in between us and shoved both of us, none stopped laughing for the rest of the walk into town.
Chapter Text
The day finally came when we were expecting the arrival of Connor and Achilles, and I was over the moon. I rushed around the house all day, ensuring every room was spotless, making and remaking my bed until there was not a single crease in the sheets. I was sure I had poor Gabriel and Lydia driven mad all that day in the hours before their coming.
When Achilles had written back in acceptance, certainly, my mother was driven insane by my excitement. Finally, I might have the chance to take this weight off my chest! Carrying this secret, this training with Achilles, was a rock on my heart.
This day, I was helping Lydia and Nadia to prepare a meal and the kitchen was damp and humid with steam from the carrot slices boiling over the hearth. Connor and Achilles were only coming for lunch, but Nadia wanted to make sure they were well-fed (she slipped me a sly wink as she said this).
I had dressed nicely that morning, and tied my hair back from my face, but I just knew my face would be flushed and rosy by the time they arrived, and my hair would be frizzy and sticking out.
"Cassie," Lydia said. "Darling, the day won't run away on you. You can slow down."
Things needed to be perfect. I used my wrist to push stray hair from my face, stirring a pot of gravy with my other hand. "I know," I said. "I just. . . I want it to be nice for them. It's Connor's first time here."
"I'm sure they wouldn't mind a little bit of wiggle room," said Lydia. "They've known you long enough. Nadia, could you pick some parsley? I want to put it on these potatoes."
"Just because you're pregnant doesn't mean you can feed us what you're craving," I muttered. "Meredith won't stand for that."
She lightly whacked me upside the head. "Excuse me! I'll have you know parsley on mashed potatoes is very nice. Don't fight me on this one, you'll distract Gabriel from his work."
Gabriel, being a rather busy accountant, was trying to get as much work as was possible finished before the arrival of our guests, so even Meredith was barred from entering his office. On some days like this, wherein he was working in his office, I would climb through his window to talk to him. He was a pleasant conversation partner, though his quiet demeanour was often outshone by Lydia.
Out of playful spite, I was about to snap back some witty retort, only to jump near out of my skin at the sharp knock on the front door.
Lydia let out a stressed breath. "Cass, get the door."
I was already there, pulling the lock out of place to swing the door open with a wide smile. "Good morrow to you both!"
Connor stood closest to the door (Achilles had likely made him knock in order to further accustom him to actively communicating with people), and he was dressed differently. Gone were his furs and skins, replaced by a more simple outfit of breeches and a shirt - though he still wore his moccasins, as the winter had not yet struck, allowing him to wear lighter materials.
I hugged him first - and to my utter shock, he only tensed for a moment before, slowly, he hugged me back. Smiling to myself, I said nothing of it and instead let him go in order to embrace Achilles, who half-heartedly swatted me away.
"Do come in," I said, tucking stray hair behind my ears. I must have looked a right state, but I stepped aside and opened the door wider to allow them entrance.
On cue, Lydia untied her apron from her growing belly and left the kitchen to greet our guests. Gabriel followed her from his office to stand beside her (Meredith must have told him that they were here), and eyed our guests with interest - lingering on Connor.
Pretending I didn't notice his calculative stare, I introduced my friends. "This is Achilles Davenport."
My parents shook his hand. "Well," Gabriel said, "it's good to finally meet the two people who spend more time with Cassandra than I do."
I tried not to wince. Was that a jab directed at me? I jerked my head at Connor. "This is Connor."
"A rather colonial name for an Indian," Lydia commented.
Connor took no insult. "You cannot pronounce my true name," he said with a hint of amusement.
"Give it a go." Gabriel grinned. "How bad can it be?"
I caught Connor's eye and bit back a laugh. He shared a smile with me, and as he looked at my family I noted that while his face was near perfect, his teeth were not; his bottom row of teeth were slightly crooked and there was a small chip in the corner of one of his front teeth.
As he said his name, my family were stunned into silence for a few moments. "Yeah, no," Lydia said. "You win."
We all burst into laughter - even crotchety old Achilles. Meredith, bless her, had no idea what was going on, but laughed anyway. Lydia smiled again. "Can I offer you anything? Tea?"
"That would be nice," Achilles agreed.
We all promptly decided that we would care for tea, and Nadia hurried off to put the kettle on to boil. Gabriel once again turned an interested eye to Connor. "Do you like tea, my boy?"
"I cannot say I have drunk much of it," my friend said.
Gabriel laughed and shook his hand firmly. "Oh, a man after my own heart. I'm a coffee man, myself."
Lydia extended a friendly hand. "Come, Achilles, we shall leave these young folk and retire to the drawing room. I understand you knew my father?"
"Yes, yes." Achilles limped to the front room, which was lit bright by the sun coming through the wide and tall windows. "It was a long time ago. . ."
Once alone with Connor in the hall, my voice echoed off the vaulted ceiling as I said, "What would you like to do? I'll give you our options: we can tease my sister; we can play in the garden like the children that we are; we could go to my room, though I fear my mother would have a heart attack; we could otherwise join the adults and drink tea with them." As Nadia passed with a tray of tea, I scooped up a china cup and took a delicate sip.
Ever a free spirit, Connor said, "What is it like outside?"
"Oh, it's lovely," I said, already leading him to the back door through the kitchen. "We have these beautiful trees, and there are a few toadstools growing at their roots–" I lowered my voice to whisper in his ear– "which we have managed to convince Merry lead to faerie realms. Don't ruin her dreams."
As I opened the door for him, he grinned. "I would like to explore this faerie realm."
The sun was beating down outside, turning the grass such a vibrant shade of green I had to look away. It was littered with daisies and dandelions and buttercups; I picked one of these buttercups and held it up to the light.
"There's a silly game with buttercups," I said. "It's completely untrue, but kids always pick them and ask, Do you like butter? and if you hold it against your chin, the yellow reflection proves whether you like butter or not." I held the flower up to his chin, and then my own so he could see my yellow chin.
The sun lured out the freckles on his face. He took the flower from my fingers and tucked it into my hair like I was a unicorn. I averted my eyes - the sun was shining directly above him - and smoothed my hair down.
"Sorry my hair is awful," I said. "I was stress-cooking."
"Awful?" he said innocently. "I see no such thing. I only see you."
I cleared my throat. "Well, then, I. . . let's see this faerie ring."
The ring of toadstools sat at the roots of a towering willow tree, and in the heat of high summer the shade of the weeping tendrils was paradise. As we sat by the tree, Meredith opened the back door, evidently bored by the adult conversation, and skipped across the grass to meet us. Behind her, Nadia opened the kitchen window to release the steam.
"Good afternoon," I greeted my sister when she threw herself down on the grass just beyond the reach of the shade of the trees. "What brings you to this corner of the garden?"
"I wanted to see the faeries," she said. "And the adults are talking about boring things. Did you know that Achilles used to know Grandfather?"
"I did know." I nodded, ignoring the inquisitive look Connor gave me. "He says Grandfather was very nice."
"I never knew him," she said sadly.
"Nor did I," Connor said playfully, perhaps to lighten the mood before it darkened.
If that was his aim, it worked. "He was an old goat," I said. "I can see why he got on well with Achilles."
She giggled, then gave Connor a curious look. "Where do you live?"
His face took on a softness I had never seen before when addressing the child. "I live far from here."
"Are you Achilles's son?"
"No," he said. "But I do live with him. Once upon a time Achilles had a son named Connor, and when I came to live with him, he allowed me to take that name, as he cannot dream to pronounce mine."
"Say your name again," Meredith pleaded, her eyes wide.
Connor obliged her affectionately, and she burst into laughter again, clapping her hands with excitement. I frowned at Connor and murmured, "How do you know about Achilles?"
"I found the graves of his wife and son," he said, too quietly for Meredith to pick up.
Not one to be left out, she whispered loudly, "I like to whisper, too."
I laughed and reached out to ruffle her hair, but she ducked before I could touch her. "Who wants to play tag?" I said.
"Me," Meredith cried. She slammed her hand against Connor's leg, yelling, "You're it!" and scampered across the garden, her golden curls bouncing along her shoulders.
He growled playfully at her, already on his feet. "You did not," he said before launching himself across the grass, careful not to crush the toadstools as he went. I joined the game, noticing how Connor was more competitive when playing with me than with Meredith, letting her get away and pretending to be distraught about it. I laughed so much that my face hurt, and prayed that this day would not end.
Chapter Text
Two months passed in no time; every few weeks I still visited Achilles's manor, and this time my parents knew that when I went shopping with Nadia I would also meet my friends. That, at least, was a small weight off my shoulders. I vented this out to Thomas, whom I was trying to teach to climb trees, but he was atrocious.
Unfortunately Connor was not around the manor as much as I would have hoped, for he was still helping Faulkner - the old sailor whom we had met in the winter - to rebuild the Aquila, with the help of the pair of Scottish lumberjacks, Godfrey and Terry. Every so often I would venture down to the docks to visit them at work or to bring them cold drinks in the heat of summer or to help them with their building and repairs. I was not yet as strong as Connor and couldn't quite keep up with him, but I put my heart into what I did, picking splinters from my hands at the end of the day, sharing grins with Connor as we returned to the manor in the twilight.
At the end of July I was told that Connor and Faulkner, along with the crew the latter had raised, would go out to sea with the ship for a number of weeks. Indeed, when I returned to the manor after my weeks at home the dock was empty; dead; hollow. I was not used to this silence around the place, but it was good to return to normalcy: training by myself in the basement; mucking out the stables; feeding the horses; reading the books Achilles had set us (I was rather enjoying Homer's Odyssey); helping Catherine and Diana, the wives of Godfrey and Terry around their houses.
By the end of the first week the unnerving silence was becoming almost comforting. I was in the basement doing some work with the practice dummy, and each sound bounced off the cold stone walls and back to me like I was not alone down here.
As I paused, panting, to sip from my water canteen, I heard a key turning in the front door. I froze.
"Three weeks," I heard Achilles snap, "and not even a good-bye before you left."
"Sorry," came the voice of–
"Connor," I called up the stairs, hurriedly fixing my hair and replacing the robes on the dummy before dashing up to meet him.
He stood tall in the light of the doorway. Weeks of sunshine had turned his freckles dark and bleached his hair with lighter tones. His face was lightly burnt by the sun and his lips were chapped, but there was a light in his eyes that I had never seen before. Something inside him had awoken during his time on the sea.
I pulled myself back just before I could hug him, aware that I was flushed and sweaty, so I smiled at him. His returned smile was brighter than he had shown before.
Achilles evidently had something to show him "Well, what are you waiting for?"
Connor and I shared a confused look as we followed Achilles to the basement; Connor's elbow brushed mine in a silent greeting. When the old man stopped before the dummy I had been working with, he said to Connor, "Put the robes on." When Connor's eyes went wide, he added, "You've earned your stripes. Cassandra, with me."
As we went up the creaky stairs, Achilles said to me: "I hope you can forgive me, for I have no robes for you."
"I hold no grudges,” I said, “as Christ demands.”
Achilles gave a sad laugh. "I'm afraid I abandoned the teachings of Christ long ago. This house could do with some of your faith." Once we reached the dining room, where pale light blazed in past the curtains thrown wide, he drew my attention to a crate that sat on the table. "I do, however, have these for you. They were my son's. Young Connor passed some years ago, and these have only been collecting dust. I had them washed, don't worry. Besides," he added, eyeing me, "you're about the same height as he was."
I ran a finger over the neatly folded clothes and smiled at Achilles, who masked his sadness with a look of bravery. "Thank you," I said quietly.
Light-footed Connor deliberately stepped on a creaky floorboard so as not to catch us off guard as he stepped into the room, now dressed in the dummy's robes. They had been worn by Assassins before - Achilles himself had possibly worn them - and now here they were, on the shoulders of a new generation. His skin was smooth against the rough linen of the robes.
Stepping between us, Achilles laid a hand on Connor's shoulder and one on mine. "Once upon a time we had ceremonies on such occasions," he said, glancing between us, "but I don't think any of us are really the type for that. You've your tools and training, your targets and goals." He paused briefly as shadows passed over his face. "And now you have your title. Welcome to the Brotherhood."
*
We found ourselves wandering the outskirts of the valley. The breeze was gentle, and far above us the trees - oaks and birches and cherry blossoms - swayed in the same manner as clothes on a washing line. Distantly, a cougar called across the mountains. Connor's attention snapped to the direction of the roar and he nudged me, pointing at something moving in the grass high above: a pale mountain goat fleeing its pursuing cougar.
We sat in the shadow of one of the cherry blossom trees, where the grass was speckled with delicate white flowers almost like snow. I could hear crickets in the bushes; squirrels in the trees. A variety of birds were singing, and I closed my eyes, singling out each song so that it drowned all other noise, until there was nothing but birdsong filling my mind.
For a long time, we sat in silence, and the afternoon grew hotter in the absence of clouds. Finally, when I opened my eyes, I said, "Tell me about what you've been doing these past few weeks."
At some point during our silent interval, Connor had decided to lie in the grass, and now he tipped his head back so to see me better. He told me how he and Faulkner had sailed across the water to Martha's Vineyard - he had seen Nicholas Biddle, one of our known targets, and I scoffed - and that the Aquila had been attacked, though not fatally.
"It is a good thing that Faulkner taught me to use the cannons," he said. Somehow he had moved - or I had moved, I really don't know - and now his head was in my lap, and I had begun to decorate his hair with fallen blossoms.
"Yes," I said.
He caught my eye. "You should join our next trip. After all, you did help to rebuild her."
I huffed. "I handed you a few nails and cheered you from the side. Yes, a rather spectacular contribution."
"You did more than that," he protested. "Would you not enjoy the fruit of your labours?"
"I can't swim," I said. "Ships are a no."
He tried to shrug but only succeeded in digging his shoulders into my leg. "Good thing you will be on the water, not in it. A major distinction."
I considered kissing his forehead. "I'll think about it," I said.
We faded into a comfortable silence again; Connor closed his eyes against the sun and I stroked his hair like a dog. Then I noticed a spider on my arm (I wore short sleeves in the summer) and jumped in surprise, shaking my hand furiously to get it off.
Even Connor jolted from his reverie in surprise. "What was that about?" he said.
"Spider," I muttered. "One day I'll find his family and burn his house down."
Amusement made his eyes bright, and in the slants of light that came through the leaves above us his eyes were golden. "You are afraid of spiders."
I shuddered. "I'm not saying that they're the devil's spawn, but they do look an awful lot like demons to me."
With a grin, he prodded his fingers into my legs and hips, mimicking the scuttling movements of a spider, and I whacked him away.
"If you dare to use this against me," I said, "I'll make sure that, one day, you will wake up in a massive pot of soup, and I'll boil you and feed you to Achilles, who will know no better." He began to laugh, and I said, "I'll give some to the horses, and when they die of ammonia poisoning, I'll use their blood to decorate your grave with giant peni–"
By now we were both laughing so hard that we choked, rolling on the grass like a pair of drunks. After we had sobered enough to sit up properly, the wind had dropped to almost nothing. We stood, staggering a little after our laughter, and leaned against the tree until the world stopped spinning. A smile still shone on Connor's mouth, splitting his face in two: his sad eyes and his smiling mouth.
When we calmed fully we began to walk again, clinging to the shadows as much as we could. Every so often Connor would gesture for me to be quiet and he would point at an elk or a fox or, once, at a beautiful stag grazing between the mossy trees.
The grass was worn down into a track that led up to the cliffs, where herds of deer liked to graze, and we followed this trail, panting as the air grew thinner and colder. The wind was stronger up here, as there were no trees to shelter us, and my braid was whipped into my face. On one side of the track a tree had been cut down, and the sawdust was blowing across the grass. I stepped on to the trunk and walked along it like it was a tightrope.
As I stepped off, Connor took my arm and pressed a finger to his lips; his eyes were wide and wary.
Further up the track, a wagon was burning.
Connor jerked his head at a crevice in the rock, jagged enough to provide foothold to climb higher. I followed him up, gripping the grassy stone, and crawled along to lie beside him. Pebbles dug into my ribs as we peeked over the edge.
Below us, four men had gathered around a rope that hung over the edge of the cliff, laughing between themselves at something. Smoke wafted up to us, blurring our vision, but I thought all was harmless until the rope began to move and a weak voice cried, "What is going on around here? Are you soft in the head?"
Connor and I ducked back down. "We have to help," I whispered.
He was already reaching for the bow he had slung across his shoulder. "We must be swift," he said quietly. "The rope is fraying. That man does not have long."
I gathered a few stones into my hand - my only available method of long-range attack. I poked my head up and began to throw the stones at the men.
One man was struck on the back of his head, and he turned and snapped, "Fuck off, you savages."
I kept throwing the stones at them and landed a few more shots. When I ran out of pebbles I debated throwing my shoe, but then Connor straightened and fired an arrow down at them. It struck the first man's leg and he went down with a cry.
The remaining three whirled around and drew their pistols, but we had ducked down again and were crawling back to that gap in the rocks. Every few moments there was a shot fired by one or another of the men when the breeze ruffled the grass of our former perch. Hopefully they would be out of - or at least low on - bullets by the time Connor and I climbed down.
Connor stepped out first, firing another arrow at them; it went through one's hand and he screamed at the blood that dripped to the ground. Foolishly, I had left my own weapons at the manor, so I had nothing but my own determination to fall back on.
When the remaining two caught sight of Connor they ran at him with knives; in their rage they did not see what was before them: that we were only kids.
I barely had time to duck before one of the men took a swipe at my face with his knife. He slashed again, and I jumped back. Before I could disarm him, I had to find his weaknesses.
I used my arm to block another strike, and he tossed the knife to his other hand and slashed. Warmth bloomed along my cheekbone, though I didn't quite feel the pain.
He was a fraction unsteadier on his left foot than his right - perhaps a past injury had not been allowed to heal fully. I lashed out and knocked his left foot out from under him.
As he went down I tried to wrench the knife from his grip, but he held it too tightly and tried to stab me again. I punched his jaw hard; his head lolled to the side and his grip loosened. I took the blade - the handle was warm from his hand - and pointed it at him.
"Leave this place," I said.
He rubbed at his jaw, which was red and would surely blossom into a dark bruise. "Don't tell me what to do," he spat. "You're nothing but a child."
I propped one foot on his ribs and leaned over my knee, tossing his blade between my hands. "I won't tell you again."
With the knife still trained on him, I stepped back and allowed him to stand. Still rubbing his jaw, he glared at me and as he stalked away, I heard him mutter, "Fucking wench."
Now my cheek was beginning to sting, and as I wiped away the running blood, I grabbed the fraying rope and heaved it back up with all of my strength; Connor joined me after a moment. The other three men had fled, leaving only scuffed marks in the blood-speckled grass behind them. I coughed against the smoke from the wagon.
Leaving me to pull at my end of the rope, Connor went to the very edge of the cliff to pull the man's feet as he emerged. The man scrabbled against the cliff face as he pulled himself back up to solid ground, red-faced and panting after being held upside-down for so long.
"Thank you," he gasped out, with little strength to even pull himself to a sitting position. In the blazing sun, his ribs heaved up and down, and his short beard was flecked with gold.
Connor peered down at him. "Are you all right?"
Our freed captive let out a hysterical laugh and waved his hand. "I think so," he said, his breaths calming. "Didn't do much to me aside from a good scare." He glanced over at the burning skeleton of his wagon. "Blaggards."
"What is your name?" asked Connor as he knelt by the man's feet to untie the knotted rope.
"Lance would be my name," the man said. "Lance O'Donnell."
"What did they want with you?" I said, digging in my pockets for a handkerchief to press to my cheek.
Lance gestured with his hand again and propped himself up on one elbow. "My purse, which was meagre, and they decided they'd punish me for their trouble. Thank you, boy," he said to Connor when he stood once more.
After a few moments, Lance sighed and looked mournfully at what remained of his wagon. "Silly, really," he said. "My tools and equipment were worth a king's share to the right man." He hauled himself to his feet rather slowly. "In any case, I'd best get on my way, it's a long walk to the nearest inn. I thank you again for your kindness."
"Have you no home?" asked Connor.
"Well," Lance said, "I was a proud resident of Boston until recently, but I'm not a big supporter of His Majesty, and I was forced out of my wood shop and home by loyalists."
We were silent for a few moments, then I said, "There are plenty around here who could use the services of a skilled craftsman, if you were looking for somewhere to settle."
"Is that right?" A new light entered Lance's pale eyes. "I may look into that. Who are you kids?"
"I'm Cassandra," I said. "This is Connor. We're from the small village in the valley." As we gave him the directions to the small village, Lance nodded with growing enthusiasm.
"Thank you," he said. "You're just kids, but I already owe you my life. Thank you."
When we eventually parted after giving Lance what money we could spare, Connor and I walked back down the grassy trail, for the sun was growing lower in the sky. The shadows of the trees grew longer, like they were reaching out to us.
Connor gave me a sideways look. "Are you okay?"
"It'll stop bleeding in a minute," I said, dabbing at it with my handkerchief. "Don't worry about me."
"Yet I worry." For a second I thought he was going to caress my cheek, but then he rolled his eyes. "You will put me in an early grave."
"You deserve it," I said. "You're a prick."
He laughed and shoved me with his shoulder. "And you are an ótkon."
"I'm a what?"
"You are a devil," he said with a grin.
"Oh, I'm a devil?" I slapped him across the shoulder. "You've obviously never seen a mirror, have you."
He slapped me back. I whacked him again - and it spiralled into a war between us, and once again we were laughing so hard our ribs hurt. My cheek stung, but I didn't care. The light in Connor's eyes was enough to make the pain worth it.
Chapter Text
December, 1770
The time came when Lydia was due, and I was frantically trying not to seem frantic.
Every day I would rush about the house in a cloud of concern, doing everything at once, and this day Lydia had eventually grown tired of it and snapped at me, so I took myself to Thomas's house to escape.
Thomas himself had briefly gone upstairs to retrieve blankets, so I was left sitting by the fire with his brother. Rowan was three years older than I and, as far as I knew, was engaged to some girl from the town. Still, I had always found it comfortable to talk with Rowan: he was easygoing and friendly, much like his brother (though lately he had become more distant).
When we heard Thomas's footsteps, like the patter of rain on the stairs, Rowan slapped his knees and stood like an old man; firelight gave his blond hair the illusion of spun gold. "Please give my best wishes to Lydia," he said, ruffling my hair.
I batted his hand away and aimed a lighthearted punch at his leg. "You should really invest in a cane, old man," I said. "I don't want you stooped and withered when you come to my wedding."
"Oh, now you're getting married?" He raised an eyebrow. "And whom, may I ask, is the unlucky man?"
"The king," I said.
Rowan laughed. "I think he's a bit old for you, darling, not to mention he's already married."
"I'll have you know that in some cultures it is considered good luck to have more than one wife." I grinned. "Fine, since you're so against it, I'll marry his son. Little George."
Once Thomas appeared in the doorway, Rowan said, "I'd best be gone. Have fun with Little George." He winked playfully and bumped Thomas's shoulder with his own before disappearing upstairs, fiddling with his hand like he mourned the absence of a ring.
Thomas dumped one of the blankets on my head. "Little George," he muttered. "Bloody weirdos, the pair of you."
"Rowan is good company." I pulled the blanket down so it covered the rest of my body and pulled it up to my chin. The cold today was the kind that would seep into one's bones and inhabit one's body like a parasite, a ghost.
"You don't live with him," grumbled Thomas, settling himself by the fire. "Up at all hours to meet these new–" he made quotations with his fingers– "friends; one day he'll be all happy and smiley, but the next he'll hardly speak a word to us. What's up with that, eh?"
"I think the medical term is adolescence," I said.
"Well, I want my money back." Thomas burrowed under his blanket for a moment, but then he peeked back out, reminding me abruptly of a mouse. "I did discover the name of one of his friends, though."
"Ooh, tea," I said drily, leaning closer to the fire.
"Mmmhm," he hummed with smug satisfaction. "Tobias."
"Fancy name," I said. "How'd you find out?"
Thomas shrugged. "There was a half-written letter on his desk. I couldn't not look. What if it were to be a saucy love letter to Evelyn?"
I laughed. "Then you shouldn't look, nosy bugger."
"Oh, come on!" he pleaded. "Don't tell me that you wouldn't be even a little bit curious. What if it was me?"
"I like to tell myself that I wouldn't read it," I said.
"What if it was Connor?"
I thought for a moment. "I'd have to read his for him, because he is still learning to read."
Thomas perked up at that. "I have some old books that I have no need for. If he wants them, he can have them."
"Thank you." I smiled. "You're very kind. Why don't you drop them up some day? You'd be very welcome."
He stretched his arms. "I'm an angel. Oh bother, what's the time?" He shuffled under his blanket for a few moments before producing, with a flourish, his pocket watch. "Dear me, we had better get you home, missy moo, or your mother will actually skin me and wear me as a shawl in this ghastly winter." He shrugged his blanket off (with great difficulty, for it was comfortably warm) and took my hand, hauling me to my feet.
"Do I have to go?" I whined.
"Yes." He lay my coat over my shoulders, and I pushed my arms through the sleeves. "I don't want to die prematurely, thank you very much. I'll drive you home."
The wagon ride back to my house did not take too long. The sun reflected off the snow - everything was white, white, white - and my eyes ached from looking at it. When we pulled up outside the house, on the track that I had cleared of snow just a few days ago (and the snow was falling again, meaning I would have to clear the space again) all was quiet. Silence should be a good thing, indicative of peace - but this silence was dead and hollow; like something should have been breathing but wasn't; like the warm breath of a person just gone.
Thomas glanced at me as he tugged the reins to stop the pulling of the horse. "All set?"
I swallowed and looked over the house again. Aside from the silence, nothing was abnormal. "Yes," I said. "Thank you for bringing me home."
He kissed my knuckles. "My pleasure."
I had hardly opened the front door before Nadia was there, eyes wild. "Cassandra, thank goodness," she said.
My heart began to pound. "What is it?" I said. "What happened?"
Before Nadia could respond I saw, over her shoulder, the stooped figure of my mother making her way up the stairs, one hand gripping the rail and the other curled around her belly. A stream of curses were flowing from her mouth like water.
When Lydia heard us at the door she looked over her shoulder. "Oh, good. Fetch a doctor, will you? This baby is getting evicted."
I nodded, now beyond all levels of anxious, and called to Thomas, who had not left the wagon, "Tom, would you find a doctor? As fast as you can."
"Is everything all right?" he shouted.
"It's my mother, she's going to have her baby-" Nadia ushered me inside and shut the door, cutting me off.
She gripped my shoulders. "Tell me, have you any idea what to do in a situation like this?"
"Regrettably not," I said. "Lydia and her eldest brother were the only children of my grandparents to survive childhood, and Sophia never had any other children when I came along. I'm clueless."
With a heavy sigh, Nadia ran a hand down her face. "Me too," she said. "Absolutely no idea."
"Ah," Lydia drawled from her spot halfway up the stairs. "My area of expertise. One of you, up here with me. The other, get some water boiled."
"I'll go with you." Nadia looked back at me, already stepping on to the stairs. "Keep an eye on Merry, will you?"
I was already on my way outside, nodding along as I went. My feet sank in the deep snow like quicksand, so my trip to the well was painfully slow. By the time I had hauled up a bucket of freezing water, my hands and feet were numb, but the racing of my heart drowned it out as I hurried back to the house, sloshing water down my skirt.
I had just put the water over the fire to boil when Meredith tugged my skirt. "Is mother going to be okay?"
"Yes, darling," I said. "She's just having her baby."
When my sister smiled, it almost made the worry go away. "What will they name it?"
I grinned in spite of myself. "Meredith the Second."
She gaped. "But there can only be one Meredith, and it's me."
By the time Thomas arrived with the doctor, the water had boiled, and I lugged it up the stairs after the doctor (a smallish, ratty man with thin hair and sharp eyes). I did not enter the bedroom; Gabriel was already there with Nadia, and the doctor took the water from me with a gentle, encouraging smile, and shut the door with a soft click.
I gave a long sigh and slowly went downstairs again, only to flop on to the couch like some leech. All fight had fled my body.
After a few moments Thomas joined me, moving my feet aside so he could sit.
For a while we sat in silence, and Meredith, reading the mood of the room, was sombre as she climbed between us and sat across my outstretched legs. After shifting so my legs wouldn't lose feeling, I stared across the room at the pale shadows on the hearth: light, almost ghostly reflections from the bare trees outside. The snow still glared in the harsh, cold sun.
All at once I knew that, though I would love Lydia's baby, it would not fill the emptiness; it would not piece together the cracks; it would not replace what was lost. Nothing would.
My heart seized. What if the birth did not go well? What if I lost Lydia too?
Grave questions indeed, the latter of which made me almost tremble - but I couldn't reveal these thoughts; not in front of my sister. Not when she looked up to me so.
Thomas cleared his throat. "Well, I say we do something to keep ourselves occupied. We may be here for a while."
"Thomas," I said quietly, "you can go home. You don't have to stay here."
"And miss out on the birth?" He reached across Meredith to whack me. "You know me but slenderly. I'll stay with you; I already told my parents where I am while I was fetching the doctor."
If I moved Meredith would fall from my legs, so I satisfied myself with glaring at his hand. "Thank you," I said. "Though I fear you shall be fiercely bored."
"Then let's all be fiercely bored together." Thomas settled into the chair and closed his eyes.
Another few minutes passed thus; I could hear muffled sounds from upstairs which I did not concentrate too hard on. After a while Meredith said, "I'm bored."
Thomas stretched his arms. "What do you propose we do?"
She shrugged. "I don't know." A few moments later she looked at me and said, "You can go upstairs and just pull the baby out."
I let out a burst of shocked laughter. "First of all ew. Bold of you to assume I'm strong enough to pull a baby, anyway."
"But you are strong." She lifted one of my hands and shook it around like a dog with a bone. "See? Strong hands. How did you get man hands?"
Thomas gave me a knowing smile(for he was the one person I told everything to) and I said, "I ate all of my vegetables when I was young, and now look at me. I'm big and strong." I flexed my arms at her, which made her laugh.
The hours passed slowly until, at last, the final dregs of sunlight had disappeared beneath the lines of the mountains. We had occupied ourselves as best we could: pilfering handfuls of nuts or berries or whatever we could find from the pantry (Lydia was going to kill us); telling jokes; waiting for the hours to pass rather painfully.
When we heard footsteps pattering down the stairs we all jumped to our feet. A moment later the doctor appeared at the foot of the stairs, and when he saw us he smiled. "You can go on up, now. It's a boy."
As soon as he left the house it was an excited race for the stairs; Meredith beat us by only a moment due to her smaller size (though she was tall for her age, her height reaching up to my ribs) and she ran upstairs like the very devil was on her tail. Thomas stepped back to let me go first, and suddenly the stairs loomed before me, growing longer and longer until I couldn't see the top; but Meredith was calling to me, so I took a deep breath and began to climb the stairs.
This was it. This was the beginning of a new life.
Their bedroom was silent when Meredith pushed the door open, but both parents looked up at the movement. Lydia was sitting in bed, propped up by pillows, and she was cradling the baby wrapped in a blanket. Nadia stepped past us and went downstairs with a basket of washing, and she gave us a tired smile.
"Don't be shy," Gabriel said. "Say hi to Alfred."
I snorted. "Alfred."
Lydia grinned. "We knew you'd never stand for that. Here." She held out the baby to me. "Hold him."
He was heavier than I had expected, and so still that I thought him to be asleep, but his great dark eyes were wide when he stared up at me. Meredith tugged my arm and stood on her tiptoes so she could see him; I could feel Thomas peering over my shoulder.
I touched the baby's little chubby cheeks with one finger. "He's adorable," I said. "You're not seriously naming him Alfred, are you?"
Gabriel chuckled. "No. We wanted you to name him. But if you want to keep Alfred. . ."
"He looks like an Alfred," Thomas mumbled, and I resisted the urge to elbow him in the ribs. "You're telling me that you don't want to name him after King Alfred the Great?"
"Over my dead body," I murmured, tickling his little face again. As he began to wiggle in my arms, some of my worry slipped away. It would be okay; it would all be okay. There had only been one person who made me feel that way.
I cleared my throat, blinking the tears from my eyes, and said, "His name will be Ryan."
*
I was, quite honestly, surprised by how well Connor reacted when I handed him baby Ryan a few days later.
The snow had not let up, but I had written him to ask if he would like to see my brother, and he had replied with earnest (and small spelling errors). Poor Lydia was already exhausted and had retired to bed for a few hours ("Unless the house is on fire or Ryan needs feeding, don't wake me up," she had said), leaving us to babysit - quite literally.
Connor was subtle in his ways, but he loved children. He had been greeted at the door with a big hug from Meredith, and the pair had hit it off since. I left for hardly a minute to hang his coat up and when I returned I found them dancing together; Meredith was standing on his feet and he was shuffling around. When he caught my eye, his smile was unlike any I had seen before.
By the time Thomas arrived Connor was sitting on the floor, comfortably cross-legged, and Meredith was copying him. When I handed him the baby, just to see what he would do, his initial surprise turned to amusement as the first thing that Ryan did was grab Connor's hair.
Thomas peeked in to the drawing room and grinned. "Ah, hello Connor! I wasn't expecting to see you here."
Connor glanced up. "Hello, Thomas."
"I'd've brought my books if I knew you'd be here." Thomas sat in one of the chairs and crossed an ankle over his knee.
"You are very kind." Connor's small smile only grew as Meredith copied him, trying to mimick his accent. "I like your accent," he told her.
"I don't have an accent!" she gasped. "You do."
His brows furrowed in mock confusion. "I do?"
"Yes." My sister pointed at all of us. "We don't have accents, but you do. It's different."
"I apologise for being different."
Thomas leaned over to me and whispered loudly, "He's just apologising because he knows real men conform to the moulds of society and don't think for themselves."
Now Connor's dark, thoughtful eyes were on Thomas, and a playful gleam entered his stare. "Meredith," he said, "hold my baby. I will show Thomas who the real man is."
And thus began a series of humourous arm wrestling matches, and both of the boys were laughing harder with each failed attempt. Thomas's twigs for arms were no match for Connor, the born hunter and trained Assassin. They sat opposite each other, a small mahogany table separating them, in the light of the tall bay window.
After several playful arguments ("Connor was cheating!" complained Thomas, to which Connor replied, "You are a stick insect, of course I was cheating."), I stepped up to prove my worth.
"Step aside, ladies," I said. "The real man of the house is here."
Connor scoffed. "Bite me. No, not literally–"
It was too late. I had bitten his arm.
After he whacked me away, he lay his elbow on the table again, angling his hand towards me in challenge. "How about it, Glade?"
Thomas rose from his seat across from Connor and offered it to me. As I slid in to the chair (Meredith cheered me from the side) Connor said, "Right or left?"
"Right," I said. I had seen during our days at the manor that he had a tendency to use both of his hands, having little dominance between them.
We clasped hands firmly and the battle began. Thomas and Meredith were narrating the match like a newspaper. I noticed that, try as I might, Connor did not budge; he held eye contact with me and a slow smile crept across his face. When I laughed helplessly, he held up his other hand and counted down from three.
As soon as he got to one he slammed my hand into the table.
Chapter 11
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
December 1773
The road to the manor was deep in snow, clogged and white and silent. It was a grey day, heavy with the threat of another snowfall, and I was on horseback so I could travel as quickly as I could. Every now and then a tree dropped a slithering load of snow on to the path, or a bird scuttled in a bush; but there was something about the silence and the light that made me rein in my horse, anxious not to make too much noise.
At first glance, through the trees, the manor looked dead, but when I came to the wide white space in front I saw that there was smoke coming from one of the chimneys, and the doorstep had been swept clear of snow. In summer the sandstone would have been the colour of honey but in this light it was grey, like everything else.
Connor was waiting at the bottom of the steps when I arrived, as had become a tradition over the last few years. I had finally broken it to Lydia that I (sometimes, I had said) stayed with Achilles and Connor in their home, and she had taken it rather well.
Connor had cleared the snow from the dirt road and fresh tracks were cut into it by Achilles's wagon. He watched me from afar, faux-judgemental, as I brought my horse to the stables and began the arduous process of untacking and feeding him.
When I finally finished, rubbing my hands together (for my fingers were numb in the cold), I picked my way through the snow to the front door, where Connor still waited. When I was close enough, I said, "Ew. Why are you here?"
He grinned and reached out to cuff me across the head. "Oh, look. A drowned rat."
"Who let their pig out of the yard?" I retorted, hitting him back.
The air was still and glittering white, and behind me the bushes began to rustle. Connor would have shot back a further playful insult had his eyes not been drawn to the movement, more animal than anything.
He must have seen something I hadn't, because the corners of his mouth twitched. I half turned. "What–"
–and got nailed in the head with a snowball. A group of children burst from the bushes - the kids of Terry, Godfrey and Lance all liked to play together - and laughed until they couldn't breathe when I staggered, one hand coming up to rub my poor face. The eldest child couldn't have been older than nine.
Even Connor laughed at me, but when he was struck, too, with a snowball the war began, with both of us against the gang of children. Icy ammunition was fired across the road at each enemy side, and we ducked behind banks of snow like they were trenches. Behind our own bank, Connor began to build up a pile of snowballs.
We shared a grin and for a moment the snowballs stopped raining down. We remained unmoving, biting back laughter as the children muttered their confusion. As one we leapt to our feet and threw our snowballs back at them. The cold stung our cheeks rosy but we didn't care.
Finally one of the children peeked over the barricade, waving a white handkerchief in the air. Behind him, the others were still laughing. Connor volunteered to be the diplomat from our side, and he climbed out of our trench to meet the leader; they shook hands across the battlefield, clumsy with the cold.
When they ran away from us, throwing snow at each other once more, I said, "Goodness, it's cold."
Brushing past me, Connor glanced over his shoulder with a grin. "I know what will warm you up."
"Yes," I said, "a nice cup of tea."
His eyes gleamed. "Not quite."
*
He gave me an hour to settle in before we went to the basement. We were in the small ring, and what had started out as a genuine sparring match was quickly devolving into a lighthearted wrestle.
Connor had managed to pin one arm behind my back, but I refused to let that deter me. Before he could force me to my knees I hooked one foot around his ankle, which sent us both tumbling to the ground. I spat out dust.
He tightened his grip on my arm, pulling my back tight against his chest. My shoulder strained, and I hissed through gritted teeth, but I refused to tap out. There had to be a way out of this.
As he pulled tighter, the pain grew more and more distracting. Both of our chests were heaving, sweat dampened our clothes, but neither of us was willing to be the first to let go. His other arm was across my chest, pulling me down further in a way that made the pain blinding. I bared my teeth at the stone ceiling (freshly cleared of cobwebs, I might add) when he leaned down to my ear and panted, "Ready to give up?"
An idea struck me. I wrapped both of my legs around one of his and pushed with a reasonable amount of force; one wrong move from me and his knee would break.
"Oh, I see." His breath warmed the side of my face. "Break my knee, and I will break your shoulder."
"Break my shoulder, and I will break your knee," I hissed back.
We struggled in vain for a few moments, but this only resulted in both of us tightening our hold on the other. "On three?" I panted.
"Three."
As one we let go, and Connor pushed me so that I could lurch forward into my own personal space. After a few moments a laugh bubbled up from my chest as I rolled my shoulder back and forth. Connor, bending and straightening his leg, laughed with me, and reached over to push me with one foot.
We both sobered when we heard the tapping of Achilles's cane on the wooden stairs, and he shook his head at us when he reached the bottom, more affectionate than disdainful. "Could you pair of fools spare a moment?"
"Of course." Connor helped me to my feet, and I dusted myself off.
"Have a look at this." Achilles held out a long rope, which bore a heavy metal end, sharpened to a point like a spear.
"What is it?" asked Connor, taking it to further inspect it. I lifted the blade into my hands; it was heavy and solid iron. Noticing the gleam that came into Connor's eyes, I took a step back as he began to slowly swing the blade back and forth.
"A sheng biao - or rope dart, if you prefer," Achilles said. "One of the many plans given to us by Shao Jun to—"
He was cut off by the sound of the blade detaching from the rope and implanting itself into one of the wooden boards by the wall. For a moment, Connor froze in surprise, and I laughed at his peril. Achilles only sighed heavily and grumbled something about still having a lot to teach the stupid boy.
"Sorry," Connor said.
"Hmn," Achilles muttered. "We'll have to work on that."
Connor grumbled something under his breath that I didn't quite catch as he pulled the blade head from the wood, but Achilles whacked him with his cane. "Watch your language, boy. And fix that rope dart while you're at it."
"You provided us with faulty equipment," Connor muttered.
Achilles said back with a lighthearted sharpness, "The equipment is free and as such it is you who must deal with the consequences, or leave. Not you, Cassandra," he added. "We are thrilled to have you here."
"Happy to be here." I grinned.
Grumbling under his breath, Connor retreated to the back of the room and sat on the table by the Templar portraits to fix the rope. I took up a broom and began to sweep up the dust that had been misplaced in our scuffle. Achilles stepped back, quite politely, to allow me to sweep the entire floor; without looking up from his work, Connor lifted his feet so I could sweep the floor under the table.
When I finished, I replaced the broom in the corner and said, "Don't wait for me; I'm changing clothes."
The knees of my trousers had worn down so much that when I pulled them off in my room they tore straight through. For a moment I glared at them (more mending work for me to do) and sighed. I changed into a comfortable working dress and brushed my hair back from my face.
There had been no fire lit in my room since the last time I was here, so it was achingly cold. Once I had wrapped myself firmly in a wool shawl, I set about lighting the hearth.
By the time I came down the stairs Connor had finished fixing the frayed end of the rope (his solution: cut it off and start again), and he was busying himself with writing in the ledger that Achilles had shown us. Two more young people had moved to this Homestead after we helped them out of sticky situations: Myriam, a huntress with a preference for solitude, and Norris, a miner hailing from Montréal.
"Anything interesting?" I leaned against the doorway to the study.
He glanced up. "Myriam will stop by tomorrow to trade part of her catch. Hunting is hard this winter."
"What will we give in return?"
He gave me a blank look. "Money."
I sighed. "I meant something nice. Like a gift."
"We do not need to reward people for simply doing their jobs."
"You don't like positive reinforcement?"
He closed the logbook and placed the pen back in its inkwell. "Is that rhetorical?"
"Is it?" I countered. Though he had come a long way from the green boy who had turned up at Achilles' door, not yet house-trained, there was still some buffing to be done to his social skills. Like learning rhetoric.
I could almost see the wheels turning in his mind as a retort started to form, but before he could breathe a word, a hard knock on the front door interrupted him. We met eyes across the study - and he grinned.
"Sorry," he said. "I have to answer the door."
"I'll get you next time," I muttered.
He pretended to ignore me and opened the door. A beat passed and then he said, "Kanen'tó:kon?"
Now this was interesting. He had spoken much of his people and his village - his mind rarely left them, truth be told - and he often visited them while I was spending weeks with my family (now that Ryan was toddling my stays at the manor were becoming more irregular - I would spend more time among my family than with Achilles and Connor). As time went by he began to look more and more like them - not that I had much to base my assumptions on. This was my chance.
Kanen'tó:kon was almost as tall as Connor, and his dark eyes were every bit as bright. His hair was a touch darker than Connor's and was gathered in two long braids by either shoulder, and the hair at the top of his head had been cut short and stood straight up in a line down the centre of his head.
Connor and Kanen'tó:kon began to chat in rapid-fire Kanien'kéha, but I still pretended to know what was going on and glanced between them as they spoke. There were similarities between them: they had the same eyes, the same sharp cheekbones and strong foreheads - perhaps their mothers were related? - but Connor had freckles scattered across his face that Kanen'tó:kon did not.
When they laughed I laughed, and then Connor switched to English. "Kanen'tó:kon, please meet Cassandra."
The look I was given by the aforementioned, though judgemental, was not hostile. "Greetings, pale face," Kanen'tó:kon said.
I smiled and dipped a polite curtsy. "How do you do."
"What brings you here?" asked Connor. Upon seeing the grave expression on his friend's face at the question, his eyes lost all humour. "Is the village all right?"
The beads adorning Kanen'tó:kon's braids rattled as he shrugged. "For now."
"What do you mean?" Connor stepped outside; his breaths fogged in the cold air. "What has happened?"
Now that he spoke in English, I couldn't help but note his pronunciation of his words; even if one did not know him, one would still think that English was not his mother tongue, for though he spoke Kanien'kéha with a smooth fluency, his English was slower, more precise - like he focused on making sure he pronounced every word correctly.
"Men came, claiming we had to leave," Kanen'tó:kon said. "They said that our land was being sold, and that the Confederacy had consented. We sent an envoy, but they would not listen."
"You must refuse." Though his voice was firm, Connor's eyes were wide. He crossed his arms over his chest and tucked his hands under his arms.
"We cannot oppose the sachem, but you are right as well. We cannot give up our home."
Disturbed by the noise, Achilles came to the door to see what was going on. Connor was now pacing between the two pillars on either side of the door whilst he thought. Achilles and I shared a look, but of what I cannot be sure.
Connor lay a hand on one of the pillars like it grounded him, like it brought him back to Earth. "Do you have a name?" he said quietly. "Do you know who is responsible?"
Kanen'tó:kon took a moment to form his words. "He is called William Johnson."
Of course it was him. As the Superintendent of Indian Affairs, he had close relations with the Kanien'kehá:ka - he had learnt their language and their customs - since he established Mount Johnson along the trade route by the Mohawk River; during the French and Indian War he had recruited Iroquois warriors to fight for the British. He had been with Lee the day that Connor's village had burned.
The full force of Connor's attention was now on Kanen'tó:kon. "And where is Johnson now?"
"In Boston making preparations for the–" Kanen'tó:kon gestured with his hands, which were covered with thick hide gloves– "sale."
"Sale?" demanded Connor. "This is theft."
"Connor, take care," said Achilles, quietly. "These men are powerful."
Upon hearing the name Achilles had given his friend, Kanen'tó:kon's mouth twitched, but he wisely said nothing as Connor whirled on the old man. "And what would you have me do?" he snapped. "I made a promise to my people."
Achilles considered him for a few drawn-out moments, cold and calculative. "If you insist upon this course of action," he said finally, "seek out Sam Adams in Boston. He'll be able to help again."
This seemed to satisfy Connor, for he held out one hand to Kanen'tó:kon. I half expected Kanen'tó:kon to take Connor's hand - though such an action from Connor of all people would certainly be scandalous - but I did not foresee his friend handing over a heavy stone tomahawk.
Connor looked at it for a moment, like he was steeling his nerves, and then swung one arm and embedded the axe head in one of the granite pillars. The porch shuddered as the stone cracked, and small flakes and chunks trickled to the ground.
"What have you done?" gasped Achilles, staring with wide eyes at his ruined pillar.
"When my people go to war, a hatchet is buried into a post to signify its start." Oh, Connor was well beyond angry now - so great was his fury that he was eerily calm. "When the threat is ended," he said, "the hatchet is removed."
Achilles groaned. "You could have used a tree."
His words affected Connor little, bouncing off him like rain, and as one he and Kanen'tó:kon turned and headed down the path to the wagon. The snow was still scuffed and marked with footprints after our battle outside.
"Make sure he does nothing stupid," Achilles muttered to me.
His implication for me to join them was clear. "I'll do my best," I said, "but he's taller than me. He's got a slight advantage."
He only huffed. "You know where the spare key is."
"I do." There was a slightly loose brick under the ledge of the second window on the right hand side of the door, and behind that Achilles had, very cleverly, hidden the spare key to the front door.
By the time I made it down to the open-backed wagon, which we generally used whenever we took trips to Boston for supply runs, Connor was at the stable to fetch a horse to lead us. I climbed in the back of the wagon and wrapped a blanket over my shoulders.
I offered one to Kanen'tó:kon, who sat in the front seat, but he declined. "I don't see a horse," I said. "How did you get here, might I ask?"
"I got a ride. The roads are treacherous, so tell Ratonhnhaké:ton to be careful."
It took a moment for me to realise that Kanen'tó:kon did not know the name Connor. It was as unfamiliar to him as rain was to a desert. To him, his friend was Ratonhnhaké:ton, and only that. Connor did not exist.
By the time Connor had returned and hitched up a horse, the skies had darkened further, and we teased that it was almost as dark as Connor's anger. This at least cracked a smile from his stony face as he climbed in to the driver's seat next to Kanen'tó:kon.
And so we set off down the road, with the two men sitting in the front, and me in the back, bundled in blankets like some tramp. Connor and Kanen'tó:kon kept up conversation as we went, sometimes in English while others in Kanien'kéha - not that I minded either.
The wagon trundled along, and I shuddered along with it while I pulled my blankets tighter around myself. As we came to a crossroads, Kanen'tó:kon said, "I will depart from you here."
Though he hid it well, Connor was disappointed that his friend was leaving so soon. "Oh?" he said. "Will you not come with us to Boston? Your aid would be welcomed."
Kanen'tó:kon shook his head. "We both know that we are not welcomed by the colonists. You can dress yourself to blend in among them, but it is not so easy for me. Enhskón:ken." (I'll see you soon)
"Ó:nen ki whi," (Goodbye for now) Connor said and stopped the wagon so his friend could get off.
Kanen'tó:kon gave me the blanket with a knowing grin. "It was pleasant to meet you, Cassandra."
"You too." I smiled back at him. "I hope you don't have to walk too far in this snow."
He waved it off. "I have faced worse, little pale one. Some snow is nothing." As he walked away, a bold dark figure against the snow, he turned over his shoulder and called, "Wakatsennón:nih Sha'tekohsehra." (Happy Sha'tekohsehra*)
I waved until he disappeared into the trees, and then Connor twisted around to face me. "Do I not get a blanket, no?"
"No." I pulled them away from him.
He withdrew. "Fine, then. At least sit beside me and keep me company."
"I'm quite happy back here, thank you very much." I nuzzled my face into the blankets.
"Fine." He turned away again and tapped the reins against the horse, and the wagon jarred into motion once more. "I will just sit here, then," he said. "Alone."
I sighed. "Oh, you prick." As I climbed into the seat beside him, I shrugged off one of the blankets and dumped it over his shoulders. He shoved me with his elbow, digging right into my ribs, and I coughed out my breath before whacking him across the head.
If anything, it lightened his mood - and that was all I had wanted, if even just for a moment. The storm clouds dissipated, but not for good.
That was fine with me. I did not live in the future. I lived in the time of now, and now, Connor was smiling softly with amusement, now Connor was tugging the blanket tighter around him, and for now, that was all I needed.
Notes:
* the first day of the week-long Mohawk celebration of Midwinter, which takes place five days after the first new moon following the winter solstice. Sha'tekohsehra is the day of the stirring of the ashes; the ashes symbolising the body of Mother Earth and her renewal at the turn of the year.
Chapter Text
The snows had not yet hit the city, and as a result the ground was a cold slush under the wheels of the wagon as we drove in that evening. Shadows were long dark fingers against the wet ground, gleaming with mud and ice. Leaving the horse and wagon at a trusted stable, Connor and I made our way to the docks after asking the stable hand where we might find Sam Adams. I pulled my shawl over my head to block out the chill of the air.
We saw Adams at the same time; he was talking with three other men, each bundled up against the cold. We glanced at each other, and I whispered to Connor, "Should we interrupt?"
Connor shook his head and murmured back, "They might be talking about important matters."
Indeed, as we waited by the corner of a stinking fishery, one of Adams's accomplices, whom I recognised to be Paul Revere said: "Look: sanctions and demonstrations won't suffice, Sam. We need to act - and I'm talking about more than just a sternly-worded letter."
"I sympathise with your frustrations, gentlemen," Adams said when a few others grumbled in agreement, "but surely you can understand my reluctance to kick the hornet's nest."
"The Tories sting no matter what we do," Revere snapped. "Might as well make it count."
Adams visibly sighed, and he mouthed Lord, give me strength and raised his eyes to the heavens. As he looked around he caught sight of me and Connor, and his face filled with relief. "Ah, my friends," he said. "What brings you to Boston?"
I was glad to walk away from the fishery; though the winter did not bring a particularly plentiful catch, the stink of the fish had soaked through and permeated the rope nets and wooden tables. At my side, Connor said to Adams, "You."
A brief smile ghosted over Adams's mouth as he turned back to the men with whom he was speaking, splaying his hands helplessly. "Would you excuse us, fellows?"
We came no closer; Adams approached us and tucked his hands, pink with the cold, into his pockets. "Thank you," he said quietly. "That conversation was about to turn unpleasant. Now, what can I do for you?"
I said, "We were hoping you could help us to locate William Johnson."
"Of course." Adams stepped around a small crowd which had gathered at a corner to protest. "I'm heading to a meeting with some men who should be able to help. Why don't you come along?"
Riots and protests had become more common in the streets as of late as more people began to take a stand against taxes and slavery - two heavy issues. I'd seen slave auctions before, and lately the crowds that gathered by them were so violent and angry that the auctioneers were forced to leave. Abolitionist sentiment was growing rapidly, following the example of England: only in 1772 did England outlaw slave trade within her borders - the first country in the world to do such a thing, and slowly the Massachusetts courts were following suit.
"It's good to see people finally taking a stand against injustice," said Adams with a nod at the protesters.
"Says the man who owns a slave," Connor said rather sharply.
"Who, Surry?" Adams raised an eyebrow at the mention of her name. "I practice what I preach, my friend. She's not a slave but a free woman - at least on paper. Men's minds are not so easily turned. It's a tragedy that for all our progress, we still cling to such barbarism."
"Then speak out against it," I said and gestured to the people. "They do."
"We must focus first on defending our rights." He said it like it was a situation with natural superiority - like all people are equal but some people are more equal than others. It disgusted me. "When this is done," Adams continued, "we will have the luxury of addressing these other matters."
"You speak as though your condition is equal to that of the slaves. It is not." Connor's face revealed nothing, but had he been an animal he would have been lashing his tail and baring his teeth.
"Tell that to my neighbour, who is compelled to quarter British troops," huffed Adams. "Or to my friend, whose store was closed because he displeased the crown. The people here are no freer than Surry."
"You offer excuses instead of solutions," said Connor in a low voice. "All people should be equal, and not in turns."
"It's in turns, or not at all." Gesturing widely around at the people gathered in the slush and the ice, Adams went on: "We must compromise, however painful that may be. Try and solve all the world's problems at the same time and you'll wind up solving none at all."
I could tell Connor wasn't finished fighting his case - how could he be, when his people were some of the most oppressed in this this nation? I was sure he would have continued to argue had our attention not been drawn to a commotion between a group of redcoats and a rather angry French man.
"Hey," the French man snapped, leaning out of his first floor window to make obscene gestures at the soldiers below. "It's my home no matter what you thieves called taxmen say. If the gumps in parliament want to take my property, you tell them to sail across the pond and take it themselves."
"It's not open for discussion," the leading redcoat, the tax collector, fired back. "Now open this door, or these men will break it down."
Lip curled, the French man ducked away from his window for a few moments, much to the anger of the tax collector. He returned moments later with his chamber pot and, with a self-righteous grin, dumped its contents out into the street; the tax collector barely managed to dive out of the way as the contents splashed across the mud and ice.
"Bollocks," the tax collector cried in disgust. "We're coming in!" With his teeth bared fiercely, he slammed the butt of his musket into the window beside the French man's door. The glass cracked but did not shatter.
Within moments of the damage being done, the door swung open and the French man charged out, arms swinging, and tackled the tax collector off his porch and into the chamber pot puddle.
"I trust the mounting evidence is proof enough," muttered Adams.
"Continue on," said Connor. "We shall meet you at the Rolling Bear."
Already a crowd had formed a ring around the pair of fighting figures; the French man had the tax collector pinned down and was punching him repeatedly. No words passed between me and Connor before we pushed our way in to the circle. One of the redcoats tried to pry the French man from atop the leader, to no avail. Connor swiftly stepped in to pull the soldier off.
At this new display of conflict, two more redcoats whirled around to fend Connor off, thinking him a civilian. I carefully avoided stepping in the puddle of chamber pot goop and threw a punch at the nearest redcoat.
He staggered back, clutching his jaw, and the other redcoat whirled around, bayonet in hand. I ducked when he made to slice me with the blade and kicked his knees; as he collapsed I yanked the bayonet from his grip and swung it at him. I barely had time to register the impact of the heavy bayonet making contact with the man's head before I was grabbed from behind.
I sucked in a deep breath, widening my ribs as much as I could, and dug my elbows into the man's stomach behind me. He spluttered and his grip loosened; I used the opportunity swing around and shoot his foot.
At the sound of the gunshot the crowd scattered like ants, and as the smoke cleared I could see that the redcoats, too, were beginning to flee. I stepped back, showing my palms as the man I had been grappling with climbed to his feet and limped away. Connor watched them go, face unreadable.
The French man remained on his knees; his breaths turned to mist in the icy air. "Justice for once," he spat. "I dare the governor to send more."
Connor studied him for a moment: his red hair was damp and flat on his head, and pulled back from a lined face with a grubby kerchief. "You all right?" he asked.
"I'm fine." The man waved off Connor's guarded concern. "It's not my first dance," he continued. "For all their teeth and claws, these little foxes, they fight like puppies." He hauled himself to his feet and dusted off his clothes; he had mercifully managed to avoid the puddle. He held out a hand to us both. "Thank you, my friends. I'd buy you an ale but I'm expected somewhere else."
As he left us, casting furtive glances over his shoulder every so often, I turned to Connor and said, "So where are we meeting Adams?"
"Do you ever listen?" he huffed, reaching out to straighten my shawl, which had fallen askew in the scuffle.
I whacked his hand away. "You know where we're going?"
He made a face at me. "Obviously. I should hate for you to think me a halfwit."
"I think so anyway," I muttered.
He pretended to ignore me; I noted that his navigation skills had improved significantly as he led me easily through the winding streets to the Rolling Bear. He gave me a smug, self-righteous grin as he held the door open for me. The tavern was deliciously warm inside, and when I glanced around I saw a blazing hearth; I wished I could go to it, that I might warm my hands.
As Connor gently closed the door behind us, Adams called: "You two. I'd like you to meet some like-minded friends. The owner of this fine establishment, William Molineux–" he gestured to a grey-haired, aristocratic looking man sitting beside him at the bar, who waved at the mention of his name– "and the manager and chef of this fine establishment, Stephane Chapheau."
A few beats passed before the door to the back room opened and the French man poked his head out at the mention of his name. When I recognised him I raised my eyebrows, and he met my eyes with a wide grin.
"Ah!" he cried. "This fine pair and I just had a ball with some redcoats enforcing some taxmen outside my home."
"Glad to see you're already acquainted," Adams said as Chapheau shook our hands and learnt our names.
"The collectors grow bolder and more forceful," Molineux said. "Something we must address, Samuel."
"Then let us raise a banner." Adams raised a fist. "Something to let the people know that they are not alone. The docks are an angry place of late, protesters picketing the latest shipments of British tea. The eyes of the city are on that stage."
"A Bostonian without his tea is a dangerous beast!" joked Chapheau.
Molineux remained somber. "William Johnson is smuggling the tea off the ships," he said. "One of his men tried to sell me this." He pulled a small wooden box from his pocket and opened the lid to show a ration of tea. "A sample of what I refused, but it's from those ships - no mistaking the stamp. He's charging a king's ransom. Must be he's making a mint off those who buy it."
"Where is he now?" said Connor, lacing his fingers together.
"I've never met the man," Molineux said.
"May I ask why you two seek him?" asked Adams.
"He intends to purchase the land upon which my village stands," Connor said, "without the consent of my people."
"No doubt the revenue from his little smuggling endeavour is financing the acquisition," Adams grumbled. "A tax enforced on tea grants a boon to smugglers. I'll wager the same men who levy the taxes are selling the tea. A stage requires a spectacle - and I may know the play." He thought for a few moments, then his eyes brightened and he addressed us: "Head to the docks and see to the destruction of the tea. That should send a message."
I met Connor's eyes for a heartbeat as he held the door open for me, and I slipped outside once more. The cold wasn't quite as much of a shock, given that I had not grown used to the warmth of the tavern.
"Why can't those old piss-pots destroy the tea themselves?" I grumbled to Connor. "We've only just arrived here."
"Hush," he said, his dark eyes lifting to something just behind me. "I might see an opportunity."
I had scarcely turned when a man, carrying a wooden crate, turned a corner and began to walk in our direction. When faced with a woman and an Indian, he assumed he was the superior being here and expected us, as lesser people, to move aside.
Whatever idea Connor had had, I trusted it. He lay a light hand on my upper back to spur me into a walk; neither of us glanced in the direction of the approaching man nor did we acknowledge that he was there.
When Connor bumped shoulders with said man he did so rather roughly, causing the man to drop his crate. The wood cracked open and the goods it carried spilled into the mud. Connor didn't look back. "Pardon me," he said.
"Come on, mate," the man groaned behind us.
Stopping dead in his tracks, I hardly had time to look up at Connor before my friend turned and stalked back towards the man, who, realising that he was in Connor's line of fire, took a few steps back. The tip of Connor's shoe brushed one of the spilled goods and he deliberately looked down, which gave the man a chance to flee. When I got to Connor's side I, too, looked down at what had spilled: piles and piles of tea.
Connor bent down and picked some up, offering it to me half-jokingly. "Want some?"
I wasn't joking. "Well, if it's free," I said, stuffing it in to my pocket. "You are a genius, my friend."
"I know," he said with a rather angelic smile.
Destroying the tea was easy; Connor produced a spill from his pocket ("I didn't know you smoked," I'd said, to which he'd replied, "I don't.") and lit the end of it with one of the hanging lanterns by the pier and we set about lighting the barrels of gunpowder which had been stacked by the dock after the last shipment a few hours ago.
After that was finished we left the dock, stinking of smoke and gunpowder, though warmer now as the need to run for cover bested the winter cold. I had half a mind to buy both of us a hot chocolate (after all, we did deserve it) when something made me pause.
At the corner of a building, shivering violently in the cold, were two children. Their grimy hands were outstretched before them; their lips were blue and trembling. The younger one, hardly older than five, huddled closer to the side of his older brother, who lay a thin arm around his shoulders. Someone had given them a grubby blanket to shelter under.
A man passed by, using his hat as a wind blocker, and even where I stood I could hear his pocket jingling with coins. Keeping one arm tightly around his shivering brother, the elder child reached out his hand a little higher, and I could see his lips move as he asked for money.
"Get away from me, fucking rat," the man snapped, slapping the child's hand away.
As the man left, I tapped Connor's arm once and approached the pair of children, unwinding my shawl from around my shoulders. I knelt before them and wrapped the wool around the youngest, who was suffering the worst with the cold, and against all better judgement I kissed his little forehead. The pair only looked up at me with wide, tired eyes.
When I got back to Connor, the cold quite severe against my now-bare neck, I said quietly, "Before we return I'd like to do something."
He didn't say anything but I knew he knew as I led him to the market street to see what I could find. This late in winter there were no fresh fruits or vegetables for sale, only a variety of salted meats and dried fruits, but further up the street I saw fresh fish on ice.
I emptied my pockets of money and gave half to Connor. "Buy some of these," I said. "I'll get fish."
I left him there at the market stalls and made my own way to the fish stalls, counting through the money in my hand. Unsure whether a pair of young children would be able to successfully light a fire and cook a fish, I bought only one, but it was from a fresh batch and its scales were still gleaming.
By the time I returned to Connor I was shivering, for though there was no snow the air seemed twice as sharp, or perhaps it was just me mourning the loss of my shawl. But when I saw those children again, wrapped in that wool (in our absence the younger had shared with his brother), my heart ached.
They both recognised me, but only the elder child was brave enough to speak. "Thank you," he said.
I smiled as tenderly as I could and approached the pair again, this time with Connor by my side. "I have no money for you–"
(This was true, as I had spent most of it on food)
"I don't want to take your money, miss," the boy said. "You've done enough for us."
"–but we have this instead." I held out the fish to them, which was wrapped in soggy paper, and Connor offered his own bag of food.
The boy leaned forward, keeping his arm around his brother, and peered at what we offered. "Are we allowed to pick one?" he asked timidly.
"They're all for you," I said, and in that moment I would have endured any pain, any hardship, if it meant that these children would smile like they did.
"Holy donkey," the younger murmured, his words broken up by shivers.
"Holy donkey," I repeated quietly and placed the bags down before them. "Now, eat these up, all right? Don't let any bullies take them from you."
"Thank you," the elder boy said again, and I saw how close he was to tears. Having nothing to give, he held out a dirty hand to us both. "Thank you," he said again as we gently shook his hand. "Thank you."
When we left the children we were in a subdued silence for a few moments. As evening began to close in the shadows grew longer and colder, and as the ground slowly got darker it became more and more difficult to see the safe patches to walk on.
Eventually I shivered. "Can't wait to get back to the Rolling Bear," I muttered. "It's bloody cold."
"That was a really beautiful thing you did back there," Connor said quietly.
I smiled at the ground. "Just doing my moral duty as a citizen of America."
"It is more than that," Connor said. "I have never seen anyone treat people like those children with such. . . tenderness."
My smile faltered. "They don't deserve it," I said sadly. "None of it. Surry doesn't deserve it. You don't deserve it."
His own smile hid a sadness I couldn't bear to look at. "It is funny, is it not?" he murmured. "Those who deserve the worst receive the best, and those who deserve the best receive all of the world's damnation."
We faded into silence again, permeated only by the soft buzz of the city as she prepared for the night, and the sound of our own footsteps on the frozen ground. A scrawny cat tried to slink by but I insisted on stopping to pet it.
Eventually I began to shiver so much that my shaking hand scared the cat away. "What's a girl got to do to get a warm hug around here?" I muttered.
When I stood up Connor was already opening his coat with a resigned look on his face. I took his invitation and nestled against his side; he pulled the coat around me so we both shared it, and his hand came to rest on my shoulder.
"In the name of body heat," he said.
"Yeah, yeah," I mumbled and left it at that. I could feel his heart beating by my head and it soothed me: to know that he, too, had a heart; that he, too, was human. He was my friend, and sometimes it was easy to forget that, underneath it all, he was a person, too. Sometimes it is easy for one to forget that the world is filled with other people living their own lives; listening to his heart beating, then, reminded me that while I was living my life, he was right by my side living his. Very humbling thoughts: to know that one is not the centre of the universe no matter how hard one may try.
I watched him out of the corner of my eye. His eyes were fixed on his feet as though he were counting his steps. Grey light danced across his face, highlighting his cheekbones and the slope of his nose. Winter had dulled the rich golden tones from his hair, which the summer sun had bleached; winter had dulled the light from his eyes, too - though perhaps that was only due to recent events.
"You look quite pretty," I told him.
He looked back to me then. "What am I, a woman?"
I grinned, and when he smiled back my stomach swooped; like fireworks had gone off inside me for just a moment, but then it was gone and I was walking through the frost-bitten street with Connor. . . like I had felt nothing.
"Pity I've no money left, now," I said to break the silence. "I wanted to buy us some hot chocolate. We deserve it."
Connor's eyes narrowed. "Milk or water?"
"Milk, I think," I said, but Connor winced. "You don't drink milk?"
He shook his head and dug a hand into his pocket before handing me a few notes. "No. Buy yourself one. Take it as a gift from me."
I needed no telling twice and steered us towards a shop where I might buy some. Chocolate was an expensive commodity (it was shipped specially all the way from Mexico!), and I had only had it once before in my childhood, but the memory had stuck with me ever since.
I ordered two drinks but only one with milk, and when I had paid I gave one of the steaming cups to Connor. "So what's the beef between you and milk, anyway?" I said.
He sipped his drink. "I will be sick all over your dress and I will have no regrets about it. None."
"Is this just spite talking?" I teased.
"No," he said. "No one in my village drinks it, as we do not keep cattle. As a result, we physically cannot drink it. No tolerance."
"Poor darling." I tried to pat his head, but in my awkward position I only reached his cheek. "I can tell you're really mourning not having the opportunity to drink milk."
"Oh, absolutely. I cry myself to sleep about it."
"Really?" I scrunched up my face at him.
The look he gave me was utterly blank. "Do I look like the sort of person who cries himself to sleep?"
I considered this for a moment. "No," I said. "You look like the type who makes other people cry themselves to sleep."
He grinned again, and a flash of sunlight illuminated the bone necklace at the base of his throat. "Good," he said. "I should hate to be disappointing."
"You'll have to work on it," I said. "I'll be really disappointed now if that fire is out at the Rolling Bear. I think I might even cry."
"Then hurry up," he said. "We should get there before that happens, and avoid a public spectacle. You will only embarrass me."
"Fine," I huffed. "Walk faster, then. I want to get there this side of Christmas."
"I hope the fire is out," he muttered.
"What?" I demanded. He didn't reply but he did grin, which, I suppose, was an answer in itself. But I would skin him if the fire was out after all.
Chapter Text
Our hot chocolate was finished by the time we returned to the Rolling Bear, and we weren't so cold anymore; our sharing of Connor's coat had mutually benefitted us both (plus it was my sneaky way of hugging him without threat of being sold). Before we opened the door, however, Connor removed his arm from my shoulder and said, "Out."
I tried to hide my disappointment by saying, "Scared I'll embarrass you?"
"Yes, actually," he said as I stepped away from him. "My public image is at stake."
I snorted at that. "The only thing that's at stake is your ability to walk if that fire isn't still lit, which–" I added, peering through the window– "it is. You're safe for now."
"Like you could hurt me," he teased.
I glared up at him. "I'll beat you to death with your own leg." Giving him no time to form a reply, I opened the door to greet the heavenly warmth. Adams and Molineux were gone; the tavern, in spite of its warmth, felt cold - like a heart that had stopped beating. My footsteps were oddly loud as I stepped inside.
Even Connor sensed the eerie silence and closed the door very gently behind him. He glanced around; we were, indeed, alone - but when I heard a sound in the back room I near jumped out of my skin.
In spite of it all, I saw Connor's mouth twitch with a repressed smile, but it disappeared as there was another sound, slightly louder, from the back room. I was closer to the back door than Connor was, and placed a tentative hand on the knob, my heart roaring in my ears. Behind me, I knew Connor was watching, hands ready to reach for a weapon.
I don't know what I was expecting, but it wasn't Chapheau stabbing a butcher knife into a paper document over and over. Dim lamplight caught hold of his red hair and turned it to flame.
"Chapheau," I said softly. "What's wrong? Where is everyone?"
"Who cares?" he snapped. "I've been robbed." He tore his knife viciously from the shredded paper and held the sheet up to the light: a notice of eviction.
I stepped back hurriedly as he gripped his knife once more and stomped past me. "I cannot escape the English," he hissed under his breath, "no matter where I go. They kick me out of my home; I come here. Now they want to take my new home. Bah!"
"Where are you going?" said Connor as Chapheau stormed out the door, letting a cold draught ruffle the comfortable flames of the hearth.
"To get back what's rightfully mine," Chapheau snapped again, paying no heed to the slowly dying sunlight nor the patches of ice on the ground.
Connor sighed. "I will go with him and try to make sure he does nothing too stupid."
"I'll find Adams and Molineux," I said.
"You know where their meeting is?"
"The Old South Meeting House is a safe bet," I said, "I'll start there."
He nodded, already backing away in the direction of Chapheau's fuming figure. "Very well. I will meet you there - fill me in if I miss anything."
And then I was alone and shivering, as Connor had taken my only means of warming myself - which happened to be himself. It didn't take me long to get to the Meeting House as I kept to the main street (at this hour of the day there were many more creeps in the back alleys). I crossed my arms firmly over my chest in an effort to preserve some warmth as I walked; I had hardly any money left - certainly not enough to buy myself a new shawl.
I wasn't alone when I arrived, however: Molineux was waiting outside, too, standing on the outskirts of a small crowd waiting by the door. When he saw me he seemed to perk up. "Ah," he said; the tip of his nose was red from the cold, "Catherine, was it?"
"Cassandra, actually," I said, glancing down at his legs; one trouser leg was rolled higher than the other, a signature of the Masons.
"I apologise," he said immediately. "I'm terrible with names. Goodness, it's cold this winter. When I saw you earlier," he added, "you wore a shawl, but you appear to have lost it along the way. No cause for worry - the meeting should be over soon."
I leaned against the wall of the building to shelter myself against the wind. "Has it been on long?"
"We left around the same time as you did," he said. "It won't be long now."
Seeing I would get no information from Molineux, I merely nodded, holding my arms tighter to my chest, and would have zoned out then and there had the people by the door not started a conversation that sparked my interest.
"I hear they've resolved to send the three ships back," a man said, "cargo and all."
"Aye–" a buck-toothed woman nodded– "but Governor Hutchinson refuses to let them leave. Wants us to take the tea, pay the duties, and say thank you kindly to the king."
"The king can kindly kiss my ass," the man grumbled, tugging a pair of gloves over his hands.
"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" another man sniggered.
The first speaker did not find it so funny. "You can kiss it, too."
"Enough," the woman snapped. "What hope have we of resisting if we're arguing amongst ourselves?"
Another man raised his fist to pound on the door and muttered, "If Adams keeps giving these speeches he's apt to end up in the stocks."
The woman next to him grabbed his arm before he could touch the door. "They wouldn't dare," she said.
"I've seen men punished for far less," the man insisted.
"If the Tories think that'll quiet the people," the woman said, wrapping her shawl (which I was increasingly envious of) tighter around her, "they've another thing coming. They touch a hair on his head and he becomes a martyr."
Conversation ceased for a few minutes, and movement at the street corner had me looking up: Connor had arrived with Chapheau; he glanced around the street once before deeming it safe to cross the road. When Connor came to a stop beside me he left a generous space between us.
"What have I missed?" he asked.
"Nothing at all," I said. "We're just waiting for this meeting to end."
He nodded and quickly filled me in on what had happened with Chapheau (who was explaining himself to Molineux): Connor had followed Chapheau to the dock (where another shipment of tea had just come in; the last one of the evening) and discovered that it was William Johnson who gave the orders to the tax collectors. Chapheau had subsequently pledged his allegiance to the Brotherhood - he would be our eyes in the streets when we weren't around.
I gave it a moment to sink in. "Any help is welcome," I said. "It'll be good to have an extra pair of eyes."
Nodding in silent agreement, he made a gesture with his hand to hush me as the conversation of the group next to us started again:
The man who had spoken first was now pacing the cobbled path, keeping a wary eye out for patches of ice. "Muskets will do what words won't," he said.
"Quiet!" his friend hissed, casting a furtive look around the street as though dreading the sight of those red coats. "Do you want to be hanged for treason?"
The first man did not share these concerns. "There's nothing treasonous about calling for freedom."
"Tell it to the king and his cronies," his friend muttered.
On a rant now, the first speaker paid no attention to the words of his friend and waved him off as though he were naught but an irksome fly. "Men like Adams, they talk and talk and nothing. Happens. Naught will change until we act."
"Give it time," his friend tried to soothe, but he snapped back, "I've given more than any man should. We all have."
He said no more. This seemed to have affected the overall mood of the entire group, for they all stood in a newfound silence, scuffing their feet in the mud.
"What happens now?" I said quietly.
Molineux, who had been looking at his pocket watch, said, "We wait for the signal."
The street was still and silent, save for the gentle hissing of the wind between chimney pots. I frowned. "What signal?"
A moment later the doors opened and a myriad of voices, both male and female, pierced the quiet of the street. "That one," Molineux said and bade us step away from the doors.
All at once the group of people began their clamour once more as those who had attended the meeting left the building with the airs of men who had solved the world's every problem. When Adams saw us waiting for him, he beamed.
"Good evening, lady and gentlemen–" he caught my eye with a good-natured wink– "shall we be off?"
"No," Connor said.
This shocked Adams for a moment and he stopped in his tracks. "What's the matter?"
Connor's face was unreadable - but by now this was no surprise to me. I had noticed that as he got older he became more and more difficult to read; like he purposely shut himself off; like he had built a wall around himself to protect a soft and vulnerable soul; a wall so high that none could climb it. A wall to keep the pain out.
But maybe I wanted to climb that wall. Maybe I wanted to tear it down with my bare hands.
"We have spent today," Connor said (and his ever-soft tone had been replaced with something sharper), "drawn from one bit of madness to another with nothing to show for it. Before we go any further I would like to know exactly what it is you intend."
"Of course." Adams still sounded surprised. "First we make our way to Nathaniel Bradlee's house to fetch the rest of our little group; then it's off to Griffin's Wharf where we board the ships and dump the tea. Simple as that."
"Simple seems a bit charitable," muttered Connor.
Adams looked like he would have patted Connor's arm to comfort him, but hastily thought better of it and said, "Cheer up, for tonight we are all victors: the Sons of Liberty get to send a message to England, and you get to rob William Johnson of his financing. Your village will be saved!"
Connor and I locked eyes for a few moments, and an unspoken understanding passed between us. "We'll meet you at Griffin's Wharf," I said.
"Will you not come with us?" said Molineux. "We are fetching disguises, too, and perhaps it would do well for the two of you to wear–" He broke off when Adams elbowed him in the ribs and hissed something in his ear. Regaining his composure, Molineux said, "Right. Of course. We will meet the pair of you there."
"How long will you be?" I asked.
"Shouldn't be more than an hour," he said, glancing at us over his shoulder as the men left.
Connor watched them leave. "I dislike them," he said. "Chapheau is decent but the other two. . ."
I understood that. "We must be careful," I said, "ere they stab us in the back."
It didn't take us long to get to Griffin's Wharf, and the sky was a purplish cloud-covered blanket over our heads. The wind was freezing - too cold for snow. While we waited for the rest of our group to arrive, Connor, once again, and very kindly, let me shelter in his coat with him. He radiated a strong warmth beside me, and I debated slipping my cold hands up his shirt and on to his back, but I just knew he would cut my hands off then and there. So I let him be.
Over time more people had gathered by the harbour, where three ships - the Beaver, the Dartmouth and the Eleanor - had moored; even from here I could see their cargo: crates and crates of tea. Enough to last decades. And we were going to dump it?
I began to mourn the loss of the tea before it was even gone. Without looking at me, Connor said, "Do not be sad about the tea. Material things are not worth such emotion."
"But it's tea," I mumbled.
He mimicked me and then said, "So? It could be worse."
"How could it possibly be worse?"
Now he looked down at me, his eyes glinting in the fading light, and his grin was utterly wicked. "It could be raisin cookies."
I gaped up at him. "I would cry."
"Oh, I know," he said.
The sun had set fully, and the sky was a dark grey mass of clouds and smoke above us, by the time the rest of the group arrived - and they brought more people with them. At first I was unsure if it was indeed them, for they wore different clothes, but I recognised Chapheau trailing behind them (he was the only one not wearing a disguise), and as they passed a brightly-lit window I could see their clothes more clearly, and my heart dropped.
They were dressed like the Kanien'kehá:ka.
As they drew closer Connor stiffened, watching them approach with a deadly calm expression - looking for all the world as though he were merely distracted; but his arm tightened ever so slightly over my shoulder, and I knew how this blatant display of disrespect towards his people had hit him. These men would publically dress themselves as the innocent Kanien'kehá:ka and then blame tonight's actions on them - surely only a coward would think of such a thing.
Adams was oblivious to all of this and beamed like he thought himself a genius - was this his idea, or the suggestion of someone else? "Greetings again, friends," he said when he was close enough. "A fine night for a tea party, eh?"
Connor gave him a cold once-over and did not reply. I spoke for both of us: "What's the plan?"
It was more difficult to recognise the Sons of Liberty with their disguises and painted faces, but after a few moment's scrutiny I did see Paul Revere and Francis Akeley. A few of the men finally copped on when they saw just who Connor was, and had the decency to look sheepish. I stepped out from under Connor's coat (trying not to let them see me cringe as the cold air attacked me) and glared at them; I knew this was in vain, however, because I looked too young and as such I was always underestimated.
Adams briefly explained the plan: Revere and a few others would keep watch for the redcoats while the rest of us boarded the three ships and dumped the tea in to the harbour. A plan so simple in its method that I had trouble believing it to be true.
As the Sons of Liberty ran to the ships, cheered on by the gathering crowd, I looked at Connor, mouth pressed thin. "Bastards," I muttered.
His eyes had never left them. "I will skin them all," he said quietly.
I did not doubt that. "I know," I said, "but we need to prioritise. Johnson's tea comes first, so that your village may remain free."
He did not like this plan one bit but he gave in. "Fine. Let's get this over with, then."
I cannot accurately put into words the acute level of pain I felt as we dumped the boxes and boxes of tea into the ocean. Around us, the ships and the dock were utter chaos: people had gathered, screaming and cheering, at the dock as we filled the decks of the ships; the hurried movements of the people on board resembled scattering rats. The Sons of Liberty were easily distinguished by their disguises, and every time I saw them a sour taste came in to my mouth.
Salty water splashed up and rained on my face with every crate we dumped; my sleeves became damp with it; the cold night air took hold of it and turned it against me; twisting a knife in an open wound. Connor reached over to help me to lift a particularly heavy box when someone gave a shout.
It was Revere. "Regulars," he called.
All movement on the three ships stilled for just a moment as every eye turned to the streets, where a large group of redcoats had indeed come to investigate the source of the noise at this hour. One or two broke away from the main group to scout for back-up while the rest took their muskets in their hands and charged for the ships.
But we had the support of the onlooking crowd, and they surged against the redcoats like a tidal wave, pushing them back, back, back. . .
One of them fired a shot into the air, and the crowd lost control. As redcoat reinforcements arrived, panic began to spread, slow as treacle. "They will not open fire," Connor muttered to me. "Not after the backlash of the Massacre."
That was true. If the soldiers dared to shoot a civilian there would be riots. Still, I couldn't help looking over my shoulder as I emptied the crates into the water, which swirled below us like ink in a well.
I could count the number of tea crates left, now. We were almost there. There was so much tea in the water that England would probably be able to taste it tomorrow.
Honestly, in spite of my devastation at the colossal waste of tea, I thought we were doing rather well - until another shot was fired into the air and the crowd scattered. The redcoats pushed their way through the crowd; blood oozing from an open wound. Connor and I shared a look, the empty crate now suspended between our hands like the world had frozen.
Everything seemed to have slowed down, like we were breathing in honey, and sounds were muffled as though we were trapped under water. The wind held its breath; even the waves lapping against the sides of the ships calmed their icy rage as those soldiers advanced.
The world jolted back into place as they started to climb on board. I didn't want to get my hopes up, but Connor's words brought me a small amount of peace of mind. They wouldn't kill us - if they were to open fire they would shoot to wound.
One of the soldiers came running towards us; as one Connor and I turned and swung the heavy wooden box at him, and he collapsed as it struck him a blow across his chest that knocked the air out of him.
And then Connor was torn away from me to fend off another soldier, and I dropped the crate with a heavy thud. Someone close by fired another shot into the air, and through the haze of smoke I saw those red coats, like drops of blood, slowly filling the deck. Most of the tea was, by now, in the water, and there was nothing anyone could do about that. This crime was not worthy of execution, at any rate - arrest was the worst that could happen.
I was the only woman on board and the redcoats saw it - one after another they came for me, thinking to grab me and haul me away because I would be an easy opponent. I proved each of them how wrong they were when they all stumbled away from me, clutching their ribs or their jaws.
Having lost sight of Connor in the chaos, I focused on standing my ground. Someone took a swing at me with a bayonet, and I lifted the crate at my feet to use it as a shield. As the thick wood dulled the impact of the blade, I pushed the redcoat back with the box and struck him with it. When he fell another took his place, and I hit him with the crate, too - but then the wood shattered, weakened as it was, and I tripped at the sudden momentum.
I scarcely had time to straighten myself before I caught half of Connor's strained call, "Cassa–"
The rest was drowned out as another shot went off, and I cried out as a sharp, burning pain ripped through my shoulder. I stumbled over the chunks of wood at my feet and fell to my knees; I pressed a hand to my shoulder and it came away red.
As I hauled myself to my feet I picked one of the jagged chunks of wood from the ground. I would have used my wrist blades had my intent been to kill, but my motive was not death on this night. Not when the faces of those children still floated before my eyes.
The fabric of my dress was warm and sticky against my skin, but I ignored it, ignored the pain in my shoulder, as I swung my piece of wood like a sword against the soldier who had shot me. He ducked back and tried to jab the butt of his bayonet between my ribs; I only just blocked in time, but the impact shuddered up my arms and made my shoulder burn. I gritted my teeth against the pain and lashed out with the wood again, the pointed end scored a long red line down the man's cheek.
He wore no hat, and in the moonlight his blond hair was almost white. His was a young face, elf-like in every way save for his cold, hard eyes. As his blood dribbled down his chin, he met my eyes and smirked at me, using his gun to push me further back.
I was getting closer to the edge, and below me the black water churned like some beast far below was writhing. I didn't look back as he swung again, as my shoes slid on the wet deck planks.
He lashed out again with the blade of his bayonet, and I tried to block it with the broad side of my makeshift weapon, but the blade embedded itself in the wood and ripped it from my hands. I instinctively stepped back–
–and slipped on the deck and fell to the water below.
*
I didn't register the cold at first; all was numb, and for a moment I questioned if I had even fallen in the first place. My shoulder was on fire, and I tried to press my hand to it - everything was slow.
My chest ached and, slowly, the cold began to seep in. I knew that if I panicked I would drown, but I couldn't help kicking my legs uselessly. My feet only became tangled in my dress. Why had I worn a dress today?
I opened my eyes and the salt water stung like someone had thrown sand in my face. I imagined the salt particles seeping into my eyes, trapping themselves under my eyelids, coating my eyelashes in crystals.
Though the world around me was still and silent, I knew I was sinking. My dress, my corset, my weapons. . . I pulled my hand from my wound, keeping my injured arm close to my chest, and began to tear at the strings of my corset. Perhaps if it was off the pressure on my chest would ease and I would be able to breathe and I would float back to the surface. . .
I had managed to rip a few of the strings free when a dark shape came into my view, high above me, blocking out the moonlight. I thought it to be a shark, and I cried out, but all that came from me was a stream of bubbles. My blood had attracted a shark–
This was it, this was the end of me–
As loose hair billowed out before my face and blinded me, the shark bit my hand and I pulled my arm back, but there was no blood, and it bit me again, firmer this time, and then the surface was growing closer; I could almost touch the moonlight.
It wasn't a shark gripping my wrist, I realised, but a hand. With this knowledge I kicked alongside them, and the surface glimmered above us like a mirror; like mist. And then we broke that glass, shattered it, and I gulped down a deep breath of icy air, which had never felt so good before. Still holding my wrist, Connor gave me a look as we swam back to shore (or rather, he swam and I kicked along rather uselessly alongside him). We weren't far and it did not take long for our feet to reach sand. He didn't let go even as we both stepped out of the water, clothes clinging to our bodies like second skins.
Water trickled into his eyes from his dark hair, which hung in dripping rat's tails, and he blinked repeatedly. Though his face remained carefully blank, there was a look in his eyes such that I half expected him to pull me in to a rather uncharacteristic hug, but he only said, "Of everyone on board, I somehow knew it would be you who would fall overboard."
"I was at a disadvantage," I grumbled, pressing a numb hand to my wound.
His eyes followed my hand, followed a thin trail of blood that snaked through my fingers and down my wrist. He did not mention it and instead addressed the strings of my stay: "Undressing so soon? At least buy me dinner first."
The chaos on the ships had not calmed, but slowly the redcoats had outnumbered the Sons of Liberty. I caught a glimpse of Francis Akeley just before he was dragged away by a pair of redcoats, presumably arrested. I didn't care for him, really - not after the disguise he and the rest of that group had taken on.
I looked down at my soaked dress and tried to squeeze some of the water from it. "I wasn't expecting a saviour so I had to improvise. Thank you," I added, "for coming for me."
His mouth twitched with the traces of a gentle smile. "Why would I not?"
Scuffing my ruined leather shoe in the sand, I said timidly, "Does this mean I can hug you now?"
It was only half meant as a joke, and I sure as hell did not expect him to relent, but he said, "Fine," and opened his arms to me.
He did not go rigid when I wrapped my arms around him; he did not freeze as I pressed my head against his chest. He wrapped his own arms around me and held me there. I am unsure how long we stood like that, but we were both shivering, each of us savouring the warmth from the other. What surprised me the most was that I was the first to let go, not Connor - but as soon as I had stepped away his eyes were drawn back to the wound, but he didn't seem to know or care that I had left a bloody patch on his coat.
"We need to get you to someone who can fix that," he said.
"I can do it," I protested.
Raising his eyebrows at me, he said, "I do not particularly wish to see that, thank you."
"You don't have to watch," I huffed. "It will just be me removing the bullet before I get lead poisoning–"
"Lead is not poisonous," Connor said with a frown. "It is a metal."
I nodded seriously. "I've heard that it's poisonous. My grandmother, bless her soul, swore on it. Said she knew someone who knew someone who wore lead makeup every day for twenty-five years, and when she eventually took it off her skin underneath was so red it looked burnt."
He shook his head like he had heard enough, and his eyes lifted to the dock, where Chapheau had managed to force his way past the redcoats. "Connor," he called above the clamour on the ships. "We saved the last one for you."
Connor nodded once, an indication that he had understood, and after a moment he looked back to me. A softness that I had rarely seen entered his eyes as he took me in: soaked and shivering; and without saying a word to me he took his coat off and draped it over my shoulders. It was cold and heavy with water but the thought was there.
As he walked up the dock to meet Chapheau, shirt clinging to his torso, he pushed his hair out of his face, and I looked away. To my right three men stood, pale figures against the shadows, oddly calm amidst the calamity of the Tea Party. I tried not to make it too obvious that I was watching them, though I stood some distance away.
They were looking with vicious intent at something on the dock. Following their collective gaze, my heart dropped into my stomach as I saw that the object of their attention was none other than Connor, who had by now reached Chapheau.
Now uncaring if they knew I was watching them, I stared at their faces and took a step closer. They didn't notice me. Slowly, I began to recognise them - they were the Templars from the basement portraits: Charles Lee, William Johnson and John Pitcairn.
Though we had spent years keeping tabs on them I had never actually seen them in person, and now I was filled with no small amount of cold dread. Why were they here?
As Connor took the crate of tea from Chapheau he noticed the Templars, too, and his eyes did not leave them as he stood on the very edge of the dock. Almost mockingly, he held the crate out towards them, shaking it slightly as if to taunt them. We both knew they wouldn't do anything in such a public setting, so Connor was free to provoke them as he pleased.
He dropped the last crate of tea into the water with such deliberate intent that I couldn't help but laugh. Though his actions were calculated and taunting, his face showed an almost-comically fake apology, like he had dropped the crate by accident - but his eyes never left those three men and it was plain as day to see that it had been anything but accidental.
The Templars looked at one another, a silent agreement passing between them. Johnson, however distressed he may have been inwardly, showed no feeling towards the Tea Party as he turned on his heel and disappeared into the night. Pitcairn and Lee followed after a few moments, not sparing me a second glance but focusing only on Connor.
The wind grew colder, and in vain I pulled Connor's coat tighter around me; the cold was not quite enough to numb the pain in my shoulder. He said something very briefly to Chapheau before swiftly returning to me.
By now I was swaying on my feet, but the sensation of rocking was the only thing keeping me rooted to the ground, the only thing stopping me going stiff with the cold. Connor was visibly shaking with the cold but he did not ask for his coat back; he lay a tender hand on my good shoulder and gently steered me in the direction of the main street; and where his hand touched, roses grew.
We knew the location of every doctor and apothecary in Boston for times like this exact situation, and we wasted no time in reaching the nearest one: a smallish ratty man, bleary-eyed behind his spectacles, for it was late in the night by now. I recognised him as the man who had helped Lydia in delivering Ryan, but he evidently did not seem to recognise me, because he asked our names.
"Catherine," I said.
If he smelled a rat he didn't mention it as he directed us inside. At first I didn't quite feel the heat from the fire, numb as I was, but the mere sight of the glowing embers was enough to ignite a spark of hope.
The doctor bade me sit before the fire while he fetched a few things and lit the oil lamps, and Connor tugged the coat from my shoulders and hung it on a chair to dry. The patch of blood on the coat was painfully obvious but Connor didn't mention it.
At the doctor's order I removed my stay and outer layers of clothing, but before I pulled my shift off my shoulders I looked up at Connor rather sheepishly.
"Could you please turn around?" I said.
He raised his eyebrows, but he obeyed without a word. Once he had done so, the doctor got to work cleaning the wound, removing the bullet, and bandaging my shoulder.
An age seemed to go by before he finished - an age in which all I knew was pain - before he finally said, "All right, Ms. Catherine. The pair of you can stay the night here if you so wish, but that will cost you a little extra."
Without turning, Connor gestured to his coat where his money lay. "We will stay for the night only."
If the doctor had any complaints about having an Indian under his roof, he did not make them known. His thin face betrayed nothing. "Very well," he said. "The spare bedroom is just across the hall on the left. There's another one further up on the right if you'll be needing two."
"One will suffice," said Connor smoothly.
After the doctor and Connor worked out the price of our stay, the doctor asked if he could help with anything else, which we politely refused. "All right," he said. "I'll be in the very last one on the left should you require anything else."
I waited until he had left the room before I told Connor he could turn around again. As I pulled my shift up again I said, "I'm sorry about that."
"Nonsense." He brushed me off. "It was a very interesting wall. I counted thirty-seven cracks and fifty-eight bumps in the plaster, though I am unsure of the accuracy of the latter."
I didn't particularly want to move from my place by the fire, so I spread my wet clothes on chairs and, when there were none left, on the floor in front of the hearth. Left in only my shift, which still clung to me, I took my shoes and my stockings and padded, barefoot, over to the window and opened it.
At the first touch of the icy air on my skin I cringed back, emptying the water from my shoes and squeezing it from my stockings as quickly as I could before I slammed the window shut again. When I turned around I saw that Connor had followed my idea and had also spread his clothes out to dry - soft firelight danced on his bare torso, and I looked away.
As he brushed past me to empty the water out of his own boots, I said, "Undressing so soon? At least buy me dinner first."
His teeth gleamed as he gave a soft laugh. "You use my words against me, woman."
"That's what they're there for." I grinned and lay my shoes and stockings out to dry before sitting on the floor in front of the fire. "Why did you only ask for one room?"
Before he sat he took something from his coat pocket, and with his other hand he pulled his hair loose from its tie. "It was for you. I have no intention of sleeping tonight."
"Well, that makes it awkward for me," I said, "because neither do I. I like to sleep on my side, and unfortunately this shoulder is being a right bastard."
He stretched one leg out to the fire so that his trousers might dry quicker. Reaching between us, he placed something on the floor: a rather soggy pack of cards. "Well, since neither of us will sleep, we may as well pass the time."
I shifted closer to the fire. "I'm afraid I don't know how to play," I said.
He took the top card from the pile and shook it out; tiny drops flew from its corners. "It is a good thing that this paint is oil-based," he muttered, "else my cards would be ruined."
We split the pack between us and worked on drying them one by one. As we laboured on, I looked at him curiously. "I didn't know you played card games."
"I can do a lot worse than play games," he said, eyes glinting almost devilishly. "The crew of the Aquila are very bad influences."
I gaped at him. "Don't tell me you gamble with them."
He only grinned, and his silence was my answer. As the night wore on he taught me to play various games: simple ones at first, then slowly progressing to more difficult ones. The moon was high in the sky when my shift dried somewhat, and I turned so my other side would dry a little faster, careful not to touch the bandage around my shoulder.
"How will I explain this to my parents?" I said quietly.
His dark eyes seemed to soak up the firelight. "That you are playing cards with me?"
I looked out the window; the stars were not visible tonight, shrouded as they were by the dark clouds, heavy with snowfall. "All of it," I murmured. "Tonight. The past few years. I need to tell them. . . but I don't know how. I don't know where to start."
He studied me for a moment, but I don't know what he saw. Something deeper than my damp hair and flushed cheeks; something only he could see. "Start with the truth," he said softly, "and the rest will follow."
I knew that - I knew I needed to tell them. This secret had been slowly eating me for years: how oblivious they all were; the joy on Ryan and Meredith's faces when they saw me again, completely unaware that they may never see me again. How close I had come to death tonight. My stomach churned, and I was distantly glad that we had not eaten dinner.
I bit my lip to keep these thoughts from spilling out, and looked at Connor rather shyly. "Would you come with me?"
He didn't look me in the eye and absentmindedly shuffled his hand of cards around. "Would you like me to go with you?"
As his hair dried it gained volume: I had never realised how thick his hair was until now, for I had never seen it loose like this. He had unwound the braid from by his ear and lined the beads from it on the floor in a military straight line. One side of his face was lit by a gentle bronze glow from the hearth; the other was cast in deep shadow. His shoulders and arms were strong after years of wielding that tomahawk of his; his hands were broad and scarred - a hunter's hands.
"Yes," I said. "Yes, I would."
I couldn't read what was in his face when he met my gaze - a thousand unspoken words, a hundred different emotions, none of which I could place to an exact. Firelight danced in his eyes and turned them to gold. I could feel it seeping into me: molten gold replacing blood in my veins.
"All right," he said. "I will go with you."
Chapter Text
We left the doctor's before dawn. Beforehand we had decided, after painfully long discussions, that I should be brought back to my parents for healing, as I would be unable to do much training around the manor with my shoulder.
We did not eat breakfast and I was rather glad - for the closer we got to my family's home, the sicker I felt. It was not due to blood loss, of that I was certain; nevertheless, I did not speak much during our ride there, for fear of something much worse than words coming from my mouth.
Connor understood - damn him, he always understood - and didn't try to hold a conversation, but he did insist I take all of the blankets ("You have lost blood," he had said when I tried to shove some on him. "You need them more than I."), and we sat in a silence that might have been awkward had I not been preoccupied by my own thoughts. Many times I was tempted to wrench the reins from his hands and turn the wagon around.
The sun was only barely rising and the road was hard to see; Connor followed the track which had been cleaved into the moon-pale snow. Bare trees rose to greet us on either side, spindly branches caked with snow, so heavy that they creaked as we passed under them.
Perhaps it was only out of pity for me, but Connor let me lean against him for the duration of the ride. From my position with my head against his shoulder, I could see the patch of blood that had dried into his coat, and felt like a knife had been twisted in my stomach. How would I explain this to my parents?
To disguise the shaking of my hands I curled my fingers into the blankets around me and pulled them tighter across my shoulders. "Are you sure you won't take a blanket?" I asked for the hundredth time.
"We are almost there," he said carefully, but his cheeks were red and his lips were blue. "You should keep them."
"Don't be silly." I peeled one of the blankets off and tried to wrap it around his shoulders.
"I am not silly," he protested, but he didn't try to fight me off. I managed to succeed in tucking the wool blanket around him and returned to my position against his side to further preserve warmth. An early-morning bird began to sing.
The sky was lilac and pink, and the first hint of sunlight was peeking over the mountains on the horizon when we arrived at the house, which was silent and glittering white. One of the bedrooms was golden with lamplight, and though the drapes were pulled I could see movement behind the linen - Lydia was up. She and Nadia were the early risers of the house.
Though it was still cold, the air was still and there was no wind to rattle the bare trees. Tiny prints marked a trail through the snow - a fox on its nightly stalk. During the autumn I had noticed a den in the deep undergrowth of the forest behind our house; perhaps this was one of the young kits.
I hadn't realised that the wagon had stopped and I was staring, motionless, at the door until Connor said gently, "You know, nobody is forcing you to do this. Not now."
I loosed a breath. "If not now," I murmured, "then when?"
He pursed his lips and said nothing more as he brought the wagon to the hitching post off the road. As he climbed off the wagon he seemed to consider returning the blanket to me, but then he glanced at the patch of blood on his jacket and thought better of it. I waited until he had wrapped the reins around the post and gave the sturdy horse a pat before I pivoted, making to step off the wagon. Instantly Connor was at my side, holding out an arm to balance me as I got down.
"You do know it was my arm, not my leg?" I said.
He huffed. "Chivalry is not dead so long as I still draw breath."
Once I was down I stepped away from him and dusted off my skirt. "I should have worn trousers," I muttered.
His face didn't change. "That might have been smart."
"Oh, you're no help." I stomped up the granite steps that led to the door; the snow had not yet been cleared from them, though they were still marked with my own footprints from when I left here yesterday. I hadn't bothered to tie my hair up last night, so it hung in lank clumps by my face; I hadn't cut it in months and it reached my lower ribs. I felt like Medusa as I knocked on the door, swiftly so I would not have time to change my mind.
I didn't have to look back to know Connor was behind me, and I drew my strength from this fact as the handle on the door turned. Lydia wouldn't raise her voice at me while there was a guest in the house. I couldn't - I wouldn't - show weakness in front of Connor. Not when he was always so stoic and so brave.
It was Nadia who opened the door. "Cassandra," she said with no small amount of surprise. "Back so soon? And you brought a guest, how lovely."
I couldn't muster the courage to smile. "Can we come inside?"
She stepped back. "It's your house, not mine. Let me take your coats."
"Who is it, Nadia?" called Lydia from the kitchen, voice muffled through the walls. Before Nadia could reply she was in the doorway, with the bland, open-faced smile of an experienced hostess, but it dropped to an expression of genuine surprise as she beheld us. "Cassandra, darling, why have you come home so soon? Is something wrong? Good day to you, Connor."
"Sassy!" yelped a muffled voice, and a moment later little Ryan tumbled down the stairs, still wearing his nightclothes. Having just turned three a few days prior, he prided himself on being a Big Boy. When he first started talking he couldn't quite pronounce my name and so graced me with the moniker Sassy and somehow my family had yet to let it go. Not that I minded, however - I was more concerned for Connor, for his unfamiliarity with the use of nicknames was still apparent.
I caught Ryan with my good arm before he could crash into me and send me flying. "Miss me yet?"
"Not really," he said. "You woke me up. Your skirt is cold," he added like I hadn't noticed.
"I was outside, darling." I brushed his dark hair back from his face. He would look just like Gabriel when he grew up.
The hearth was blazing in the living room, and it took everything in me not to abandon everyone where they stood and go to the fire. Guilt began to prickle my spine as I held my blankets a little tighter; did everyone know? Could they see that I was concealing something? I may as well have been wearing a sign and screaming, I've got something to hide!
Ryan looked up at Connor with eyes like moons and said, "Hi, Connor!" while Nadia tried to take the blankets from my shoulders.
"Come to the kitchen, Ryan," Lydia said. "Meredith is here; come and eat your breakfast with your sister."
As she held the kitchen door open wider for Ryan to pass through I saw Gabriel and Meredith at the table; my sister's doll-like face was set in concentration as Gabriel gently rebuked her - he and Lydia were teaching her the etiquette of a lady, as she would be ten years old in February. She sat at the table, already fully dressed despite the hour, back straight as a rod while she took a delicate sip from her cup. When she and Gabriel saw me, their faces shone with delight and they waved at me.
"Could I have a word with you and father?" I said quietly to Lydia, and upon hearing this Gabriel rose from his seat and came to the doorway by Lydia. "Alone?"
"Of course." Her eyes narrowed a fraction, but nothing changed in her voice. "Does our esteemed guest want anything? A hot drink, perhaps?"
Connor shook his head, absentmindedly playing with his fingers. "I apologise, but I must be leaving."
I looked back at him. "Please stay," I said. "I promise we won't keep you too long. Stay for breakfast."
He considered this for a few moments; his eye-contact was unbreaking. "All right," he said finally. "If you would like me to."
"I would." He was handing me the reins of the situation. I took a deep and silent breath, and though I felt faint, I slowly removed the blanket from my shoulders.
It took a moment for the sight of the blood to sink into Gabriel and Lydia, but once it did they were stunned into silence, staring at my shoulder with wide eyes; they hardly seemed to notice as Nadia took the blankets from both of us, showing the blood on Connor's own coat (which she took as well) and she hurried off to wash them.
I silently thanked Connor for leaving his weapons in the wagon, because without his coat he looked strangely exposed. He was a striking-looking fellow and eyes were naturally drawn to him; had he been wearing his weapons belt he would have stuck out like my hair on a bad day.
Without taking her eyes off me Lydia said, very quietly, "Children, why don't you and Connor go and play in the front room? I'm sure our fine gentleman would love to see all of your toys."
Connor caught on very quickly, and with a soft, "Excuse us," he disappeared into the warm living room, followed closely by my brother and sister, who each hugged me as they passed.
Lydia remained motionless until the door clicked shut behind them. Finally she said, "Are you all right? Tell us what happened."
When I moved into the kitchen, they did too. My stomach was a churning whirlpool. "I haven't been completely honest," I said.
So I told them everything - about my grandfather; about Achilles; about the Assassins and the Templars. I told them about the Boston Massacre and the Tea Party. I told them about those portraits in the basement. One thing came after another, and soon everything was tumbling out; I bit my cheek, harder and harder, to keep my emotions at bay.
When I was finished they didn't speak for a while. I looked to Gabriel, the softer of the pair - his lips were pressed thin; his cup of tea sat, forgotten, by his hand. I didn't dare look at Lydia, because I knew the fury I would see there.
Pale slivers of light were creeping through the gaps in the trees. I focused on them. I couldn't cry. Not with Connor in the next room - he had never seen me cry, and he wasn't going to now.
At last Lydia said, "I should have seen this coming."
Now I looked at her. She was the picture of calm pensivity, if ever there was one: her eyes did not reflect the anger I was so sure she would have shown. It's only because Connor is here, I told myself. She won't explode with a guest in the house. I didn't know which was worse: the fury I had expected, or the quietude I found.
She brushed some stray golden hair from her face. "A part of me knew this would happen, and yet I can't quite bring myself to believe it."
Her voice was so soft, so calm. I didn't dare speak for fear of this reverie snapping.
She smiled at me, but it didn't quite reach her eyes. "Why didn't you just tell us in the first place?"
I found my voice. "I didn't want to hurt any of you through association."
Lydia huffed. "Darling, you were raised by my father. I shouldn't be surprised that he inducted you into his business. He tried the same with me and my brothers. I was the only girl, you know. Six children, and only one daughter."
If this was news to Gabriel his face didn't show it. It was, however, news to me. She saw the look on my face and continued: "Don't look so surprised. He was the Mentor in London. That's why. . ."
She didn't finish that thought. Gabriel spoke up. "Are you sure you're all right?"
I nodded and Gabriel stood and hugged me anyway. My hair stank of the sea but he didn't say a word about it.
When we eventually pulled apart, Lydia said, "I should be angry. I should be roaring and screaming. I should lock you in your room and forbid you from even seeing Connor or Achilles again. But the truth is, this is your life, not mine. You've made this decision consciously and with knowledge of the consequences. Therefore you are not ours to control. You're sixteen, after all."
"The Lord knows teenage girls are difficult enough to handle," Gabriel said drily.
My mouth twitched sadly. "I'm sorry."
"I can't be angry at you for keeping secrets," Lydia said, "when we've been keeping our own from you."
"Please don't say you're pregnant again."
"No," Lydia said. "It's about you."
What could they possibly know about me that I didn't already know? My face remained blank.
It was Gabriel who clarified: "You're not ours to control. Or at least, not mine."
The world froze in a horrible moment of clarity, like the cogs of some awful wheel were sliding into place; the Moirai were spinning their thread. I was underwater again, peering at them through glass like I was some oddity in a zoo. A mer-maid? A siren? The sharks were circling, and this time Connor wasn't in the water to pull me out; he was on the other side of that glass, watching me with eyes made of stone.
Lydia cleared her throat, but she was muffled and far away; she was distorted on the other side of that glass. "I don't know how to say this." Gabriel gave her a gentle look and nodded slowly, encouraging her to continue.
"I was sixteen when I had you," she said. "It just hit me: you're the same age I was. My parents were very disapproving - not because I was pregnant, but because I was unmarried and pregnant, and because of who your birthfather was.
"He was new to London, he moved down from somewhere farther north, if I remember his accent correctly. I didn't realise at the time, but he was newly inducted into the Templar Order. He probably didn't even know who I was, at any rate. Nevertheless, it happened. And that's why there was such disapproval for my pregnancy with you.
"You were a month early, did you know that? You were meant to be in September. Oh, I still remember how you cried for hours and hours. My father was furious. It was nothing against you, darling. You were perfect. It was your birthfather who was the issue; I never saw him again. I don't know where he went - back up north, maybe. I don't know. I don't care."
But why did she leave me? I was hardly a year old when she ran away. How could she have done it; why did she do it? I was so small. . . I couldn't quite put these thoughts into words, and all I could say was, "Why?"
Miraculously, she knew what I meant. "I was scared and I was alone. I didn't meet Gabriel until I came here - his family have been here for quite some time, a few generations. By the time you were born it was just me and Edward, my eldest brother - six children, and I was the fourth - six children, and four gone. It was the white plague. It got them before they were grown. That's when I knew I had to leave.
"I wanted to take you with me. I had bags packed and everything. But my father. . . he wouldn't let me take you. She's my granddaughter, he said. She's safest here where the Assassins can protect her. But you were my daughter first. I knew my father's real reason for wanting to keep you: he needed an heir, a protégé, if you will.
"Ted and I agreed that we would move to America together - neither of us could stand staying in London while the plague killed us by the hundreds. We tried to convince our parents to come with us, but they refused. Said they were needed there in London. They tried to take you from me again - and during this time Ted got away. Why he came to Boston of all places I'll never know. Goodness, he could at least have gone south to the Carolinas.
"I had to make a decision: I could stay in London and risk us both dying of the plague, or I could leave you with my parents, who were more than willing to keep you on, and find my brother in America."
Sometimes when I read books I liked to skip to the very last page and read it. I liked to know how the story would end, if I should bother growing attached to certain characters; I didn't like not knowing. But in this instance, though I knew the ending of the tale Lydia was spinning, I desperately wished I didn't.
"It was the most selfish decision I ever made," she said. "As soon as I got on that ship I regretted it, and I've hated myself for it ever since. But the journey here was a difficult one - I could never have kept a baby safe on board. Every day someone new died, and their bodies were thrown overboard to the sharks. I don't think I could have lived with myself if I had seen you - your beautiful, tiny little body - thrown in that water, too. In hindsight, with sixteen years to look back upon, it was the right decision. I know–" she held up a hand before I could speak– "it hurt you. It hurt both of us. And I'm so, so sorry. I won't make excuses for what I've done; none will be good enough. I can only ask–" she caught my gaze now, eyes wide and desperate– "that you will forgive me."
I have never been one to hold a grudge. I have always lived by a code of forgive, but don't forget. It saved me from going through the pain in the long run. But right now, in this moment, I wanted nothing better than to storm from the room and scream. I shouldn't - not with Connor in the next room. I could hear, distantly, someone tapping the piano keys in the living room.
My stomach churned. I said, "I must change. We can't leave our guest unattended."
Lydia and Gabriel said nothing, but their eyes were sad as they watched me leave. I closed the kitchen door behind me with barely more than a soft click. The world was swimming around me; colours flew by in streaks; vultures wheeled overhead. Their harsh caws sounded strangely like my own name.
I made it out the back door, and was almost at the well before I had to throw up. I don't know why - the combined results of a horrible morning, I supposed: no food, no sleep, no hope.
Snow had encased my feet up to my ankles, and my legs shook so hard I thought I might collapse. I waited for a few deep, long breaths before I straightened up, scuffing some snow over the patch on the ground, and managed to stumble over to the well. I hauled up a bucket of water, not caring that my hands ached with the cold and my shoulder burned, and splashed the water into my face and rinsed the sour taste from my mouth.
I gasped with the cold, but I didn't care. I did it again, again, again, until I felt better, and patted my face dry with my skirt. There were never any vultures circling me.
The walk back to the house wasn't as difficult, numb as I was, and I made it up the stairs to my room without meeting anyone else in the family. I wanted to simply sit in my room and wait for the walls to collapse in on me, but I was acutely aware of Connor's presence in the house; like I could sense him; like he could sense me.
Against my own wishes, therefore, I changed into a clean dress, checking my face in the mirror for any signs of unwanted emotion, and went downstairs once more.
Everyone was in the living room (except for Nadia, whom I had seen washing the blankets). Connor sat at the piano, Ryan on his knee, and the latter was trying to teach him how to play. My brother had always been fascinated when I played the piano so I had begun to teach him; to see him with Connor now cracked some of the ice over my heart.
Meredith, the singer of the house, was flipping through my music book, searching for a song to sing. As I entered, all eyes turned to me. I forced a smile. "Don't stop playing just because I'm here."
Ryan beamed at me. "I'm teaching Connor to play. He's not as good as you."
"He's still learning," I tried to say, but Ryan cut me off with: "Connor, play something!"
I noticed an error before he started and took it upon myself to point it out. "You need to use the knee levers underneath," I said to Connor. "Otherwise, the music just sounds funny."
He leaned around Ryan and peered under the piano. "I did not know they were there."
"I didn't tell him about them," Ryan said. "I don't use them so I didn't think they're important."
I smiled. "You don't use them because you can't reach, darling."
He blatantly ignored me and thrust my music book at Connor. "Play one."
Connor, diligently, obeyed the orders of my toddler brother and flipped through the pages, while Meredith came over to hug me. When he reached the end of the book without having chosen a melody, Connor looked at me. "Why is there only half of a song here?"
"That's the one Sassy is writing," Ryan said proudly. "She's not finished it yet."
This piqued Connor's interest. "I did not know that you like to write music."
"Achilles doesn't have a piano," I said, avoiding the eyes of Lydia and Gabriel.
He fixed me with those eyes of his; eyes that spoke multitudes with no words. "Will you play it?"
"You play something first," I said. "I should hate to outshine you."
"Fine," he said, and gently nudged my brother's ribs. "Child, get off me. I need to show your sister how a real pianist plays."
Meredith helped Ryan off Connor's knee, and the latter stretched his arms in an exaggerated manner, looking at the keys with interest. All eyes now on him, he carefully replaced the music book on the stand and, with the flair of a practiced musician, tapped a single note - a sharp F - before looking back at me with the pride of youth. Sometimes I forgot how young he really was - how young we both were.
"Your turn," he said.
I fanned my face while my siblings laughed. "Oh, how could I ever live up to such excellence? You have shamed me."
"Out of love, if nothing else." When he stood and moved away from the piano stool, he towered over me; a gentle giant, really, if one were to ignore his brutality in battle.
As I sat, Gabriel said, "What will you play?"
"Can I sing?" asked Meredith eagerly.
I shrugged. "If you would like to make up some lyrics for Untitled by Cassandra Glade, be my guest."
Meredith was almost ten years old, old enough now to question why I had a different surname to the rest of the family - I kept the name Glade while my siblings took Barrow, Gabriel's name - but she wisely didn't ask this in the presence of a guest. I straightened my back and blew into my hands to speed up their warming, and adjusted the music book so it was angled towards me.
I had never played for Connor before. When I was staying with him and Achilles I had no opportunities to play, and now that he was here, watching me with those sharp eyes of his, my heart began to flutter.
I had played in front of people before; when Lydia or Gabriel invited guests in I would play to entertain them - perfect strangers. I had no reason to be nervous in front of Connor, my friend. We had been through so much together already - this should have been nothing.
I was being silly. I rolled my shoulders a few times before lightly placing my fingers on the keys. Letting loose a breath, I began to play.
*
I relayed my tales to Thomas when I met him a few days later. It was best, we decided, to steer clear of the city in the aftermath of the Tea Party, so we sat in his kitchen eating sandwiches. When I told him of my part in the events that night he only rolled his eyes at me and said, "Trust you to sniff out trouble and dive in head first - or fall in."
"If I cannot find trouble," I said, "I will create it."
"You attract trouble to you, you've no need to create it," he teased. "It's in your blood. I blame Sophia."
I smiled at the mention of my grandmother. "I wouldn't know what's in my blood," I said. "I've no idea who my father is."
"Screw him," Thomas said, mouth full of sandwich. "You've made it this far without him. I think he did you a favour."
I couldn't fathom his reasoning behind that. How could not knowing who shared my blood be a good thing? "Pray tell what you mean?"
He swallowed. "Well, he gave you your space. Teenagers love that."
I stared down at my sandwich. "That's true," I mumbled.
"And," Thomas said, "he's filled you with wonder. I wonder who my father is? You see? It's not all bad."
I chuckled, but it was devoid of humour. "I haven't spoken to my parents about it," I said. "It's nearly Christmas and none of us have mentioned it. I don't know how I feel about it all. Should I resent them for it?"
"Should you resent your mother for making a teenage mistake?" he said, and ducked away as I made to whack him. "Yes, you were a teenage mistake. I won't coat things in sugar. Your conception was a mistake, and yet here you are, friends with me of all people. So much good has come from you just breathing this air. Do you really want to hold a grudge against Lydia when all she did was make a mistake - just like we all do when we're teenagers? Look at both of us. You're only sixteen; you've got four more years of teenage mistakes left to make. Don't waste them hating someone in the same boat as you."
"So wise," I said, "and yet so young."
Thomas was a year older than me, and a few months older than Connor, too. I had first met him when I was four years old.
His maternal grandparents and mine had been friends, and during the summer of '61 they had invited my family to tea. I hardly remember that summer, only vague flashes of golden sunlight on white lace; grass almost glowing in the light; pretty china cups hand-painted with little dancing girls; blue ribbons on white bonnets. The frantic skittering of paws on patio stones.
"Do you remember Zacchaeus?" I said.
Thomas chuckled. "What an idiot of a dog. May he rest in peace." He made the sign of the cross over himself.
Around the time when I had first been introduced to Thomas and the Carters, his family had adopted a terrier pup whom they named Zacchaeus. The poor thing had become blind at a young age, but it never deterred his spirit. His eagerness and his small size had inspired his name.
"He bit me when I first met him," I said. "Bastard of a dog."
"He didn't know who you were," protested Thomas. "How was he supposed to know you were only a little girl?"
"Surely he could smell me."
"He wasn't that good, Cass!" He dropped his sandwich to his plate in indignation. "Give him some credit."
I laughed at the memory of that ratty terrier, white-eyed and as fat as butter. "I miss him," I said. "I wonder what he would have been like if he had lived to see America."
"He'd have run face-first into a pile of horse shit, and that is a fact," sniggered Thomas. "I don't even think he would have survived the ship across the ocean. If we were to run out of food on board, that mangy dog would be the first to go." He began to laugh. "Big fat belly on him."
"Too many sausages," I agreed with my own laughter.
"Oh, he did so love sausages." Thomas sighed dreamily, eyes far away. "I hope he's slimmed down, now, in Heaven. That weight can't have been healthy."
The more we talked about fat little Zacchaeus, the more we laughed; and the more we laughed, the more eased I became. I could hardly remember a day in which Thomas wasn't there.
Snow whirled against the window, creating soft spirals of silver against the glass. Thomas's dark hair shone with a white aura, and his eyes were so pale they were almost like frozen lakes. I imagined that he was some lord of winter, here with me, eating sandwiches, merely as a sojourn until he wished to be whisked away into the snow once more.
"Speaking of idiots," Thomas said, meaning that poor dog. "Know the way Rowan's moved out?"
He had moved out a few weeks ago, after marrying his fiancée - a pretty girl named Evelyn, whose Dutch-descended family had owned land near New York for a few generations - and Thomas had converted Rowan's old room to a spare room (mainly for me, he said).
When I nodded, he continued: "He comes to visit, of course. He's got himself this new ring; I'm pretty sure he and his friends all have matching ones. It's really sad. I'll show you when I see him again."
"Each to his own," I said with a light laugh. "I just hope dear Evelyn doesn't get the wrong idea and think he and all of his friends are secretly married. Could you imagine the scandal?"
"Please don't get married until you're at least forty," Thomas said. "Rowan's just left me; you can't leave me - not soon, at any rate."
"There go my plans to elope with Connor," I muttered.
He stared at me. "I'll cry. Right here over my sandwiches. And no one likes a soggy sandwich."
"I'll buy you a ring and you can join Rowan's Sad Boys club," I said. "I wonder what the rings look like?"
With a shrug, Thomas resumed eating his sandwich. "Don't know," he said. "He always takes it off when he's around us. I know he has one," he added before I could ask, "because I've seen him with his friends around town. From afar, naturally."
I raised my eyebrows. "Now, this is intriguing. What are the mystery rings?"
"We should write a book," he said. "Plot twist: they're in the Masons. I'm calling it now."
"Do the Masons wear rings?"
"They do."
I blinked. "You said that. . . with far too much certainty. They're supposed to be a secret society."
"Fine," he huffed, biting the crust of his sandwich. "We'll pretend I never said anything. But next time you see him, take a close look at Rowan darling. You'll see where my theory is coming from. Goodness," he added on a sporadic change of thought, "I do love white bread."
We laughed and talked for hours, but Rowan lurked in my mind. Why would he wear it? Not that it was any of my business, but since Thomas had told me of it I was invested. I wondered what he was doing behind the scenes.
As it would turn out, it would not be long before I found out.
Chapter Text
March, 1774
The next time I returned to the manor it was spring, and lambs were stumbling about in a field next to a half-constructed farmhouse. I hadn't expected to see this quaint farm within the homestead - had Connor met yet more people in need of a home?
As I guided my horse - a sturdy old mare with thick legs and a mild disposition - up the winding path, cast into shadow by the trees arching on either side, I noticed that, far below, the sailors of the Aquila were gathered at the dock, noisily playing a game around a small table. Their laughter floated up to me on a sea mist scented wind.
My horse knew the way to the stable by now, so she needed minimal urging from me. This gave me the leeway I needed to focus on my balance. When I wore a dress, it was habitual for me to ride side-saddle (to show one's calves was considered very risqué), but often when I came to the manor I wore trousers, which enabled me to ride like Connor did.
He often teased me for it, saying I should just give up on dresses altogether.
I hadn't seen Connor or Achilles since the Tea Party, but I did keep in touch through letters. My shoulder had finally healed enough that I felt only a dull throb if I moved it too much, though I was left with a round scar which I had yet to show to anyone. This scar was a reminder that I needed to learn how to swim - and it was a secret that I kept between myself and the girl in the mirror.
The manor was silent as I let myself in through the front door, after having made sure my darling horse was settled in the stable with the two other working horses, and as I closed the door behind me I knocked to make my presence known. No one came to greet me; no movement stirred the stillness of the manor save my own footsteps up the stairs. Once I had left my bag on my bed and lit the hearth I went downstairs once more to see where everyone was. It was unusual for both Achilles and Connor to be gone with no trace.
Humming to myself (for I was trying to finish writing that damn tune I had played for Connor), I made sure the manor was empty before going outside to look for the two men. Though early spring, the sun weakly tried to reach through the clouds and breathe life back into the trees, but the winter's cold still gripped them in a chokehold. I knew better than to lose hope, however: truly, there was no place like this during the summer.
The grounds surrounding the red-brick manor were undisturbed, and the grass was dry and dull after the snows. Hitching up my skirts so the weeds and briars wouldn't snag, I picked my way over the scattered, moss-covered rocks set between a pair of spindly birch trees, in search of a flat place to sit. Spiderwebs stretched between the twigs by my head, decorated with beads of dew, like pearl necklaces.
Dead leaves dissolved under my shoes, and as I lay a hand on one of the trees to steady myself, I saw Achilles.
He stood between two rocks by the edge of the cliff, and if I stood on my tiptoes, I could see the curve of the bay beyond, which was shrouded with a fog coming in from the sea. He had elected not to wear his wide-rimmed hat, and his short grey hair gleamed with raindrops. I held my breath, determined not to disturb the old man's reverie, and for a few minutes there was no sound but a few crows cawing in the distance.
They were not rocks, I realised, but gravestones. From my angle, I couldn't read the names on them, but Achilles gazed upon them with such sorrow that I thought it best to slink away.
"Aren't you going to come over?" he said without turning around.
Silently admitting defeat, I stepped past the trees. "I'm sorry I disturbed you."
He shrugged. "Nothing to disturb."
Once I stood by him I could see the names on the gravestones, and they sent a pang through my heart, like a bell sounding for a Sunday mass.
Abigail Davenport
1721-1755
And on the smaller stone next to it:
Connor Davenport
1748-1755
I had no words. Achilles folded his hands over the worn-down handle of his cane and gazed down at the twin graves, at the fresh violet pansies laid tenderly at the foot of each stone.
"When I first met her," he said quietly, "she called herself Angélique-Denise. Her master gave her that name. But she was a free woman, and I told her so, and I told her she could name herself what she wished. She laughed." His voice was soft and far away - miles away. "What a laugh she had. She told me her name would be Abigail."
Somewhere in the fog, a seagull gave a piercing cry, sharp and clear over the dull roar of the sea. I lay a hand on Achilles's shoulder, but if he noticed at all, he didn't mention it.
"It was typhoid fever," he said. "My boy was seven. I kept his toys and his clothes, and I've a portrait somewhere. But other than these small items, and their bones in this earth. . . it's like they were never here."
A few more minutes passed in a silence disturbed only by the harsh cawing of a crow overhead. The manor stood tall and lonely in the fog; I tried to imagine it in a different way, when it had been full of life. Did little Connor take after his mother or his father? He had been tall for his age - I had finally grown out of his clothes (my curves had come in at last!).
Perhaps Abigail liked to bake, and the smell would waft from the open windows in warm waves. Perhaps little Connor liked to set his toys out on the stairs, arranged in military lines like soldiers. Perhaps they had wanted another child - a girl? Perhaps, once upon a time, the house had been alive with laughter and joy, but now it was full of ghosts.
Achilles was a ghost in his own home, and my presence and Connor's likely reminded him of all that he had lost. The significance of Connor's name hit me like I had been run over by a carriage.
After a while Achilles said, "Come. There's wood to be chopped."
"I'll do that," I assured him. "You rest your leg."
He gave a final look at the gravestones before turning his back away, using his cane to search for even ground. "I might be a cripple," he said, "but I am not useless."
"We'll split it, then," I said, keeping pace with him. "Fifty-fifty."
The old man huffed as we made it to the flat ground behind the manor. "Let's just hope your shoulder is better. . ."
"It is," I said quickly. "I'm here to work."
"How is your mother handling this?" he asked.
"In truth," I said, "we haven't talked about it. Not really."
"A bit of advice to you." He tapped his cane on the mossy rocks on the cliffs where, scarcely two metres away, the drop to the sea was sudden and sharp. "If you want to salvage your relationship with your mother, or whatever relationship you had with her in the first place, talk to her about it."
I knew he was right. Whether I liked it or not, Lydia was my mother; we were bound together by blood. Sooner or later, I would need to speak with her concerning my choices before they became out of control. Spending two weeks here and two weeks there simply wouldn't work in the long run - not with our Assassin business becoming more and more frequent.
I had been coming here for just over four years, and the previous arrangement of two week intervals had been short-lived as I spent more and more time among my family - sometimes months at a time, but I lost vital hours of training for it. Poor Connor had to catch me up every time I returned here.
Something would have to change - but was I ready for that something to be me?
Achilles sounded just like a concerned parent. "How old would he be, now?" I asked quietly.
He knew who I meant. "Twenty-six."
And that was that. No more was said on the matter of his family as I gathered logs to split. The axe we normally used was large and heavy, and it took more effort than I care to admit to swing it and split the wood. As I stood another log on the cutting block - the flat, smooth surface of a tree stump - Achilles sat on a crate he had dragged over from the stable, and he began asking me about our progress with the Templars. He likely knew already, but only Connor's side.
As I cut the wood, I discovered that Connor had been out for the past three days - not sailing, to my relief (for if he were sailing I wouldn't get to see him this trip). The last Achilles knew was that Myriam had been looking for Connor to help her with something, and now he was gone.
My shoulder began to ache, but I said, "Are you sure you'll be able to balance on your leg?"
"Don't test me, Cassandra," he muttered, but I knew he wasn't serious: he had taken to calling me Cass around the house, using my full name only to scold or to tease me. Connor, it would seem, was the last man standing - he insisted on calling me by my full name, in spite of my protests.
I was nearing the end of my quota, by which time I would have to hand the axe over to Achilles, when Connor came home. Mud caked his boots up to his ankles, and there were streaks of it further up his legs, too.
(When I had first seen his buckskin moccasins I had thought they were long enough to reach all the way to his hips; but what I had thought was a very tall pair of boots was actually a pair of shoes that reached just above his ankles, on top of which he wore soft buckskin leggings, which he tied to his belt with string to keep them up, and he tied them around his ankles and knees to keep them in place.)
It had been two months since I had seen him in person, though we did keep in contact through letters. He seemed taller now - or perhaps I was only unaccustomed to seeing him - and stronger. In our time apart, his face had become leaner, sharper. The trickle of blood down his cheek was completely new, however.
I dropped the axe rather disgracefully and waited until he was closer before I walked over to hug him. It took a few moments for him to actually attempt to hug back - what happened to his hugs of two months ago?
When I stepped back I said, "What happened to your face?"
"Nice to see you, too, Cassandra," he said. "I am fine, thank you for asking."
I almost reached up to touch his cheek, as a thin trail of now-dried blood had run down his face from a cut along his right cheekbone, but I could already envision him flinching away. Touching someone's face, I mused, was a very intimate thing.
"What did you do to your face?" I repeated instead.
He briefly explained that he had been out with Myriam for the past few days, as she had spotted a cougar in the forest near the village (a white cougar, how rare!) which posed a threat to the locals and their livestock. They had tracked this cougar for three days before finally cornering it in Norris's mine shaft; it had lashed out at Connor and struck his face.
There came a heavy sigh from Achilles. "Idiot boy."
"The cut is not too deep–" he moved his head away from my concerned hand– "nor is it wide, so really, there is no need for concern."
"But you could have lost your eye," I protested.
"But I did not." His hands were speckled with blood after his showdown with the cougar; he found a clean finger and dabbed at the cut, which had stopped bleeding. Had the beast's claws been even an inch over, he really would have lost his eye.
I fixed my eyes on the drops of blood on his coat collar. "I can wash that for you."
He looked down at the blood and said, "I can do it."
"We can trade," I said. "I'll do the washing; you split the wood and save Achilles from doing it."
This was met with a series of threats from Achilles and a grin from Connor. I handed the axe over to Connor (giving Achilles's cane a wide berth) before going inside to fetch a basin, a washboard and some lye soap. Connor pulled off his coat and folded it neatly - more a habit than anything - and by the time I was back he had taken up the axe and was splitting the wood, chatting amicably with Achilles.
I filled the basin at the well and balanced it on my hip as I walked back to the men, thinking I might sit by them whilst I scrubbed his coat. I rubbed some of the soap into the dried blood, and as Connor chopped the logs I said, "Darling, aren't you cold?" for, without his coat, he was left only with his shirt.
He placed another log on the cutting block. "No.”
I was sceptical, but he split the log indignantly, as if to prove that he was not so cold that he could not wield an axe with his usual precision, so I let him off. He handled the axe so well - years of practice, I mused. I made a mental note to ask him to teach me to handle an axe like he did. Perhaps it would tone my arms to be as strong as his.
After two months away, I felt hideously behind on my work. Scrubbing this coat with vigour would help to exercise my arms, at any rate.
By the time I finished washing his coat and had hung it out to dry, Connor was carrying the cut wood to the log shelter at the side of the manor and piling it neatly there. He had left a few logs gathered separately - to light the fire. I emptied the water from the basin into a bush before helping him to carry the remaining wood to the shelter. As I was walking up to the shelter he was going back to the wood pile, and he playfully bumped my shoulder as he passed.
This continued - we both made it our goal to knock the other so hard that we stumbled - until all of the wood was neatly stored away. Achilles stooped down and took some of the logs for the fire, tucking them under one arm so he could use his cane with his other hand. I scooped the remaining wood into my skirt and followed him inside.
Connor eyed me as I knelt to light the fire. "How is your shoulder?"
"Better," I said. "I'm ready to get back to work."
There were no mirrors downstairs. Connor peered into the shiny surface of a pan while he dabbed at his cut face with a wet rag. "I was thinking," he said.
"That's a surprise, coming from you," I muttered. "This really is a housewarming party."
He looked at me like he wanted to beat me about the head with the pan. "How well can you swim?"
"Not at all, I'm afraid." I dusted my hands off and shook the wood chips from my skirt as I stood. "Grandfather didn't find many opportunities to teach me. He suffered with arthritis."
He hummed softly at that final comment - a throwback to my answer when he had asked me if I could climb, over four years ago. Time had passed like a ship to a new world. I tried to imagine where I might be in four more years - would I even be alive? With this work, it was hard to tell. I hoped I would be alive.
I would be almost twenty-one - a marriagable age. Would I be married? Oh goodness, Meredith would be fourteen. I imagined suitors would line up from the front door down to the Boston docks to ask for her hand.
"If you would like," Connor said, jarring me back to the present, "I could teach you to swim."
I snorted. "You'd be a terrible teacher."
"I taught Kanen'tó:kon to hunt," he protested, and indignantly hung the pan back on the hook by the kitchen hearth.
"I haven't seen him hunt, so I have nothing to base your claims upon. Your words are empty, fool."
He placed his hands on his hips in a mock-patronising action. "Do you want to learn to swim, or not?"
"I might drown under your watch," I said, but when I saw the gleam in his eye I continued: "But if that's how I go, that's how I go."
The wicked curve of his smile would have set forests ablaze. "Good," he said. "We will go tomorrow."
*
He told me a story while we walked. I laughed so hard that my stomach hurt; I'm not sure if it was the story itself or the way he told it, but he really could make me laugh.
It was late afternoon, and the day was a little clearer - patches of dull blue peeked through the clouds every so often, but, for the most part, the sky was grey and uninviting. A stiff breeze did ruffle the grass, but Connor was not deterred in his eagerness to teach me to swim.
It was nice to finally have the company of someone my own age. Thomas had found himself a job as an apprentice carpenter in the town, so he wasn't around as much as I would have liked. Logically I knew I should do the same, and try to find myself a job, but my parents had plenty of money with Gabriel's job, and as I lived with my parents (But he's not my real father, I reminded myself) there was no need for me to bring in extra income.
It only meant that I had time on my hands, most of which I spent with Meredith and Ryan as I became like a tutor to them. I helped them with their spelling and their reading and their mathematics, and I taught Ryan to play the piano and aided Meredith in her singing (she even taught me to sing a song or two!). I had spent so much time with children that I grew to desperately miss the company of my friends.
I didn't know where Connor was bringing me, but it was part of the fun. I recognised the paths and the mountains rising to the west, but I knew there were a few brooks and ponds nearby. Connor had a specific place in mind, and he refused to tell me where it was located.
My laughter finally calmed but I still wore a smile. He looked down at me, silent for a few moments, and said, "You have a nice smile."
I pressed my mouth shut. "I don't like my teeth."
"What is wrong with your teeth?"
"My front teeth are too big," I said, reaching up to my mouth to point, "and my bottom row are all crooked."
He looked at my teeth and blinked. "I see nothing wrong. I like your teeth. See, mine are imperfect, too." He showed me his teeth. One of his front teeth was slightly chipped at the corner. It was only small - one would not notice it unless one was looking.
"How did you chip your tooth?" I said.
He was quiet for a few moments while he remembered. "It was around harvest time, and my friends and I were bobbing for apples. I was only around eleven or twelve years, and I wanted to prove that I was just as capable as the other teenagers whom I was playing against. Unfortunately, just as it was my turn, someone - I suspect Kanen'tó:kon - bumped me from behind, and. . . I did not bite an apple."
The implication was clear: he had bitten the barrel. I snorted. “Poor darling.”
We walked for a few more minutes, and soon the sound of rushing water drowned out the sweet song of the birds. Dry leaves blew through the grass like scuttling crabs; I made a game of trying to stamp on every leaf in my path, if only to hear the crunch. Connor watched me with a smile and a look in his eyes I couldn't quite place.
As he reached into my line of vision to stamp on a leaf before I could get to it, I said, "Who owns the farm?"
It took a moment for him to realise the farm I was referring to. "Warren and Prudence," he said. "I met them almost two months ago. Terry, Godfrey and Lance are working together to build the farmhouse with them."
"That's very kind of them," I said, brushing some hair from my face, adding: "It's very kind of you, too. To bring me out here and teach me to swim."
He looked away before I could see his grin. "I have taught you nothing yet," he said. "Thank me later."
It had been so long since I had last seen him. When he was between these mountains, under these trees, on this territory, this home, he was a different person. Out there, where the Templars roamed free, he was as cold as the snow; he had no weak nerve, no fear. But here. . . it was like he pulled off a mask of brutality to show the person he was beneath. He smiled, he laughed. He had no true desire to inflict pain unless it was first inflicted upon him.
He was an enigma to me; just when I thought I had him figured out I hit another wall. There was always something closed off about him; something distant and detached. Every time he went out of his way to do something - like bringing me out here in his free time to teach me to swim - I always tried to make a point of spending as much time with him as possible, to better understand him.
He brought me to a pool beneath a trickling waterfall; the water was almost white in the weak grey sunlight. Daffodils grew in cheerful clusters along the line of rocks where the water was tumbling into the plunge pool. To my left, a gentle slope led down to a small, stony beach, and from where we stood, jutting out over the pool, the sandy bottom looked very dark and very daunting. Clumps of pond weed floated near the edges, undisturbed by the falling water.
I placed my bag down; I didn't carry much, only a clean shift and a pair of stockings. As I removed my earrings and unlaced my stay, Connor unfastened his necklace - how bare his throat seemed without it!
Once my dress was off I slipped my shoes and stockings off. I felt rather anxious in front of him in my state of undress, as I wore only my shift - but this was Connor, I told myself. If we were to be partners in our endeavours, he would likely see more compromising parts of me than my bare calves. At least the shift was long enough to cover half of my lower legs.
For a heart-stopping moment I thought Connor would remove his shirt, but all he did was take out his own earrings and slide his boots off. "I will teach you in the manner which I was taught," he said. "May I lift you up?"
It was such an absurd question from him that I had to blink while it registered. "Um. . . all right, I suppose."
In one swift motion he picked me up, one arm under my knees and the other supporting my back. I had never been this close to his face before; I averted my eyes for fear of awkward eye contact. The cut on his cheek was still red.
"I was taught to swim this way," he continued casually - too casually. "I think I turned out all right. Now, if you please–"
–and he chucked me into the water.
My shriek was abruptly cut off when I hit the surface with a colossal crash. My linen shift billowed around me, but without the many layers of my dress I wasn't nearly as heavy as I had been that night at the harbour, so, recalling Connor's movements as he brought me back to the surface, I kicked my legs and used my arms to pull myself along, straining towards the silver light of day. The rush of the waterfall was reduced to a dull thrum.
I broke the surface with a gasp, and saw that Connor had almost collapsed with laughing.
"You prick!" I cried, flailing my arms as I began to go down again. He tried to speak but couldn't, overcome as he was with laughter, and I spat out a mouthful of water. "I hate you," I yelped. "I really, really hate you."
Between laughs, he managed to gasp out, "I was taught that way and I am perfectly fine. You will live."
"You're not fine, you were dropped as a child and you suffer the consequences daily." I had to speak fast to get all of my words out before I sank again. My mouth and nose flooded with water.
Still laughing at me, he made his way down the slope to the stony beach. He crouched down a mere foot from the lapping water on the shore and tilted his head at me. "Now, I want you to swim to me."
I hadn't the breath to argue with him. Paddling my arms and legs furiously, like some dog, I slowly made my way over to him, splashing all the way. It took longer than it should have, as every metre or so my head would go under and I would break the surface once more with a gasp. If there were any fish in this pool, I thought, they would have fled long ago.
When at last my hands dug in to rough, grainy sand, I was panting so hard that spots floated before my eyes. Connor sat beside me, careful not to get himself wet. I hauled myself onto the beach and lay sprawled there for a few long moments while I caught my breath, eyes closed. Stones dug rather painfully into my back but I wasn't prepared to move just yet.
My shift was soaked and clung to my body like Ryan clung to Lydia in unfavourable social situations. If I felt anxious before, I felt horribly exposed now. "This is the second time you've seen me soaked with water." I shivered. "How very immodest of me."
He was silent for a few breaths, and when he eventually spoke all he said was, "Hmn."
In sharp retaliation I slammed a dripping hand against his leg; he jerked back with a squeak, but not before I managed to smear water along his bare shin. He watched, in defeat, a drop of water dribble down his leg before falling to the stones with the tiniest splashing sound.
“Do you consider yourself ready to try again?” he asked, watching the water drop from my fingers, which I held aloft.
“Naturally,” I said. “Just not right now. I don’t need your so-called help.”
It was the wrong thing to say. “If you are so self-motivated,” he said, “get into the water.”
"I'm perfectly fine on dry land," I said, hugging my arms to my chest. The world was upside-down around me, as I lay on my back, and Connor looked down on me disapprovingly. "I think I'll live without the need to swim," I continued.
He pursed his lips with an exaggerated sigh and stood, holding out a hand to me. "Fine. I will get in with you. After all, one's teacher must partake in the activity in order to teach it."
I glared at his hand for a moment before finally giving in; against my freezing fingers, his palm was delightfully warm. "I'm going to kill you," I said as he hauled me to my feet. "When this is finished and I can feel my nose again, it's all over for you."
He only picked a soggy twig from my hair and said, "Your threats are eagerly anticipated."
We spent hours in the water; I grew to become accustomed to the cold, and even began to enjoy myself. Connor had me start out my proper lessons in the shallow water, and as the hours wore on he bade me come deeper and deeper, until my feet couldn't touch the bottom. All the while, my shift ballooned up like an enraged jellyfish.
Slowly, the sun began to disappear behind the trees, and soon our pool was cast in shadow. As the evening wore on I could see the barest glimmer of stars in the sky, which had cleared enough that I could just glimpse the sliver of moon.
Connor's hair lay flat against his head and water dribbled into his eyes; I was sure I wasn't much better. I backed away from the deeper centre of the pool until my feet reached gritty sand, and with one hand I tried to spruce up my hair, but my efforts were in vain - even more so when Connor splashed me and stuck his tongue out at me.
I tossed my dripping hair from my eyes and splashed him back. He ducked away, lost his footing, and went under with a yelp that was abruptly cut off. It set me off laughing at him, so hard my ribs ached and I could barely breathe - this did not prove to be beneficial to me when he, under the water, yanked my legs from under me and sent me tumbling after him.
I broke through the surface again to find him laughing at me once more - I don't think I had ever heard him laugh so much, and oh, what a sound it was. I suddenly never wanted to stop hearing it; surely, it would haunt my dreams.
I lunged for him and he leapt back, both of us splashing with reckless abandon. With the steady departure of the sun, the shadows grew longer and colder; the trees around us towered like teeth - like we were trapped in the mouth of a massive animal. I shivered again.
Raising his eyebrows, Connor said, "I thought you had moved past the shivering."
"Bold of you to assume anything about a lady." I pointed a finger at him. "Let that be a lesson to you."
"A lesson for a lesson." His lips curled. "I like it."
I watched him run his fingers through his hair to push it out of his face. "It'll be getting dark soon," I said.
He looked up at the sky like there was something only he could see. "I suppose." He shrugged, trailing his fingers in the clear water and watching the ripples forming from his action. "Would you like to head back?"
"That might be a good idea," I agreed, "before it gets too cold."
He offered me his hand and helped me out of the water. I moved slowly, for my shift weighed me down and hung rather heavily from my body. I squeezed water from the hem and watched it stream to the stones under my bare feet.
We swiftly changed into our dry clothes, both with our backs dutifully turned to the other, and without delay we set off for the manor once more. Evening was settling in comfortably, and above our combined footsteps I could hear the last few notes of birdsong.
A thrush had alighted on a bough not five metres away, almost at the level of my face. Perhaps it had not seen us. It was in a small patch of dying sun, we in the shade. It spread out its wings, fitted them carefully into place again, ducked its head for a moment, as though making some sort of obeisance to the sun, and then began to pour forth a torrent of song. In the evening hush the sound was startling.
Connor and I stopped walking and watched that bird. The music went on and on, minute after minute, with astonishing variations, never once repeating itself. Sometimes it stopped for a few short seconds, spread and resettled its wings, then swelled its speckled breast and again burst into song. For whom - for what - was that bird singing? No mate, no rival was watching it. What made it sit at the edge of the wood and pour its music into nothingness?
My wet hair against my head was making me shiver; I leaned into Connor's side - so solid, so safe - to steal some of his warmth. The thrush, startled by the movement, leapt from the branch and took flight, hurrying away before either of us could do anything.
"Who do you think it sings to?" I asked the silence.
He looked down at me. "You."
I felt my lips curl up, felt heat bloom in my cheeks. Unable to form a response witty enough to counter him, I looked away.
Chapter Text
There were two armchairs on the upstairs landing, dusty and worn, and in the gentle candle light they were riddled with deep shadows, elongating the little nicks and imperfections of the cushions. The old mahogany carved grandfather clock told us it was past three, but neither of us were tired.
A heavy rain had started when we returned home for dinner, and even now it had not eased up. We sat in these chairs overlooking the window, cups of tea in our hands, a deck of cards split between us, chairs pushed so close that our knees touched.
Achilles had gone to bed long ago. We had made ourselves some tea and come upstairs to sit, and now here we were: hours after we should have been asleep, listening to the rain lashing against the window, a single candle burning low between us.
Connor's hair was loose and dry, and the candle light turned his eyes to fire as he listened, with reverence, to a tale I was recounting - I remember little of what I was saying; I remember only how much I wanted to hold his hand.
Rain drummed on the roof above us, like we were sheltering in a cave. I turned to look out the window, at the rain sheeting down the glass, at the glittering trees just beyond the glow of the candle. The light reflected against the dark wall of the glass, and in this image I could see him watching me.
"What?" I said, keeping my voice low, and turned back to him.
His smile was slight and filled with something - something I couldn't quite place. Sadness? "Nothing."
I placed my cup back in its saucer - all of the china in the manor was mismatched and chipped but I rather liked it that way. Lydia's china sets were impeccable, as though the king himself would come on a spontaneous visit. Achilles wasn't so hopeful.
"I do so love the rain," I said, looking back to the window. "Especially at night."
He said nothing, and I got the impression that he was merely enjoying the simple state of being. I placed my cup and saucer on the table; oh, how close his hand was to mine.
No. I stifled that urge, stuffed it full of cotton and flowers and perfume, and pushed it deep, deep, deep down, until I couldn't feel it any more.
I focused on the rain, on the consistent drum of it on the roof. Drops slid like snail trails down the glass; I watched them run down like they were racing each other. The clock struck half past three. He glanced up at the sound, and the dying glow of the candle turned his skin to gold; touched by Midas.
My family would be asleep by now. Nadia would have tucked the children in and Lydia might have read them a story. The last of the lamps would have been put out, leaving the house in a smoky darkness - except for my room. For the weeks that I was away the room remained untouched, save for the occasional day which Nadia entered to open the windows.
"It won't work, you know," I said quietly.
His eyes slid back to me. "What?"
I made a few weak gestures with my hands before saying, "This. This arrangement. Two weeks here, two weeks there. It's not working. I don't. . . I don't belong anywhere. Neither here nor there. I only spend two weeks here, for goodness sake, and then I'm there for two weeks. It's so unstable, I feel like I'm floating in a dirty pond."
He considered this for a moment. "Then we will have to do something about it."
And that was that. He turned his gaze to the rain, and I, watching his eyes, could see the curved reflection of the light there. I gathered up the cards and dealt them out again. "Fancy one more game before bed?"
One game turned into two, and then the clock was striking four and my eyes were stinging. I asked him, very softly, "Why are you always so quiet?"
He studied me for a moment over the tops of his cards. "My people," he said finally. "A lot of emphasis is placed upon the guarding of one's emotions. We do not express ourselves because that is what is safest. It is normal, and we are taught this from childhood. If no one knows what you are feeling, no one can use it against you. One does not show one's heart until the axe reveals it. I am quiet, I suppose, because I am. . . I am used to it. But–" he sighed and looked away, and then I caught a glimpse of the person behind the mask. "But I'm so lonely," he said. "I understand why my people are this way, but it does not reverse what has been done. We show an image, but it is not the truth.”
I understood exactly where he was coming from. "So they don’t see who you really are," I murmured.
He nodded slowly. "I apologise,” he said. "I should not be unloading this on you."
Now I reached out and lay my hand on his. "You've nothing to apologise for."
This explained all of the times he pulled away; all of the times he shut himself off. I thought of the Massacre, how he had held my hand and shared a blanket with me, and then afterwards closed, like he had slammed a door shut between us.
He could see my tired eyes blinking rapidly and gave me a sad smile. "Perhaps we should leave it there," he said quietly, gathering the cards and stacking them neatly. "I did beat you, after all, and I should hate for my luck to change."
"You don't know that you beat me," I protested, but shut my mouth when he showed me his winning hand. I changed the subject to redeem myself. "We can leave the cups here. I'll get them in the morning."
He blew out the candle and we stood together, and he tucked the cards into his pocket. Having been sitting so that our knees touched, now that we were standing we were so close that I could feel his breath stirring my hair. My face burned, and I was glad that the landing was dark.
I took a hasty step back. "Sorry."
"You have nothing to apologise for," he said gently.
A sudden and overwhelming urge came over me, like something behind my eyes had shifted and cleared my vision, and I stepped forward and hugged him. Slowly and tenderly wrapping his arms around me, he lay his chin on the top of my head.
"I think you should talk to Lydia," he murmured. "This has been going on for long enough."
I nodded against his chest. "I know. It has been too long, but. . . I can't argue with her about this and my real father." (I had told Connor of my parentage while we played cards; this information was too delicate to be passed in a letter. He and I were now the leaders of the Half-Templar Bastards Club.)
"Maybe you ought to," he said. "Just to clear the air completely."
"I know," I said again. "You're right."
"Aren't I?" I heard the wry smile in his voice. "I usually am."
"All right, don't get cocky." I pulled back to playfully glare at him. "I'll have to beat it out of you."
"You couldn't if you tried," he said smugly.
I rubbed my eyes. "You're lucky I'm not trying right now," I grumbled.
His mouth curved into a gentle smile. "You look tired. I had better not keep you up."
I looked up at him and met his eyes. "Good-night," I said. It struck me then, to say something else, and I very nearly did - I took a breath and he, expecting me to say something more, leaned down a little so he might hear me. A burst of courage filled me, and I stretched up to kiss his cheek.
Neither of us said anything more as we went to our separate rooms and closed the doors behind us. However, two minutes later, I opened my door again and padded barefoot into the hall, candle in hand, and knocked on Connor's door.
Lightning flashed just as he opened the door. He knew what I was going to say before I said it. "Where is the spider?"
I gave a meek smile. "My pillow."
He sighed mockingly and followed me into my room; I pointed to the spider sitting, rather comfortably, on my blanket. He scooped it up in his hands and said, "Could you open the window, please?"
"No," I said. "Burn it."
He grinned. "No. Window."
He had won. I opened the window - rain pattered on my floor - and he swiftly deposited the spider outside. When he pulled the window shut, hands dripping with rain, he said, rather cheekily, "I don't suppose I will get another kiss for ridding you of the spider?"
"No." I backed away. "Don't come near me with your spider hands. I'll get an infection."
This made him laugh, albeit quietly because we were directly above Achilles's room. "Fine, Arachne," he said, and pulled the window open again. He deliberately held my gaze as he washed his hands in the rain.
"You're getting water all over my floor," I told him, placing the candle on my desk. "And Arachne was the one who was turned into a spider, not scared of them. Not to be that person, but. . ."
He splashed water into my face and shut the window once more. "Cry me a puddle–"
"River," I corrected him. He smiled, and something told me it carried the hidden weight of unspoken words as I followed him into the hall once more, dragging my blanket behind me. Before he could question me I said, "I'm getting a new blanket. I can't use this one now that that spider has touched it."
Completely irrational, I know, but I felt I needed it nonetheless. If I knew for certain that a spider had been in a particular place, I would avoid touching that place until I was sure there were no traces of spider left (this usually occurred after a vigorous scrubbing of the area or at least three washes for clothing). It drove Connor insane.
"I don't see the issue with spiders," he said, a quiet and playful smile finally reaching his tired eyes.
"I don't see the issue with snakes," I fired back. Checkmate.
He paused. "Touché."
I dumped the blanket on one of the chairs (I would remind myself to fetch it in the morning lest I make the mistake of wrapping myself in it unknowingly) and fetched a clean one from the closet. Wrapping this one around my shoulders, I said, "Good-night, again."
In the dark hall it was difficult to tell if the curve of his lips was fond or amused. "Good-night."
With a final look at him and a smile, I turned my back and went into my room, closing my door gently behind me.
*
Two weeks later I returned to my family, and the ground was soggy and slick with mud. The rain had hardly stopped for my entire stay at the manor.
I let myself in the front door; Nadia was out for her half day. I slipped my shoes off and brought them to the kitchen to clean the mud from them as best I could. Nearing the door, I caught the distinct muffled voices of Gabriel and Lydia coming through the door - the very people I wanted to speak with.
As I opened the door they looked up. "Sassy," Lydia said with a beam. "So nice to see you again. How is everyone?"
It was good of Lydia to inquire after Achilles and Connor. I said as much to her and as she stood to take my shoes from me I said, "I'd like to talk to you. Both of you," I added as Gabriel began to stand from his chair in anticipation of a private conversation.
When I sat, my stomach was a tangle of snakes. The Garden of Eden was overrun. I clasped my hands in my lap, then clasped them the other way and back again as they watched me expectantly. Lydia's face slowly melted into an understanding of what I wanted to talk about.
"My father," I started. "My real father. I just. . ." I sighed and looked down at my hands. "Now that I have some context to the situation, I do understand somewhat why you did what you did. But that doesn't excuse it. It still hurts. And I don't know how to deal with that pain, and my friends tell me I should be angry but I'm just so tired–"
"I know, darling–" Lydia started.
"Please," I cut her off. "I'm sorry, just. . . please let me finish."
She nodded without another word, lips pursed together in silent acceptance.
"I'll never be a true part of this family," I said. "Not really. I know–" I held up a hand as Gabriel, against my warning, opened his mouth– "you may dispute it, but it's a fact. You first met me when I was twelve; I've lived most of my life without knowing you. Twelve years is a long time. I'm sixteen now, and I've spent the last four years trying to fit myself into this equation, but I can't. You simply don't know me. You've missed twelve years of my life and known me for four."
"I know," Lydia said again, refusing to heed my words. "I know, and I'm so sorry. It was the most selfish thing I've ever done, and I regretted it every damn day until I met you."
"I'm not asking you to apologise," I said.
"Then what do you want us to do?" asked Gabriel.
Their faces were so crestfallen, so expectant. I felt like I was wrenching my own heart out of my chest, tearing through my lungs and prying each of my ribs apart. I imagined my blood dribbling between my fingers, slow and thick, trailing down to my elbow to drip to the floor.
"This isn't working," I said. "Two weeks here, two weeks there. Nothing is gained by it, and I'm sorry that it's gone on so long."
Locking eyes with Gabriel for a moment, Lydia said, "We were actually thinking the same thing."
"You were?" I wasn't surprised.
Lydia smiled sadly; it didn't reach her eyes. "I agree with what you're saying. It's true: twelve years is too long and, in spite of what we may want, we don't know you. We do love you, no more nor less than Meredith or Ryan, but there is that bit of distance between us. I don't deny it."
"Tell us what we can do to help you." Gabriel reached out to squeeze my hand.
I wanted to cry. They were being so nice, even though I failed them and disappointed them and I didn't deserve their kindness. I had crumbled to pieces. I had expected them to be angry; to scream; to forbid me from ever seeing Connor or Achilles again. What I was getting instead was support.
"I can't afford to forfeit my work," I said. "I'm sorry. I know it's not what you want for me, I know you don't really approve of my part in it, but I need to keep going."
"What are you suggesting?" said Lydia, but I could see it dawning in her eyes. Gabriel's face was unreadable.
I took a breath and mulled carefully over my words. "I wondered if I might move in with Connor and Achilles - full time."
They exchanged shocked looks, wide-eyed and stricken silent. Gabriel started: "Well–"
"I'm not ungrateful to you," I said quickly. "Please don't believe I am. I truly do appreciate everything you've done for me - I know I haven't been the easiest to handle. It's just that. . . I don't want to inhibit my work, and you've already gone so long without me. . ."
I trailed off, but neither of them spoke for a few stretched beats. The weak sunlight strained through dark clouds, and the thought occurred to me to simply get up and leave.
Just as the first heavy raindrops began to clatter against the window, Lydia spoke, rather quietly. "I understand. I really do. And it is my fault, and I've failed you in ways no one can forgive. I can't imagine how difficult this must all be for you: living two lives, trying to keep them both separate. Somewhere along the line you started to tear in the middle. We all did. This has been far too long."
I thought of Connor. Then we will have to do something about it. Even when everything else in my life started to fail, I knew he would still be there.
"It would be hypocritical of me to keep you here," said Lydia. "After all, I was near your age when I came to the colonies. But. . . I'm not ready to let you go. . ."
Her eyes started to glisten with tears, and my heart broke right there. I lay a hand on hers. "I won't be leaving fully. Of course I'll come back to visit. I'll just be spending more time with Connor and Achilles."
Lydia shook her head, unable to speak, so Gabriel said, "Yes, but don't forget the danger of your work. Who knows when - if - we might see you again?"
That was true. "I'm good at getting out of trouble."
"It's not just that," Lydia said. "It's just. . . I've spent so long without you, always thinking about you, wondering how you were, and now. . . I had thought that by having you here, at last, I might make up for lost time. That's why, when my father wrote to me of the white plague epidemics in London, I asked that you be brought here. That's why, when he and my mother. . . that's why you came here."
This was news to me, but I said nothing about it. She shook herself. "But, as I have said, it would be hypocritical of me. I know the dangers of your work, as my father was one of you. I can't say I agree with it, but this is your life, not mine. You didn't have a choice sixteen years ago, but you have a choice now."
The rain hammered against the window, and I watched the drops stream down the glass. I thought back to that night I had spent with Connor - I couldn't leave him. I needed to be with him, to make sure both he and I made it through this war, if indeed it would ever end.
"I shan't argue with you," Gabriel said, at last, his hand still holding mine. "Your mind is already made up."
"But please–" Lydia clasped my other hand in both of hers, her tears dangerously close to falling much like the rain outside– "please take care of yourself. I couldn't live if. . ."
I knew what she meant. "Don't be so sentimental," I said lightly, though the lump in my throat made it difficult. "I'll visit on weekends."
Her smile was watery and forced. "I should hope so. Meredith and Ryan will miss you."
Suddenly I was doubting my decision. Did I really want to go through with this just yet? "I need a few days - just to think."
This seemed to ignite a spark of hope in Lydia and Gabriel, though they hid it well. "Of course." Lydia nodded eagerly. "Take as long as you need."
I smiled at them and brought both of them in for a hug, but as soon as they couldn't see my face I felt that smile slip, and I bit the inside of my cheek to stop unwanted emotions from bubbling over.
I would give myself three days, I told myself. Three days to make up my mind. Three days to decide if I should leave my family - for good.
*
The next day I couldn't stand the crackling tension in the house (not the tension that brews before a fight, rather the tension of awaiting something to happen) so I took it upon myself to pay Thomas a visit at work. It was his half day, I rationalised. It would do us both some good to see each other.
He worked as an apprentice carpenter in the centre of the city, where business was at its peak, and I led my horse carefully through the streets, avoiding not only the mud but the rivers of stinking waste from the tanneries; butcher's shops; from animals and humans alike.
The docks were unnaturally quiet - a direct result of the Coercive Acts, passed only a few days ago by the Parliament. In response to the Tea Party, the Boston Port Bill banned the loading or unloading of all ships in Boston harbour.
When Thomas first told me he was getting a job as a manual labourer I had laughed. You'd never mess up your hair! I'd said, to which he had insisted that he was eager to learn. Besides, the master carpenter was an old-ish man with no family; he would benefit greatly from some company around the workshop; someone he could pass his legacy on to (or so Thomas put it).
He was a regular supplier to one of the lords in the countryside, and often made trips to the estate to deliver his wares. So there was that, too. It was my understanding that Thomas had grown friendly with one of the footmen working there.
I guided my horse past a particularly large patch of mud outside the workshop, and carefully dismounted. A surprise visit with Thomas would be nice. I could get a second opinion on my predicament.
As I passed down the alley to the yard at the back of the workshop, swinging a basket by my side, I watched the two pairs of footprints in the mud. The alley led to a small, square courtyard: the surrounding buildings stood three storeys high, and washing lines were strung between rickety fences. A chicken wandered into my path, but when it saw me its feathers ruffled as it leapt back in surprise.
The twin footprints led, side by side, to the back door of the workshop. I thought nothing of it until I lay my hand on the water-saturated door to open it.
Its hinges has been oiled recently; it opened without a sound. What I saw made me freeze in my tracks.
The workshop was just large enough for two work benches, and hanging on the wall to my right were saws and hammers and other tools of varying types. In the corner, a half-constructed chair sat with a sanding block discarded on its rough seat. Leaning against one of these work benches were two young men: one with dark hair, dishevelled from hands running through it; one with red hair that tumbled into his eyes. They were. . . they were kissing.
I dropped the basket.
They sprang apart and whirled around, eyes wide with horror. My heart leapt into my throat as I recognised the dark-haired one.
It was Thomas.
Chapter Text
His wide eyes found mine. "Cass–"
I was already backing away, my heart roaring in my ears. The eyes of the red-haired boy burned my cheeks, blackening my skin so it crumbled off my face like a dilapidated statue. I left my basket there and turned before they could see me slap my hand over my mouth.
I heard him call me again, but I was already halfway down the alley; this time I didn't care about the mud, I didn't care that it caked my shoes in a cold slop.
I had almost reached the reins of the horse when Thomas grabbed my arm and pulled me back. "Cass, wait–"
"What?" I snapped. My mind was whirling. I lowered my voice to a hiss, lest someone hear and report us. "It's punishable by the death penalty, Tom. The death penalty!"
"I know," he said, too quietly. "I know I should never have let it get this far, but. . ."
I shook him off. "Don't drag me down with you, Thomas. Does anyone else know?"
His silence was all the answer I needed. I sighed heavily, hugging my arms to my chest. The cold was slowly leaching all feeling from my toes.
"Please," he said, and his voice was so small and scared. "Please, I can't tell anyone."
He was holding my basket in his hands. I'd never seen him look this frightened. This was Thomas - my Tom. And no matter what happened, he was still my friend. I bit my cheek firmly and pulled him into a hug, so tight that he dropped the basket. He gripped me, and only then did I realise that he was trembling.
I sighed against him, knowing that the red-haired boy was likely long gone. "What are we going to do?" I murmured to him.
"Please," he said against me. "You can't tell anyone."
I ran my tongue over the inside of my cheek, tasting the familiar tang of blood. What would I do? I couldn't tell anyone of this, not even Connor; that would see Thomas sent straight to the gallows.
Though I desperately, desperately wanted to tell Connor. I told everything to him. But I didn't know how he would react; I didn't know his views or opinions on it. No, Connor couldn't find out.
I ran my hand over Thomas's hair. "Okay," was all I said. "Okay."
*
A few days later I took my siblings out for a walk in the city. As the days wore on I grew more certain of my choice to move out, but the greatest difficulty would be telling the children. Ryan held my hand as we walked, swinging my arm back and forth, while Meredith walked at my other side, arms firmly by her sides. She had long since grown past the age of wanting to hold my hand, and while I knew it was going to happen eventually, I wondered to myself if this was why I silently doted on Ryan.
If Meredith knew my thoughts, she didn't show it as she looked up at me, a grin crossing her impish face that reminded me painfully of my grandmother. Grey light bounced off her golden braids beneath her bonnet, and the silver buckles on her shoes gleamed with every step.
Ryan played with my fingers as we passed bakeries and toy shops, and I knew he was working himself up to asking me to stop at the windows. I pretended not to notice this, and kept walking past them as casually as if I were by myself.
Eventually he said timidly, "Sassy?"
"Yes, darling?"
"Can we look in a window?"
I smiled down at him. "Of course, my dear. Which one would you like to see?"
He dragged me to the wide window of a toy shop; Meredith followed along quite happily. The toys were displayed on swathes of red linen: soldiers and china dolls and even an old German nutcracker that looked at least a hundred years old. Little carved figurines - bears; horses; deer; wolves - chased each other around an advertisement for Voltaire's latest book, which I took immediate interest in.
Ryan let go of my hand and pressed his face against the glass. With a laugh, I gently pulled him back before he could all but lick the window. Meredith was more patient, and peered in from a careful distance.
"See anything you like?" I asked her.
My sister shrugged and continued to examine the display. A few months ago she had decided that it was her dream to be a nun, so already she had begun pawning off her possessions on her friends and, on occasion, me.
"Go on," I urged her. "Pick something."
She pursed her lips and took another dutiful look around. "I think I'm rather too old for toys."
"Oh, please." I rolled my eyes. "You're ten years old."
"You didn't have any toys when you came here," she pointed out.
"I had to cross an ocean," I said, "and I wasn't ten."
"Lay not up for yourselves treasures upon Earth," she said, "where moth and dust doth corrupt, and where thieves break through and steal."
"Merry, darling," I said with a sigh, "I'm sure He allows children to have toys." She only gave me a look, and I gave up. "Fine. Stand there and recite the Bible to me. Ryan's getting a toy, aren't you?"
But Ryan wasn't by my side.
"Ryan?" I checked behind me; I moved my skirts; I checked behind Meredith. He wasn't there.
My breath snagged in my throat. Don't panic in front of Merry. I faced the street: it was a Saturday morning and the street was packed with people, strolling through the nicer parts of town or popping in and out of the quaint little shops.
The little boy standing by the bakery window wasn't Ryan; the small figure clinging to a lady's skirts wasn't Ryan; he wasn't at the next toy shop up the street; he wasn't petting the stray dog on the corner.
Meredith's eyes were wide and frightened. I began to imagine the worst possible things. Ryan had been snatched off the street. Ryan had been trampled by a horse. Ryan was crying in some dark alley, cold and alone and afraid.
"Ryan?" I called again, but my voice didn't sound like my own - thin and reedy, and it was drowned out by the din of the busy street. I muttered a prayer, trying to keep control of my breathing, and looked around again, but everything was going by too fast, whirling, spinning like it had lost control, but I was the only one standing still. Pressure was mounting in my chest–
"Excuse me?" someone said. "My lady?"
I looked for who had spoken. It was a soldier, only a few years older than I, with a sharp, elf-like face and a red scar running down his cheek.
He flashed me a smile that made his green eyes dance. "Might you be looking for this little chap?" He brought forward his arm; he was holding Ryan's hand, and my brother was wiping his teary eyes with his other.
"Oh, darling." I knelt to embrace Ryan, who flung himself into my arms with a sob. I heard Meredith sigh and give thanks. Trying to keep a lid on my emotions, I let out a long breath to centre myself before looking up at the British soldier, still holding Ryan against me, and said, "Thank you."
He smiled. "You look a little young to be his mother."
"He's my brother," I said. Meredith stepped forward to hug Ryan, who gladly turned himself to her embrace. I stood and dusted my skirt off, trying to keep my hands from shaking.
The soldier shook his head, and his pale golden hair was so at odds against the blood-red of his coat. "Poor fellow got lost in the crowd. Don't be too harsh on him."
"I could never be harsh on him." I ran a hand through Ryan's dark hair. "Well, not for long, at any rate."
"Still." The soldier's teeth glinted in the sun, and the scar on his cheek stretched with his smile. "You know how sisters can be."
"I'd say Ryan knows better than I," I said with a laugh. "He has two."
The soldier bent down before Ryan and offered a friendly smile. "Now, little man, don't be wandering off on your sisters again, you hear?" When Ryan sniffed and shrank behind Meredith, the soldier laughed and ruffled his hair before standing.
As he adjusted his rifle over his shoulder, I said, "I really must thank you again. I don't like to think of what I might do had you not come forth with him."
He took off his hat and gave a bow. "It was my pleasure. I couldn't leave a lady by herself."
And I couldn't let him leave without showing him how much his help meant. "Please, good sir. Is there any way I can show you my gratitude?"
He thought for a moment, green eyes cast up in thought. "Buy him something nice," he said.
The soldier stayed with us as Ryan calmed down, and I bought my brother a toy soldier, whom he instantly likened to his saviour in red. Against Meredith's wishes, I bought her a small pastry from a neighbouring bakery (as I couldn't buy Ryan something without buying a gift for her, too). I didn't have enough money left to buy Voltaire's book, but I swallowed that disappointment with a firm dose of Responsibility.
But this didn't satisfy the soldier. "Will you not buy something of your own?"
"One can only have so much money," I said with a laugh. "I have no need to buy something for myself."
"O, reason not the need," he said. "Our basest beggars are in the poorest thing superfluous."
"Allow not nature more than nature needs, man's life is cheap as beast's," I finished.
His smile split his face in two. "You are well-read, my lady."
"Don't call me that, I am no lady." I waved him off. However, he told me to stay put and ducked into the shop. Minutes later he emerged with. . . with the book.
I kept my composure as he said, "A well-read lady deserves a gift that should feed her ambition. There is nothing more powerful than an ambitious lady."
I felt heat rising in my cheeks. "I cannot take this gift, you have already done enough for us."
He pressed the book into my hands. "Please. I insist."
I looked up at him as I took the book, cradling it gently against my chest with one hand, and holding Ryan with the other. "I cannot thank you enough."
"Please," he said and waved a graceful hand. "Take it and remember me as the stranger who showed an unexpected act of kindness."
"I'd prefer to remember you by your name." I let go of Ryan (and Meredith took hold of him) and offered him my hand. "Cassandra."
He bowed low and brushed a kiss over my knuckles. "Tobias."
Chapter Text
I moved out the next week. After making promise upon promise to the tearful children that I would visit them every weekend (Ryan was too young to make the journey to the homestead; he would only complain the whole way), I transferred the last of my property to the manor. Heartfelt and sorrowful good-byes were exchanged between my parents and me, along with more promises to visit each other.
Now that I had moved in and established a routine at the manor, time passed quickly. July brought baking sunlight and sweet flowers. We spent many evenings in the bay, splashing about in the water when the tide was in and picking shellfish when it was out.
One particular day, as the sun was beating down on the valley, Connor and I sat outside; I was scrubbing clothes in a wash basin, he was skinning a deer. It was tedious work for both of us, but we chatted throughout.
His hands were bloody up to his wrists, and as he paused to brush his hair from his eyes he left a smudge along his forehead. I laughed at him, and he gave me a look.
"What?" he said.
I rubbed my own forehead. "You've got a smudge."
"Oh." He frowned and examined his hands for clean skin; upon finding none, he tried to wipe the crook of his elbow over his forehead, but he only succeeded in spreading the blood further.
I laughed and shook my head. "Oh, you goose. You've made it worse."
He scrubbed again, harder, and I ended up dipping the end of my skirt in the soapy water and wiping the blood off myself. He looked up as I stood over him, and at this close proximity I simply couldn't help it: I leaned down and kissed his forehead.
"All better," I said and returned to my basin to continue scrubbing the clothes.
Little by little, he was getting used to my open displays of affection. I knew he would never fully become accustomed to such physical intimacy, what with the values that had been instilled in him from such an early age, but there was progress. He was coming out of his shell. I cast my mind back to when I first met him, nearly five years ago, and smiled at how far we had both come.
We worked in amicable silence for a bit. I liked that we didn't have to talk all the time. When one lives away from one's friends, there is no lack of conversation topics as they do not see each other every day. But now that I was here and saw Connor and Achilles every day, there were not as many new things to talk about. The silence didn't bother Connor; he seemed to like it, and because he liked it, I did, too.
I finished my work before he did and asked him if I could help him with anything, but he was in The Zone and said nothing. I tidied my own things away, working around him in a bubble so I wouldn't disturb his reverie.
Eventually I had nothing left to do but wait until he finished. I lay on my back in the grass by the cliff; a breeze barely stirred the long grass, and the sea was a distant crash behind me. I shaded my eyes with my forearm, hearing nothing but birds.
Some time passed, and then a shadow passed over me. I moved my arm and glared up at Connor, who towered over me, blocking out the sun.
"What?" I grumbled, squinting at him.
He tilted his head. "You all right?"
I covered my eyes again. "I'm waiting for you, you numpty."
He spread his hands, which were now devoid of blood. His shirt was clean, too - how long had I been here? "I am finished," he said.
"Evidently." I held up a hand in a request for help. He smirked and deliberately stepped over me, dusting his hands together. He was barefoot. "Rat," I wailed.
"Ótkon," he called back.
I muttered a varied array of insults under my breath as I hauled myself to my feet, dizzy with the heat of the sun. Connor had already disappeared into the manor (which was empty for the day, as Achilles was seeing to matters within the growing homestead village), and he returned moments later with two cups of water.
"Thank you," I said, and we drank in silence, relishing the cool water in the stifling heat. The trees were still with the lack of a breeze, and the air was thick and heavy with the dry heat.
We looked up at the same time as a sound came from inside the manor, and we both went still. Achilles wasn't supposed to be back yet. I met Connor's eyes, and he gave a barely-perceptible nod, and we slowly moved towards the back door. Connor froze as we heard it again, clearer this time.
"Ratonhnhaké:ton!" someone was calling. "Ratonhnhaké:ton!"
A burglar wouldn't know Connor's name. He tilted his head to the side and slowly pushed the back door open to peer inside. He let out a breath. "Kanen'tó:kon. Has something happened?"
I peered past Connor; his friend was frantic and wide-eyed, and once he heard Connor he came to the kitchen. He was more tanned than when I had last seen him; his clothes were lighter; without the gloves his hands were scarred and strong.
"William Johnson has returned," said Kanen'tó:kon, breathing heavily between his words like he had run here, "with all the money required to buy our land. He meets with the elders as we speak. I begged them to resist, but I fear he shall have his way, unless you intervene."
Connor stepped fully into the kitchen incredulously. "How is this possible? We destroyed the tea. Johnson should be unable to finance it."
"The Templars are nothing, if not resourceful," I murmured, more to myself than the others.
"Please," Kanen'tó:kon said. "It has to stop."
Connor was already shoving his shoes on. "Of course. Can you tell us where they are meeting?"
Kanen'tó:kon explained where Johnson Hall was while we grabbed our weapons and suited up. Johnson Hall was seven miles from the Mohawk River in Johnstown, New York. Built in 1763, it was set in William Johnson's huge estate and, unfortunately for us, would be heavily guarded.
We left a note for Achilles before taking horses from the stable and following Kanen'tó:kon out of the valley. The horses wheezed and sweated in the heat, but we hardly had the time to stop and rest them in our haste to reach Johnson Hall before the meeting ended.
One of the chimneys of Johnson Hall stuck out above the trees; once we could see it we tied the horses and continued on foot. Our feet hardly disturbed the dry grass as we crept, as quickly as we could without alerting guards to our presence, up the hill to the meeting.
Connor grabbed my arm and yanked me back as a redcoat soldier passed by the path, rifle slung over his shoulder as he made his rounds. It was hard to see his face in the shadow of his tricorne, but as he turned his head I could see the scar on his cheek, raw and pink in the sun, and all I could think of was Voltaire's book.
Connor was watching him like he was preparing to take him down. "Wait," I hissed to him. "I know him."
He looked at me for a few long moments, but he moved on without asking any questions. Another patrol passed us by, larger this time - there were six to this one, walking two-by-two, faces flushed with the heat. Each was scanning the forest; one wrong move on our part would alert the entire group.
Kanen'tó:kon and Connor shared a wordless look, and before I could say or do anything Kanen'tó:kon was stepping out of his cover and approaching them, hands raised and saying something in Kanien'kéha, making wild gestures as though he were lost and seeking directions.
As we continued on without him (he had stalled the patrol long enough for us to get past) Connor started chuckling under his breath.
"What was he saying?" I whispered.
"He was insulting their mothers," he replied with a guarded smile.
I made a mental note to ask him the specifics of these insults, but another patrol passed by, and we both ducked to avoid being seen.
"Brothers, peace," Johnson's voice came faintly, carried in the still air. "I am confident we will find a solution."
Another voice, quieter and more ancient than the mountains around us, said, "We are not your brothers."
I thought I heard Connor mutter something that sounded like, Damn right, but when I looked at him his face was grim and stony. The trees were beginning to thin out; we would need an alternative way to access Johnson Hall. Though, judging by the volume of the voices we heard, the meeting was held out of doors.
"Do we not seek the same things?" Johnson sounded strained. "Peace; prosperity; fertile land?"
I could tell Connor was listening intently as the unfamiliar voice said, "You seek land, true enough - land that is not yours, nor any person's."
Johnson Hall was now visible through the trees: a pale-bricked building large enough to house three entire families; sticking out harshly from the soft greens and yellows of the forest with its stark white stone.
William Johnson stood outside the front of this building, dressed in his rich red coat with a handmade blanket thrown over one shoulder, with a design not unlike that of Kanen'tó:kon's clothing. Sunlight glared off the silver ring on his right hand - the mark of the Templars.
Johnson, an Irish man from county Meath, had married Molly Brant, an Indian woman (like Connor, she used two names; her true name was Konwatsi'tsiaienni), thus making him the brother-in-law of Joseph Brant (Thayendanegea), the Mohawk military leader. I could only assume this was partially why he was held in such high regard among the Mohawk people; why he was the Superintendent of Indian Affairs in the northern colonies.
Regardless of how he got to his position, he was still trying to take the land from these people - Connor's people.
Johnson stood before a crowd of no more than fifteen men, all of whom were seated on the ground to listen while he spoke. Some men bore long, dark hair; others were shaved completely bald. It was one of these bald men, with a lined and tired face, but with a wisdom in his eyes such that I fancied he was an immortal king, who was speaking against Johnson in this debate.
"I only wish to keep you safe," said Johnson as mutters of dissent began to rise from the gathered men. "There are those who would betray and manipulate you - or worse yet: take the land by force."
As Connor and I crept around the back of Johnson Hall, I took note of the British soldiers stationed around the property. I had expected more, though I supposed that most were patrolling every access route to the meeting for fear of saboteurs. There were less guards here - Johnson had placed too much trust in the soldiers further afield.
I heard the old man's voice in the still air as Connor began to scale the back of the building: "We are all too aware of the expeditions your people send against us."
"What do you mean, my people?" Johnson sounded insulted, and he continued sharply, "We are all one. We should act as such."
Connor had reached the peaked top of the roof without incident, and he poked his head over the edge to nod to me. I couldn't climb in a dress - in the very least, I couldn't climb well - and would have to find another way to gatecrash the meeting.
"How?" demanded the elder man's voice. "By signing our lands over to you? Then we will be as one: in your debt for ever."
One of the back windows of Johnson Hall was ajar; I debated climbing through and making my way to the meeting from behind, but the risk of running into someone inside was too great, as that would alert the entire meeting of our presence. I couldn't endanger Connor like that.
Another voice, younger and rougher, spoke up. "Sir William may have a point. What hope have we against their black powder and iron?"
I looked around for something - anything - that I could use as cover. Just beyond where I stood, the grass was long and thick, leading into a thicket of bushes at the edge of the tree line. I crept into the bushes, achingly slow, that led around the side of Johnson Hall, where I could see the meeting taking place.
"The spirits will guide us," the first elder said, "as they always have."
"Did they not guide us here?" demanded the other who had spoken: younger than the first by only a fraction, whose grey hair was gathered in two long braids.
"Yes," the wizened elder said, "that we might unmask the Great Betrayer."
"This is a mistake," the younger one spat. "We should sign."
Johnson, who had been glancing between them as they argued, stepped forward with raised palms. "Peace. Peace. Have I not always been an advocate? Have I not always sought to protect you from harm?"
The youngest of the group straightened up. His black hair had only a touch of grey at his temples, and his face was strong in a rugged, middle-aged way. "If you wish to protect us," he said slowly, "then give us arms - muskets and horses, that we might defend ourselves."
I could see Connor, now, on the roof: only because I was searching for him was I able to pinpoint him. He met my eyes across the space between us, head cocked to the side so he could listen to the negotiations.
I shrank back as a guard passed by my place; for half a moment I was tempted to drag him into the bush and silence him, but to do so would guarantee our failure.
A twig snapped.
I flinched as the guard looked sharply around, hardly daring to breathe. For a heart-stopping moment I thought he had seen me, for he drew in a breath, but more twigs snapped, and somewhere behind me a deer called as it sprang away.
It wasn't until the guard turned away, satisfied that he had seen no saboteurs, did I let out a slow and silent breath.
Johnson was still arguing with the elders. "War is not the answer."
"We remember Stanwix," the old man insisted hotly, staring Johnson down with wrinkled eyes of steel. "We remember you moved the borders. Even today, your men dig up the land, showing no regard for those who live upon it. Your words are honeyed, but false. We are not here to negotiate - nor to sell. We are here to tell you and yours to leave these lands."
For a few beats, in which I could hear my own heart thundering in my ears, there was silence. Johnson regarded the elder as one might regard a cockroach.
"So be it," he said. "I offered you an olive branch and you knocked it from my hand."
At a single twitch of his hand, every soldier present drew their rifles. It was now or never.
I lunged out of the bush and dragged the nearest soldier back, one hand pressed over his mouth, but it wasn't enough to muffle his enraged cry.
To my utter surprise, Johnson laughed. "Call off your dog, or everyone here dies."
The guard began to pummel my ribs with his fists. Clenching my teeth, I struck the side of his head over and over with the butt of my flintlock, which made him thrash all the more.
Johnson's distraction was all Connor needed to jump off the roof, tomahawk in hand, and embed the blade in the Templar's chest where he stood.
The soldier in my grip fell limp just as the others sprung into action. I shoved him off me, and before I was even on my feet the elders were swarming at the soldiers, taking their weapons and beating them about the head with them.
I glanced down at the man I left behind, one arm curved around my throbbing ribs. His chest rose and fell, rose and fell, and blood trickled from his temple. He would wake up - albeit with a headache - which was more than I could say for Johnson.
Time almost seemed to stop as Connor tore the tomahawk free from Johnson's chest, and the Templar pressed his hands to the gash, blood spilling through his fingers, thick and dark and so red.
He sank to his knees. "What have you done?" he rasped, and desperation made his voice higher.
Connor's face was unreadable, his voice low, and I strained to hear him over the struggle between soldiers and elders. "Ensured an end to your schemes. You sought to claim these lands for the Templars."
Johnson's face was growing steadily paler, and his dark beard was almost black against his white skin. "Aye," he said, "that we might protect them. Do you think that good King George lies awake at night, hoping that no harm comes to his native subjects? Or that the people of the city care one whit about them?" He laughed again, and it was weak and wheezing. "Oh, sure, the colonists are happy to trade when they need food, or shelter, or a bit of extra padding for their armies - but when the walls of the city constrict; when there's crops that need soil; when there's no enemy to fight; we'll see how kind the people are then."
He was starting to slump. Connor knelt before him and steadied him with a hand on his arm. "The colonists have no quarrel with the Iroquois," he said.
"Not yet," grunted Johnson; his lips were turning chalky. "But they will. It's the way of the world: in time, they'll turn. I. . . I could have stopped it. I could have saved you all."
I gave the soldier behind me one last look before dusting my hands off and stepping out of the bush. My skirts snagged on dry thorns, and dust caked my shoes. As I pulled my skirts free, the elders managed to get the rest of the soldiers completely disarmed - not bad for a group of old men.
"You speak of salvation," said Connor, "but you were killing them." He didn't mention his mother; I wondered if Johnson even remembered or if she was just another body without a face.
"Aye, because they would not listen," said Johnson indignantly, on a final burst of energy; more dark blood dribbled between his weak fingers, and he grimaced. "And," he panted, "so it seems, neither will you."
One blood-slick hand slid to his pocket, and I could just see the glint of steel in the sun before Connor drove his wrist blade into Johnson's neck. Fresh, dark blood streamed down his pale skin, down Connor's arm, as Johnson sagged and, at last, went limp. His eyes were open and glassy, but Connor didn't close them.
My friend stood, not appearing to have noticed the blood dripping down his left arm, as he locked eyes with me. A quick once-over told us what we needed to know: neither of us was hurt. I straightened as best I could; my ribs ached, but not so badly that I needed to draw attention to it.
Before Connor could turn and leave, the oldest man said, "Ratonhnhaké:ton."
Now Connor looked at him, wide-eyed and surprised. The old man regarded him with an expression I couldn't decipher.
"Niá:wen, nithoyònha," (Thank you, young man) the elder said.
As a drop of blood made it to Connor's palm, his hand twitched. "Yo." (You're welcome)
"Niá:wen, iah ne í'i khok," (Thank you, not just from us) the elder said. He glanced at me, standing in silence, and said in English: "Thank you. You have the gratitude of not only us, but the valley. Our people are safe."
I smiled, determined not to fidget under the eyes of the elders. They were important people in Connor's society, I knew that, and that warranted the highest respect.
Connor himself inclined his head, his expression carefully neutral, and said, "I would not see his kind take away our land."
I couldn't ignore the way he said his kind. Like all white people were the same; all of us were colonisers with the same goal in mind. Was that really how he saw me? Was I no different in his eyes than the Templars; the king; Columbus? I didn't know, and some things I just couldn't ask him. I clenched my teeth until my jaw ached and spots bloomed before my eyes.
With a final, polite exchange between Connor and the elders, the older men herded the redcoats together and, brandishing the rifles in their hands, escorted them off the property. Connor looked at me, and I couldn't quite read what was behind his eyes.
We returned to our horses - Kanen'tó:kon was long gone - and made our way back to the homestead. Neither of us mentioned the fact that Johnson was the first name to be crossed off our list; we didn't mention that he was the first person Connor had killed. When we got into scraps, we struck to wound, but this. . .
The silence got too loud, so I said, "Tell me about your people."
He was riding slightly ahead of me; when I said this he looked back and slowed pace. "I would hate to bore you."
"Please," I said. "I want to know more about you."
My intention had been to break the silence, but I was genuinely interested as he told me how his people got their name Mohawk.
"It seems to me that the name is an amalgamation of other words," he said thoughtfully, "all joined together to form one. Our Algonquin neighbours-slash-enemies call us Mohowaugs; the Unami call us Mhuweyek; the Narraganset name us Mohowawog. In English terms, these names mean man-eaters and cannibal monsters."
"Are your people cannibals?" I asked, shocked. How had such a gentle soul as his come from a people so depraved that they would eat other humans?
He shrugged. "I am unsure. I think, perhaps in past years, before the English came, the warriors of our nation may have eaten their enemies after battle. Then again," he added as another thought came to mind, "the Ojibwe call us Mawkwas, which means bears."
I knew little about his people, so I listened closely and with great fervour as he explained how Hiawatha, the revered prophet and leader, had encouraged the Seneca, Onondaga, Oneida, Cayuga and Mohawk peoples, all of whom shared a similar language, to join together and become the Five Nations of the Iroquois confederacy. The Tuscarora nation later joined to form the Six Nations.
The Kanien'kehá:ka society was a matriarchal one - women were highly respected and family lines and names were all passed from the mother, which really surprised me.
"Then what do the men do?" I said, and he told me that while the women were the heads of the household and the village, the men were the diplomatic leaders and the primary hunters. Either way, he said, men and women were equal.
I laughed as his facts began to evolve into anecdotes: inter-village games of lacrosse (I was sceptical of him but he informed me politely that he was a competent and competitive player) and how he subsequently sprained his ankle tripping over Kanen'tó:kon; his first kiss with a girl from the Bear Clan (there were three clans: Bear, Wolf, and Turtle, the latter of which he was a member). I suspected there was more to the last story than he was letting on, but I said nothing.
In turn, I told him about Zacchaeus the obese dog and hikes with my grandparents and tea parties with Thomas. When we were small, I used to make Thomas wear dresses to these parties, and Rowan teased him tirelessly for it. I told him about my tenth birthday, when my grandparents took me to the Theatre Royal on Drury Lane and later to White's gentlemen's club on James's Street for chocolate. It was my first time trying chocolate, and I described this memory in detail to Connor.
"I'll bring you there one day," I told him. "You and I will go to London, and I'll show you around and we'll eat so much chocolate we pass out."
By the time we returned home we had almost forgotten, but then we went into the basement to pack away our weapons and we were forced to remember. Johnson watched us, his face forever frozen into a stern expression in the portrait on the wall. I didn't look at Connor as I turned the picture around.
But he was looking at me. "You are hurt," he said.
"It's nothing," I replied. "Just got a few punches from a bastard soldier. I'll live."
His gaze softened. "You should take it easy for a few days."
I sighed and squeezed his hand as I passed him on my way up the stairs. "And leave you to do everything? I don't lodge here for free."
He looked at those pictures a moment longer, at the unforgiving eyes of his father, before he turned and followed me up.
Chapter Text
August brought ripe apples; soft blackberries that stained our fingers purple for days; bright yellow ears of corn in the fields; fragrant flowers; and my birthday.
I spent the weekend with my parents in Boston, and the children were ecstatic to see me. They were all brimming with questions about my adventures and about Connor and the homestead. I was happy to divulge and answer them, though I avoided mentioning Johnson and the portraits in the basement.
I awoke at dawn on the morning of my birthday, unable to escape the habits of the manor. Connor and I usually woke around this hour to run, and now, as I lay in bed, I itched to get out and stretch my legs. However, I knew that my parents wouldn't approve if they were to come in and find my bed empty, so, twitching my toes restlessly, I reached over to my nightstand and picked up Voltaire's book. It was Le Taureau Blanc, published last year. I had been taught French by my grandparents, but I had little opportunity to speak it (save for the odd conversation with Norris on the homestead) so this book helped to sharpen my fluency.
Connor thought French sounded strange, but I had to remind him that his language had only very recently been translated to a written alphabet. French missionaries had devised a spelling system at the beginning of the century, so really, I told him, his people and the French weren't so different after all.
I lay there for quite some time, reading by the light of the rising sun that was slowly creeping through my drawn curtains. Every so often I would come across a French word I didn't know, and I marked it with a bit of charcoal so I could ask Chapheau or Norris about it.
When I heard a scuffling in the hall outside my door, I smiled to myself. Every year my parents played this game with my siblings, and even though Meredith considered herself too old for toys, she still liked to partake in this game. The handle on the door slowly began to turn–
"Go!" cried Lydia, and Nadia, who had opened the door, leapt aside as the other four came barrelling through the narrow doorway in a race to see who could kiss me first. It was always Gabriel. While he loved his children dearly, he was never one to let them off without some healthy competition.
I dropped my book and laughed as he reached me first on his long, slender legs, and planted a loud kiss on the top of my head. Lydia was constantly trying to feed him up, but no matter how many generously buttered scones he put away, he remained spare and angular. All elbows and knees, Lydia said.
The order in which they got to me was always the same: Gabriel first; followed by Meredith who, like her father, refused to just let people win; then Ryan, tumbling in with his messy bed hair and a smile splitting his ruddy cheeks; and lastly Lydia, who always let the children get to me first.
"Happy birthday, Sassy!" little Ryan yelped as he launched himself onto my bed to hug me.
Lydia leaned down to kiss my head like Gabriel had. "Do you know how old she is?"
Ryan's face went serious as he began to count on his fingers. When he ran out of fingers, he looked around for something else to count, and when we didn't offer our own hands, he looked down at his bare feet and began to count his toes.
He seemed to have forgotten what he was counting them for, because he got up to twenty and grinned in triumph.
I huffed. "I'm not that old."
He blinked like he had just remembered his task. "Oh."
Meredith shook her head, somehow managing to come across as both fond and annoyed. "She's seventeen."
"Well," I said, "at least someone knows how old I am." She deserved a hug for that. "Ryan, what's twenty minus three?"
He looked back down at his toes again and slowly, carefully, counted again. "Seventeen." It dawned on him, then, and he looked up indignantly. "How preposterous."
We laughed at his imperious tone, and my family left me to dress myself before I joined them for breakfast. As I was going down the stairs someone knocked on the door. I knew who it was before I even opened it.
"Happy birthday, dear!" Thomas beamed at me around the box against his chest.
I didn't know if I should hug him or take the box from him first. "Darling, you look like you're struggling there."
"I am." He thrust the box at me, and I staggered with the sudden weight. I hastily stepped back to let him in while I looked around for somewhere to put the box. My arms had become stronger since my full-time move to Achilles's manor, but the box was still unexpectedly heavy.
I placed it by the foot of the stairs, not daring to peek inside, and pulled him into a hug. "Thank you," I said. "You're just in time for breakfast."
"That was my intention," sighed Thomas. "I wouldn't miss Nadia's porridge if you paid me."
"She does nothing special to it," I said with a laugh.
"Sure," he said. "When I make it, it tastes like a bat's toe, but when she makes it, it tastes like the pearly gates of Heaven itself just opened for me. I declare shenanigans."
Nadia, hearing Thomas at the door, worked her magic on the porridge again, and while my friend watched her with suspicious eyes, he still didn't know what she did to the porridge to make it so tasty. He settled for complimenting her every time she passed him.
She laughed and stroked his hair fondly. "You are too kind, young Tom. I shall have to keep an eye on you."
"Not if I keep an eye on you," he retorted playfully.
Nadia placed her hands on her hips. "Is that a threat?"
"Only if you're a witch," he said, faux-darkly.
She laughed at him again and went about her work whilst we finished eating. My family gifted me with a shining new saddle for my horse, as my old one was wearing down.
After breakfast, Thomas and I went upstairs to my room so I could open his present in peace. I shut the door behind us and sat on the floor so I could examine the box a little more closely.
Thomas flopped onto my bed and picked up my book. "A new book, how lovely. When did you get this?"
I couldn't hide my smile. "A British soldier bought it for me."
His eyes went round as saucers as he launched himself to the edge of the bed, gripping the sheets between his fingers, and I could practically feel him buzzing with excitement. "A man? With Cassie? Oh, darling, I might faint. Was he nice? Handsome? Oh, he was handsome, I can tell by the way you said it. What's his name? Have you seen him since?"
The rapid-fire questions were beginning to overwhelm me. "Yes, he was nice, and no, I haven't seen him since."
"You need to," he pleaded. "Please invite me to the wedding."
I pushed his face away with my hand. "You're getting ahead of yourself. How is your. . . relationship?"
I was the only person who knew about them, and it was going to stay that way. I still didn't know his name, but I didn't want to - that way, if questioned, I could genuinely say that I didn't know who he was. All I knew was that he was the first footman at a lord's country manor in New York, and that he and Thomas both wore a necklace with a ring on the chain.
Presently, Thomas untucked this necklace from his shirt and examined the ring, lying upside-down over the side of my bed. "It's not a ring of marriage," he said, his cheeks pushing his eyes into squints. "It's more of an R.S.V.P. but you carry it with you. It's a reminder."
His voice was so soft, so tender, that I almost grew uncomfortable - I felt like I was intruding on a private moment, even though it was only us.
I focused on pulling the ribbon very gently from the box, and set it aside for Meredith, for she loved to collect them. As soon as I lifted the lid, I murmured, "Oh, Tom. You didn't have to."
He dropped the ring and it whacked him in the eye. "I did have to."
I ran a finger over the books inside the box. "It's enough for my own personal library. How many are in here?"
"Eight," he said proudly. Then, somewhat softer: "Not all of them are new. Some are hand-me-downs. From Rowan and all."
I didn't care. "I'd kiss you right now if it didn't seem inappropriate."
"Save your first kiss for your soldier," he teased. His face was going red from the blood rushing to his head.
"Sit up before your head explodes." I climbed onto the bed next to him so I could hug him properly. "Thank you, darling. You've set the bar damn high, what am I supposed to get you for your birthday?"
He swatted me away. "It's all the way in November, idiot. I'm sure you can think of something Earth-shattering before then."
We lay down again, our heads hanging over the side of the bed. The pressure mounting in my head and the blood pounding in my ears was a feeling I wasn't sure I enjoyed. "What's your goal?"
Thomas looked at me, cheeks flushed. "What do you mean?"
"For the future." I waved a vague hand. "Everyone has that one goal in life that they want to reach. What's yours?"
He was silent for a few drawn-out moments while he thought. "I want," he said quietly, "to own my own carpentry business. I want to live somewhere in the city, surrounded by life. I want. . . I want to live with him. Wake up every morning with him, go to work every day knowing that he would be there when I got home." He huffed and drew a hand down his face. "Not that that's likely, of course. He's in service; he can't move out unless he gets married."
I lay my hand on his. "Still," I said softly, "it's a nice dream."
"What about you?" he asked, changing the topic. "What's your goal?"
Now I thought. What did I want to do with my life? As an Assassin, I had certain goals that I had to share with Connor, but I didn't want them to be my legacy.
"I want to live," I said. "I want to live a life that's mine, and only mine. For so long, I've lived with other people telling me what to do. Grandfather told me to come to America, so I did. Grandfather told me to find Achilles, so I did. Achilles told me that the Templars were my goals, so that's what they became. But–" I sighed and scrubbed my hands over my face while I articulated my words. "But that's not me. I don't want to be an Assassin; I don't want this to be my legacy."
When I stopped, Thomas said, "What would you do instead?"
Golden sunlight on white lace. China cups and bonnets with ribbons. A city that smelled like wet horse and rain.
"I want to see London again," I said. "I want to visit Drury Lane and go to my old home again. All of the family portraits are still there. I want. . . I want to settle down. Live somewhere quiet, where I can look out the window and not have to worry about soldiers knocking the door down in the name of the war efforts. I want to live quietly, like a normal person. And. . . I want to write. I've never actually written anything before," I said quickly. "But I want to try."
We were silent for a few beats, but then we looked at each other. Thomas smiled. "That's a good dream," he said.
*
I returned to the manor two days later. Connor wasn't waiting for me outside, like he normally was. I had told him not to - because I didn't know when I would be back, and I didn't want to leave him waiting. I let myself in the front door and placed my bag at the foot of the stairs.
Connor was in the kitchen, scrubbing dishes in a basin; every so often he would hold one up to the light to make sure it was totally clean, before dunking it back in the water one last time.
His back was to me. I knocked on the wall and said, "Good afternoon, Connor."
"Good afternoon." He didn't look up. It didn't bother me - sometimes, when left alone for extended periods of time, he grew used to his own company, his own loneliness, and it took a little while for him to integrate back into society. Since his society mainly consisted of me and Achilles, I knew how to speed things up.
I walked behind him and hugged him; as he was sitting, I could wrap my arms around his shoulders quite easily. "Can you never sit normally?" I said.
He looked down - he was sitting with his legs crossed beneath him on the bench. "No," he said thoughtfully, and waved a fork menacingly at me.
I ducked back as droplets of soapy water splashed from the tips of the fork. "Don't threaten me, I'm only just back."
"How was it?" He resumed washing the dishes, but I kept my arms around him, which he didn't seem to mind.
"It was great," I said. "Gabriel still won't let the kids win, not even once."
"That is cruel," he teased.
"I know!" I laughed. "And then Ryan threw a fit because Merry got more cream on her piece of cake than he did."
Connor nodded. "Understandable."
"Don't encourage him," I said, resting my chin on the top of his head. "Still, it's good to be back."
"It is good to have you back," he said. "With you gone, I have no one to annoy."
"Achilles would beg to differ. Where is he, anyway?"
He shrugged, and I could feel the muscles in his back and shoulders moving beneath his shirt. "Out back, I think. He likes to sit on the cliff and ponder his existence."
"Ah, yes." I nodded. "We've all been there."
He finished the last of the dishes, and we put them away together. This was the first time I'd looked him in the face since I had returned; the scar on his cheek had healed nicely, and I could practically see the thoughts whirling behind his dark eyes.
"I'd better go greet the old man," I said, "before he misses me too much."
"I am sure he has cried himself to sleep in your absence," drawled Connor.
Just has Connor had predicted, Achilles was sitting on a low, smooth rock that overlooked the valley. A salty breeze was coming in from the bay that ruffled my hair as I sat next to him. The earth was dry and crumbly beneath my fingers - it hadn't rained in weeks.
"Happy birthday," he greeted me. His eyes were closed in the sun, and his hat lay beside him. "How is everyone?"
"Wonderful, thank you," I said. "I'm glad to get back to work, though."
He hummed. "I have something for you."
I could only watch as he reached into his pocket and pulled out a flat box, unwrapped and worn-down. His wrinkled fingers were steady as he passed it to me. "It was my wife's," he said. "You would have more use for it than I would."
It was a brooch. Almost too afraid to lift it from the box, I ran my fingers over the silver vines that interweaved like thorns, inlaid with countless tiny diamonds. A single pearl hung from a tiny clasp, and it gleamed pink and gold and white when the sun caught it.
"It's beautiful," I murmured. "Thank you."
"It was only collecting dust," he said. "Better it goes to the hands of a new generation than follows me to the grave."
He was never one for hugs, but I did it anyway. After, we sat in silence for some time, simply watching over the valley. Two birds looking upon a vast territory.
When I eventually returned to Connor, he wasn't in the kitchen. Some searching had him found in the basement, sweeping the floor with fervour. I hung my arms over the bannister in the basement. "You're certainly working hard, Miss Connor."
He flashed me a tired half-smile. "How is Achilles?"
"He gave me this." I showed him the brooch. "It was Abigail's."
"It is lovely," said Connor.
"I can't imagine how that must hurt," I said quietly. "Taking his wife's possessions and passing them on."
Connor didn't say anything for a few moments while he swept. "In my culture," he said, "when a person passes away, their possessions are all given away to relatives - to prevent the mourners from obsessing over the dead, and therefore grieving too long. There is a ten-day mourning period, and after that life must go on as normal. If a person is mourned for too long, their spirit cannot pass into the next world."
I didn't point out that he still kept his mother's amulet necklace - I didn't say I knew that much of the sadness and loneliness in him stemmed from her death. Did that mean he mourned too long - that her spirit couldn't pass on? My own beliefs told me differently, but I didn't say that, either.
Instead, I gave him a slow, coy smile as I gripped the bannister and leaned back. "Thank you for bringing my bag upstairs."
"Why is it so heavy?"
"Thomas gave me a heap of books for my birthday. Did you get me anything nice?"
A gleam entered his eyes. "What would you like?"
Every year, without fail, he did this: he would ask me what I wanted, and then he did it - and after he would do what he had already planned for me.
My eyes were drawn to the weapons racks. "I'd like to learn how to handle an axe. For fighting - not just for chopping wood."
That perked him up. "Really?"
"Really." I nodded.
His eyes drifted away as he thought, sorted things out in his mind. "All right," he said with a grin, crooked and genuine. "We can start tomorrow."
*
The next day was blistering hot, and dry as a desert. We worked at our regular chores and training until midday, when the sun was reaching its hottest peak in the clear sky.
Connor took me outside and told me to wait for him by the trees, so I stood in the blissful shade while he returned to the manor. A lean and shaggy dog trotted up the path, nose to the ground, and I reached out to pet it. It was Max, Terry's old hound. His kids loved to ride the dog like a pony or a pig, and he was elderly enough to remain docile.
Presently, he lay on his back and begged for belly rubs, which I happily gave. One of his hind legs began to kick as I scratched his chest, and I laughed fondly at him.
A metallic scraping sound made me look up in time to see Connor making his way over to me, dragging a rack of axes behind him. In the heat, he elected to go without a shirt, which came as no surprise to me.
When he saw old Max at my feet, true joy spread across his face as he dumped the rack by one of the trees and hurried over to see the dog. Max whined and flattened his ears appreciatively as Connor scratched his chin. The dog's tail thumped against my legs.
Connor's dark hair was tied back in a single braid that reached halfway down his back, and I gave it a playful tug. "How about I leave you with the dog and teach myself to throw an axe."
He shoved me with his shoulder as he straightened up, and then my words dawned on him. "You want to learn to throw, too?"
"I have to start somewhere," I said. "I want arms like yours."
He laughed at me as we made our way to the rack of axes, and I think my heart stopped for a moment when he smiled. "The first lesson," he said, "is not to be afraid. Go stand by that tree." He pointed to a broad sycamore. My gaze lingered on his hand.
I glanced at the tree, at the winged seeds littering the grass. "Why? What are you going to do?"
"You asked me to teach you to handle an axe." He lifted one from the rack and examined the blade, which was scratched and shiny after a recent sharpening. "Kill the fear before it can take root," he said. "A skill you will need in order to stay alive. But if you are afraid–" he lightly tapped my head with the heavy axe handle– "then you are already dead. So, go stand by the tree."
Sunlight gleamed on his bare torso, and I tore my eyes away politely as I backed over to the tree. I reached out and lay a hand on the sturdy trunk, imagining all of the little vascular systems, like veins, flowing up the tree and into the roots deep in the ground, carrying water like a line of ants carrying crumbs.
Just as I turned back to Connor, he threw the axe.
I ducked, and couldn't help my scream, as the heavy blade embedded deeply into the trunk mere inches from my face. "What the hell was that?"
Connor remained calm as he pulled another axe from the rack. "Don't be afraid."
I was shaking. He could have killed me. My brains could have been dripping down the tree.
But Connor had impeccable aim. If he had wanted to hit me, he would have. He won't touch me, I told myself, smoothing my hands down my breeches to wipe the sweat from my palms.
I shouldn't have been so afraid, I rationalised. Achilles had trained us not to flinch at gunfire, at blades and physical attacks - so why was it so easy to flinch at an axe? You're better than this, Cassandra.
My inner monologue still didn't lessen the fear when he threw the next axe and it landed a little closer to my head.
"Do you trust me?" he asked.
In spite of the fact that he was using me for target practice, my answer was instinctive. "Yes."
"Then act like it." He threw another and then came over to me to pull the axes from the tree. "Kill the fear at the source," he said, gently rapping his knuckle against my head. "I won't hurt you."
And he didn't. As the afternoon wore on I flinched less and less, until I could stand completely still and let him throw axes at me - even with my eyes closed. Then he started to teach me how to handle an axe.
It would take a lot longer than one afternoon lesson, he told me, but he would continue to teach me if I wanted. The weapons were heavy, and though my arms were strong, I could only swing an axe for so long before my arms began to shake. He understood, and offered friendly tips on my stance and grip.
A golden evening had begun to settle in by the time we stopped, sweaty and panting in the heat. His chest had a soft sheen, and I looked away, pointedly wiping my face on my shirt, which stuck to my back and stomach in a way that was profoundly gross.
His hair was coming out of its braid, and he sat in the shade to unravel it. After a moment's hesitation, I sat next to him.
"Thank you," I said after a while.
He smiled, though his eyes were still on his hair as he combed his fingers through it. "You thank me even though I could have killed you?"
I pushed his shoulder. "I'm being polite. I'm sure if you actually did kill me, I'd still thank you. I should hate to be perceived as rude."
His black eyes flicked up to me. "You are never rude."
"It's fake." I stretched my arms. "It's a pity theatres were banned this year. The stage has really missed a great actress."
"I think it is a good thing," he said. "If you had run away to join a travelling theatre troupe, you would not be here."
"Yes, of all damned places." I rolled my eyes, then looked at him more softly. "I am grateful, though. To you."
He met my eyes. "I know."
His hand was so near to mine, I could almost feel my skin burning; turning to gold; sprouting roses. I looked away and linked my fingers in my lap. "I'd like to continue this."
When I glanced up, he had looked away, too. "Yes," he said distractedly. "Of course." He seemed lost in thought for a few long moments, chest rising and falling in a slow rhythm that hypnotised me. Then an idea came to his mind and he looked at me again, bright-eyed and lacking the soft sentimentality of the moments before. "I have something else for you."
My lips curled. "May I ask what it is?"
"No." He grinned. "You will see tomorrow."
Chapter Text
As it would turn out, Connor's gift to me was the Aquila. Not the ship, exactly - he would bring me out for my first trip on the Aquila. It still horrified him that I had never been on the ship since we had built her with Faulkner.
"With you constantly moving between here and your family, there was never enough time for you to come out," he explained as he led me to the dock. "I would like to change that."
Evidently, he had told Faulkner and the crew, because the Aquila was buzzing with the activity of the sailors as they carried pine boxes of cargo to and fro; secured the rigging; counted the cannons. I had little experience with ships, my main source being the ship that brought me to America, but seeing the Aquila now, in all her splendour, I couldn't help the small pride that pricked my heart as I reminded myself, I helped to build that.
"Cass!" cried Faulkner when he saw me, and he was instantly over to crush me into a whiskey and salt scented hug. "How've you been? So good to see you. Connor's told us that we're to bring you out, that right?"
"If you'll have me." I grinned. "I know it's bad luck to have a woman on board."
"Nonsense." He waved me off and clapped me heartily on the back. "You were there when she was rebuilt; I'm sure she'll forgive you."
"However," added Connor, nudging my ribs, "the water is another story. The sea does not forgive."
I shoved him. "I'll throw you into the sea, then we'll see about forgiveness."
"The joke is on you." He skirted past me, plucking my bag neatly from my hand as he did, and stepped onto the gangplank. "I can swim."
I tried to make a swipe for the bag, but missed. "And I can't?" I demanded and followed him as Faulkner strode onboard to address the crew. "You taught me to swim, idiot."
"But after your display at the Tea Party?" He squinted back at me, but I could see his eyes glittering with mirth. "Not as well as you would hope, I think."
I glared and snatched my case from his hand. "I was shot."
He shrugged, a cool wind ruffling his hair in a manner that made him look rather striking. "I will shoot you myself if you keep annoying me. Allow me to show you to your room."
My room turned out to be the captain's cabin. I hadn't been inside these quarters since we had built them, so I found no small amount of joy in looking around at everything: scrolls and maps packed neatly into square shelves; haphazard stacks of books leaning against a large wooden table; telescopes and trinkets; spare crates of gunpowder. Three square windows were set into the back of the cabin, and as I leaned over the bed beside them I could see the greyish water churning outside; I could hear the distant call of a seagull.
As I placed my bag down, Connor, leaning his long body against the door frame, said, "As captain of this ship, these quarters should technically be mine, but I never use them. They are yours, if you would like. If not, I am afraid you would be with the rest of us belowdecks."
Only one part of this surprised me. "Wait. You're the captain? What about Faulkner?"
He looked at me like I had grown an eleventh toe. "Have you lived under stone?"
"Under a rock," I corrected him, "but you were close that time."
"Damn the English idioms." He rolled his eyes. "My point. Faulkner has deemed himself senescent, and the rest of the crew did not want the responsibility. Someone had to step up."
"But you're only eighteen!" I protested, but I didn't know why I was arguing, not really. This information only made me intensely proud of him, and I imagined flowers had bloomed in my stomach, my throat, when I looked at him. I wanted to take his hand and dance across the deck with him.
"Age means nothing when time is a swinging pendulum." He pushed himself off the door frame and waved a hand. "I will leave you to settle."
Then he was gone; disappeared to the deck, and mere minutes later the Aquila gave a jolt and a shudder, and I heard the crew calling to one another as the ship set sail.
I crawled onto the bed and opened one of the windows so I could stick my head out. A salty breeze brushed my cheeks, and the ship began to depart from the dock in slow, rocking swells that rose up and down, up and down, up and down.
Misty spray splashed into my face and I couldn't help but laugh. How soft, I thought, how soft it always was! I reached out to touch the water, and the droplets coated my fingers with kisses.
The bay grew gradually further away, until the cliffs were distant ridges, and the trees were dark and shapeless. I was unsure how long I had spent hanging out that window, but when I righted myself my back ached.
The gentle rocking of the ship brought a surge of memories of the months I had spent at sea coming from London: celebrating my dismal twelfth birthday with Thomas and his family; blisters filling my mouth due to the lack of fresh food; laughing at Thomas's sea sickness (and then having my luck reversed as he laughed at mine). I remembered weeping for my grandparents most nights, the only family I had ever known.
There were many sad times during those months, but there were happy moments, too. Joy came to me, as a child on that ship, in the only way it could: fleeting, and at once filling my heart and draining my bones.
I reflected on that journey now, five years later. Older and wiser and carrying the weight of worlds. How young I was then, how naïve. Lost and confused. I had more experience now, and with the gift of hindsight I could see the darkest moments with more clarity. The deaths of Sophia and Ryan weren't so frightening anymore - or maybe I had just stopped being scared of them. The moments hadn't changed; I had. I had built barriers around myself; walls around that day, those weeks. I had made a promise to myself: a determination not to feel that sort of pain again, not to be that weak ever again.
The boards above my head creaked, and I looked up to the centre of the ceiling, where Connor would have been standing at the helm. He had, I thought, made a similar promise to himself - and yet he still felt. Emotions are tricky things; no matter how much one may want to claw them away and be rid of them, they keep coming back.
Not many things hurt Connor, but when they did, the wounds went deep. He didn't show it often, but even when he smiled there was always something else behind it - like a Greek theatre mask.
But when he did let that hurt show, I only felt a deep connection with him - like he knew exactly how I felt. Pain treats the young mind so harshly, so hugely, and he and I were testament to that. By showing that pain, that humanity, he therefore showed the iron will behind those eyes, the heart of stone and steel beating in his chest; and that, I - older, wiser - reflected, was true strength.
Filled with the sudden, wistful urge to speak with him, I picked my way across the cabin and opened the door. The wind picked my hair up and carried it across my face, and I pulled stray hairs from my mouth as I squinted across the deck at the groups of sailors at work. They were happy on the sea; they were free and wild and loud. They were nothing like the crew of the ship that brought me to Boston. Some looked over at me and smiled, and I smiled back.
Connor and Faulkner were on the poopdeck; the former at the wheel and the latter by his right shoulder. As I made my way up the stairs I caught small tidbits of their conversation - Faulkner was complaining about the weather, and Connor playfully chastised him.
When he saw me, Faulkner grinned. "Good to see you topside. I was beginning to think you'd never sprout your sea legs."
"There is hope for her yet," remarked Connor.
"Funny." I crossed my arms and leaned them against the bulkhead. "Where are we going, anyway? Thought I'd ask in case of abduction."
Connor squinted into the sun, and his eyes turned golden. "The crew decided they could do with a supply run, so we are off to Martha's Vineyard."
"Nothing so exciting that you'll get your ribbons in a twist," teased Faulkner, the sea wind ruffling his grey hair. "We'll work you up slowly, get you used to it before we show you the big guns."
"I await that day with bated breath," I said drily.
Faulkner laughed and returned to his conversation with Connor. The open sea stretched, far and wide, ahead of us, and suddenly I realised how small we were in the vast expanse of the Atlantic. In spite of the summer sun, the wind was icy and it whipped a chill into my cheeks and nose. This did not bother the sailors, nor did the steady roll of the waves against the hull, and they walked with ease; as though they were spirits born of sea and foam - more water than flesh.
I was quite content to continue my daydream until one of the crew caught my eye and cocked his head. I held his gaze as he studied me, scrutinised me, with such confusion that I had to tilt my head back at him. It wasn't until he blessed himself and averted his eyes did I realise that I was the thing that had confused him - he wondered why I was on board. Every so often I caught him casting furtive looks at the waves while he hauled the rigging.
There was a question I had never thought to ask until now. "Why is it such bad luck for a woman to be on board?"
Both Connor and Faulkner looked at me again; my friend frowned, and I could almost see the wheels turning in his mind as he decided how best to form the words - but before he could open his mouth, Faulkner said, "Ehm, well. I mean no offense to ya, truly, but. . . it's distracting for the crew. A distracted staff makes for an angry sea, and as Connor said before: the sea doesn't forgive."
The mere thought of an entire crew salivating over one young woman such as myself was enough to make me want to gag. A deer among wolves.
Connor, watching me from the corner of his eye, said quietly, "My crew are good men."
He would know, I supposed. So I trusted him on that. I caught his eye and grinned at him, and he smiled back, wide and free and so different to how his neutral face was set. He always looked sad - now he was alive. Like his crew, the sea was something that brought him to life, like water feeding a sapling. I wondered if he inherited that from his father's side.
The sudden thought of the Grand Master of the Colonial Rite, Haytham Kenway, trying to captain a ship made me snort in a manner that was most un-ladylike. Conner looked sharply over at me, mouth puckered like he was trying not to laugh, and said, "That sounded like Beatrice."
(Beatrice was Prudence's pig, whom she was fattening up for slaughter. We were all fond of the sow and brought her treats when we could.)
The journey to Martha's Vineyard went smoothly and without incident. Gradually, over the week it took us to get there, the crew warmed to my presence and began to chat with me during the day.
By night, a few remained on the deck for the night shift, which changed every four hours, and through the etched glass of the small windows in the cabin door I was able to see the lanterns swaying as the night watch rotated. When it was Connor's shift at the wheel, I stayed up with him, and after we both went our separate ways.
But at night, as I lay in the bed in the cabin, I couldn't shake a feeling of discomfort - I disliked sleeping in someone else's bed. Connor had told me that this cabin was not used except for storage, but it was unfamiliar to me, and lonely.
Martha's Vineyard was a small island off Massachusetts, made up of harbour towns and farms. As we neared the harbour, a distant bell began to clang to signal the arrival of a ship. I watched the hills grow closer, closer, until I could see the birds darting from the branches.
The Aquila gave a shudder as we weighed anchor, and the crew hastily disembarked - in search of what, I did not know. Connor and Faulkner remained behind as a few of the sailors tied the ship to the mooring posts along the dock with thick ropes; I was the first of us down the stairs and on the wooden dock, oddly sickened by the sudden lack of movement under my feet.
"Steady on," Connor said behind me (I jumped - how did I not know he was there?). "Deep breaths."
I wanted to shake him out of spite and tell him I was fine, but I breathed deeply anyway, privately thinking that it did help. He didn't need me to speak to know what I was thinking (damn him) and he smirked as he brushed past me.
As small as the island was, there were still plenty of people around, and I stayed close to Connor and Faulkner as they let the crew go their separate ways while we three searched the markets in the town for the supplies needed. Connor handed me a list, written in his jagged, unmissable hand - and my fingers brushed his as I took it.
Finding everything on the list was easy, and by three in the afternoon we had everything ordered and set to be delivered to the Aquila tomorrow. Faulkner offered to take us to luncheon, an offer we couldn't refuse.
He led us to an inn that, evidently, he had visited before, because Connor said, "I do not think Amanda Bailey's opinion of you has changed. Let it go."
Faulkner glanced back at him, holding the door open with an incredulous look. "One day she'll see what she's missing." He pointed us to a table in the corner before he went to the bar to attempt to woo the poor Amanda Bailey, a middle-aged woman with a round face who gave him an unimpressed look.
Connor and I shared a grin as we sat down, my feet suddenly aching. I'd hardly had the chance to sit all day, and now that I was here I couldn't help my relieved sigh.
Under the table, Connor's knee nudged mine. "We could be here for a while, so you have plenty of time to relax."
My leg tingled where he had touched it. "Do you think he'll win her over?"
"Absolutely not." He was facing the centre of the room with his back to the corner, so he could keep an eye on all the activities of the inn - including Faulkner. "I think she was an old flame from years ago, but it never worked out and he never quite got over her."
"Sad," I said. "I hate it when love stories go wrong."
Now he gave me a look I couldn't read. "And you want the perfect love story?"
"Not perfect," I corrected him. "Perfect is impossible. I just want a good one."
He hummed in response, his eyes taking on a wistful look I had seen only rarely. I asked nothing about it and picked at the chipped edge of the table. Silence between us was common, but not uncomfortable - it was the silence of friends; the silence of intimates.
But however much I knew about him, or thought I knew, there was always more beneath the surface.
"What's one thing you can't do," I asked, "but wish you could?"
He looked at me oddly; his dark eyes searched me like he was trying to find the source of the question. I wasn't sure I liked being looked at this way - like he could see through me.
"I would like to dance," he said finally. "It seems a skill one should have; I'd like to learn it."
I nodded slowly, thinking of my piano at my parent's house. "I'd like to write poetry," I said. "Nothing too profound or world-shattering. Something so that Shakespeare's sonnets will make sense."
By the time Faulkner returned, we had lapsed into silence again. I liked to watch the people around me - what events were going on in their lives? It all made me feel rather small and insignificant; watching everyone come and go and knowing that they were all leading their own lives, in which I played no part.
These people were just like me: ever-present and yet so disconnected. Humans are social creatures, it is true - but we keep to ourselves when around others, and we tend to stick to what is familiar. It is the paradox of life, I supposed. Right here and yet never here.
Sometimes I liked to turn these attentions to Connor, which was what I did then. He wasn't looking at me; rather, he, too, was watching the people in the inn - but with a sharper scrutiny, like he suspected them of pulling a knife on him at any moment.
What thoughts were on his mind? What did he keep behind the mask? He suffered with things he told no one about - we all do - but this was a different feeling to me. These people around me, I did not know, but Connor. . . he was my friend, I lived with him and I spent my days with him and I knew that his favourite colour was green and his favourite animals were turtles - and yet, in moments like these, I felt like I hardly knew him at all.
After luncheon, as we left the inn, I made a new determination: to get to know him better.
*
The last night on the Aquila's homeward journey was a celebration among the crew: they drank and played games and sang shanties into the night. Connor joined some of their games and gambling, and as he won round after round his glee was infectious.
After, as the crew slowly, drunkenly, dissipated and the night shift began well into the early hours of the morning, I stood by the wheel with Connor. The night was warm, and he wore a light shirt with the sleeves pulled up to his elbows; I, my shift.
The night was still and calm, and the moon was a white sliver in the sky (the sky wasn't black, I realised: out here it was dark blue, like a dream) and the stars were spots of light reflected on the smooth surface of the water. There was hardly a breeze to stir the sails, and the crew below were working to set the sails themselves.
Connor turned the wheel slightly to his right, and I brushed a finger against one of the wooden handles. "Is it hard to captain a ship?"
He tore his eyes from the sea and looked at me. "Sometimes. Many things can be factors in this: the crew's obedience, or lack thereof; the wind; the tide; other ships. . ."
"Have you ever been attacked?" I asked.
The corner of his mouth curled up. "Once or twice."
I didn't ask. Tales of war and bloodshed would taint a night like this. "I'd say it's easier up here at the wheel," I said. "I'd rather be here than toiling on my hands and knees with the rest of the crew."
Now his smile grew. "I am not sure about that. Would you care to take the wheel?"
As soon as he let go, the wheel began to slowly spin towards me. I stepped forward and placed my hands where his had been, and he moved aside to give me space.
It was heavier than I had expected, and much harder to turn; Connor made it look easy. I found myself exerting more effort than I cared to admit to turn the wheel to the right. Connor, standing beside me, steadied the wheel with a hand.
"Turn to starboard," he said.
"Which side is which?" I asked. "Port and starboard."
Moonlight danced on his teeth as he smiled. "Port to the left; starboard to the right." He pulled a small knife from his pocket and stepped closer to me. "A way to remember it," he said and carved something into the top of the pedestal behind the wheel with the tip of the blade. I leaned forward to see what he had scratched out: PS.
"Like writing a letter," he said. "P.S."
That helped a lot. I stayed behind the wheel for a while, occasionally being given quiet direction from Connor, but for the most part, all was silent, save for the gentle lapping of the water against the hull, and the murmurs of the crew as they switched shifts.
"What's your goal?" I asked him. "Not with the Assassins. I mean your own personal goal."
His eyes, black in the night, darted over to me. "You are full of deep questions this week."
The late night had loosened my tongue. "I like getting to know you. You're interesting."
He gently steered the wheel a little, bringing his eyes to the moon. "You will laugh at my sentimentality."
"It can't be that bad," I joked. "Do you want me to go first? You can laugh at me if you'd like." I told him what I had told Thomas, and he listened with a look of inexplicable sadness.
"We will go to London together," he said. "You, me and Thomas. You have already promised me that we will eat chocolate until we pass out, so I will hold you to that."
He didn't open up about his own goal, so again I asked him. His look of sadness didn't change.
"I want a family," he said, very quietly. It silenced me. "I want to get married. I want children. I want to rest and know that my family is safe."
Now I understood why he looked so sorrowful - because his dream could never come true. He was an Assassin, and he would never know true peace. He could get married, and he could have children, but his family would never truly be safe. And that was what was killing him: knowing that he could never keep them safe, knowing that, at any moment, there was a very good chance of the worst becoming reality.
I didn't know what to say to comfort him other than, "You could always come and live in London with me."
He shook his sadness off like a coat and gave me a look of forced lightness. "Is that your long-term plan?"
"I'm not sure about long term," I said, "but I know I'd like to go back. I've made my home here."
This seemed to inject some joy into him. "You consider America your home?"
It surprised me, too, but I did. It was a land of opportunities; a land where I didn't have to be Cassandra Glade, granddaughter of Mentor Ryan Glade. A land where I could be, very simply, Cassandra Glade, and I could make my own choices.
"I do," I said.
As Faulkner made his way up the stairs to take over Connor's shift, my friend smiled and rolled his shoulders. "That is our shift over. Shall we?"
He didn't need to ask me twice. My eyes were getting heavy and my arms had a chill as we descended to the main deck. Connor brought me to the door of the captain's cabin, but I wasn't ready to say good-night to him just yet.
Tomorrow we would arrive back on land, and our adventure would be over. Life would resume as normal. But, I thought, the intimacy between us would remain - a bond forged over the water was a bond that would stay. When we returned, I would be left only with memories and mild sunburn.
Looking up at him, I very nearly asked him something completely outrageous, but thought better of it and hugged him instead. As his arms wrapped around me, I murmured, "Thank you for doing this for me."
"It was high time you came out with us," he said, and his voice was a soft rumble in his chest. "I have enjoyed your company."
"I have, too." My face may not have shown it, but my heart was bursting with rose petals as I stepped away from him. I almost did something, then - something too dangerous to consider, so I took another step away from him and lay a hand on the door.
"Good-night," I said and smiled.
His eyes were soft as he beheld me in the light of the lanterns outside the door. "Good-night."
And then we went our separate ways. I closed the door behind me and released a breath, sagging back against the wood. Dangerous - this was a dangerous line I toed with Connor. If I wasn't careful, it could rise up like a snake and bite me.
I shook myself like a dog shaking off flies and crossed the room to the bed. Only after I sank down into the hard tack mattress did I roll my stockings off.
I faced the windows and lay down; the moon had crossed the sky in our time on deck, and I could see the barest trace of it at the top of the window. The rest of the sky was an inky blue, the stars dulled in the whitish moonlight.
Holding someone's hand, I thought, was always my idea of joy. Often before falling asleep, I would clasp my hands together and imagine that I was holding the hand of someone I loved - even as a girl, I used to lie in bed with my fingers locked and I would dream of happiness and love. Now, I curled onto my side, hands clasped under my head.
When I fell asleep, I dreamt of sunlight.
Chapter Text
It poured rain from late November straight into April with little relief between bouts, and hunting was hard as plants were flooded and tracks were washed away. Connor spent days at a time in the forest, searching, tracking, at times with no luck.
I checked the date in my diary: 18th of April 1775. This was one of the good days, for I glanced out my window to see Connor picking his way over the slushy grass, carrying two limp rabbits by their hind legs. I closed the diary and stretched my arms over my head with a yawn, comforted by the dull roar of the
rain on the roof. There was a smudge of ink on my finger; I wiped it on my trousers.
As he neared the manor, I found myself going to the landing and calling down the stairs, "Achilles, he's back."
Connor had been gone for two days, and I had been intensely bored, with naught to do but play chess with the old man and study the movements of the Templars. After Johnson's death the Templars had become more elusive: we only heard bits and pieces about them.
Hickey had relocated to New York.
Pitcairn, as a British Army general, was said to have been leading troops near Lexington.
Kenway, having returned to the Americas last year after an absence of sixteen years, had kept a low profile - rumour had it he owned a residence in Virginia.
There was no word on Lee, and Biddle remained at sea.
By the time Connor was in the door, Achilles had made it to the kitchen to put water on to boil for tea. "You must be cold, child," he said, taking in Connor's sodden clothes and dripping hair.
Connor handed me the two wet rabbits. Achilles was right: his hands were freezing. "Would you get started with these?" he asked. "I will be right back."
As I sat at the kitchen bench to begin skinning them, I noted that each had only one shot to the eye - the killing shot. Surely, even in this weather, Connor truly had remarkable aim. He was the best hunter I knew - better than Myriam, who felled the infamous white cougar.
Normally, we would consider selling the pelts in the village or, if there were no buyers, in Boston - the latter of which was now out of the question. The British had begun fortifying the city and seizing ammunition to prepare for war. I'd heard that thousands of American militia were ready to resist these advances, but no fighting occurred.
What the British didn't know was that specialised groups of militia, calling themselves the Minute Men (for they were ready to spring to action at a mere minute's notice) had organised under their very own noses. Stephane Chapheau and Duncan Little (we had recently recruited him in Boston: an Irish man with a grudge against Haytham Kenway) had told us all this in coded letters, and it wasn't hard to feel their glee at how blind the British appeared to be.
I had made good progress with the first one by the time my friend returned, dressed in dry clothes and wet hair fully tied back. He settled in to work beside me, and together we finished skinning the rabbits. While Achilles added more logs to the fire behind us, Connor took the rabbits to hang them, while I cleaned up after our work.
By this time, the water had boiled, and I made us all tea: Achilles - milk, two sugars; myself - milk, no sugar; Connor - no milk, one sugar. We discussed the latest reports from our recruits (Connor and I would have to see them in Boston during the next few days to continue their training. I thought it was funny that our recruits were adults, full grown, yet it was Connor and me training them) and how we could extend the reach of the Assassins to the other colonies.
Connor gathered our cups when we finished and stood to wash them. Achilles prodded the backs of Connor's knees with his cane as he passed and said, "Don't think that, just because you were hunting, you can neglect your duties, boy."
"I know," came the exasperated reply.
"Good." Achilles settled both of his hands on the cane. "You still need to muck out the stables."
"I did that today," I offered.
"Fine," said Achilles. "Then Connor will do it tomorrow, and don't–" he used the cane to point at Connor– "backchat me. No one ever said that raising teenagers was easy," he grumbled.
I sympathised with him; it was difficult enough to raise and train two Assassins, but teenage Assassins? Achilles grew grumpier by the day, but I also failed to miss the soft, fatherly looks he gave us when he thought we weren't looking.
I had grown up without a father - Connor had, too - and Achilles filled that empty space. I hadn't realised how much that part of me ached until, suddenly, Achilles was there: I hadn't realised how much I had needed a father in my life. A figure of guidance. Even if we did piss him off.
Achilles hauled himself up from the table and scooped our knives and equipment into one arm. "I'll bring these down for you," he muttered, "seeing as you two won't."
"I was about to!" I protested.
He gave an irritated hum, but I wasn't sure if his ire was truly genuine. "No point now. I have them."
Still, Connor and I trailed after him as he made his way down to the basement. Once there, Connor took them from him so he could tidy them away.
The portraits of our targets glared at us from the wall; all but Johnson, whose face we had turned away. It helped no one and nothing to dwell on what was gone, only on what could be.
Connor was looking at that portrait, too - at the wooden back of the frame, stark and plain amidst the other paintings. "I thought it might bring clarity," he said, "or instill a sense of accomplishment. But all I feel is regret."
Ah, there it was. That flicker of fire, that bright, burning spirit in him; the spirit that apologised to and asked the forgiveness of the animals he hunted; the spirit that mourned the loss of life.
Achilles saw it, too. "Hold fast to that," he said gently. "Such sacrifices must never come lightly."
Echoes of rain beating down on the earth above our heads made the basement chilly, but it was a cold I liked - the kind that made me think of warm, dry clothes; of fires and candles
"I had to do it," said Connor, but it felt like he was still trying to convince himself of that. "Not only for my people, but for all others Johnson would have harmed."
I rearranged the knives as Achilles said, "It's a start. But to be truly free of Templar influence, all of them must be dealt with in turn. Even your father."
"I know," Connor said sharply. For all of Achilles's fatherly affection, he did not hesitate to keep reminding Connor just whose blood ran in his veins. What a blessing it would have been for Connor's father to have been an ordinary colonist whose eye had snagged on one of the Mohawk women. Haytham Kenway was dangerous - and, with Connor being his son, it would be all the more difficult to kill him. Patricide was not a crime committed lightly.
The irony struck me, then. The Templars had created Connor - when they cornered him fifteen years ago and left the imprint of their rings on his skin; thus the Assassin was formed, fuelled by a deep hatred for the Templars and a quest for revenge.
The Templars had created who Connor was, but Haytham Kenway had made him. Connor was literally formed by the Templar Order. The irony - or was it hypocrisy? - struck me as funny.
Maybe Achilles knew this. "You speak the words–" his voice was soft– "but do you believe them?"
Perhaps it was a reminder for Achilles, too: that Connor was not his son; that I was not his daughter; as much as he may have wanted it.
I looked to Connor but his face was unreadable, eyes fixed on the paintings. We had considered burning Johnson's portrait, but decided against it - if anything, it showed what progress we had made. And as we would make our way through the list of Templars, their portraits would show how far we had come.
There came a knock on the front door, and Achilles went up to answer it. I ran a finger over the back of Johnson's portrait: the wood was rough and splintering.
"We should do something about this," I said. "So it doesn't look so plain."
Amusement was glittering in his eyes. "What will you do? Paint it with flowers?"
It wasn't a bad idea. "Yes, actually."
This time he laughed. "I never took you to be an artist."
"I'm only young," I said over my shoulder as we made our way out of the basement; "I still have plenty of time to perfect my skills."
The quiet voice of Achilles reached us from the front door; not knowing with whom he was speaking, we left the basement open. Achilles was standing at the door, skimming over a letter given by an expectant-looking courier, who was taking shelter from the rain on the porch.
"What is it?" I asked.
It was a few moments before he replied: "A request for aid from Paul Revere. Seems the redcoats are up to something in Boston." He looked up now, and there was something in his eyes I didn't recognise. "Guess you made an impression on the Sons of Liberty."
Already, Connor was shaking his head. "They mistake us for their own." He addressed the dripping courier: "Please tell Mr. Revere that he has our sympathies, but we cannot help at present."
The courier began to nod, but Achilles held out a hand to stop him. "You may wish to reconsider." He passed the letter to me, but I didn't get to read it because he said: "John Pitcairn is mentioned by name."
I met Connor's eyes for a fraction of a second; it was all we needed.
"Where are we to go?" was Connor's response.
After the courier told us of Revere's location and disappeared down the road once more, Connor and I swiftly gathered what we needed and shucked on coats. Before we walked out the door I snatched up my umbrella.
The ride to Boston was a long one, and our horses struggled to navigate the slippery mud. Many times we were made take detours to avoid the worst of it, and this cost us precious minutes. I sheltered beneath my whalebone umbrella, and Connor made good use of his hood.
The city was eerily quiet and devoid of life: stalls were closed down, and the British flags hung limp and dull on their stands. The British had made multiple attempts to seize American ammunition, but Massachusetts turned them back. The crown therefore decided that force was necessary in order to take this ammunition.
We found Revere's house near the centre of the city. The cobbled roads were slick with mud and worse, and rivulets flowed from the gutters of the houses into the street. We had ridden hard from the homestead, and our horses were very grateful (I am sure) for some shelter in a stable just up the road.
As I pulled my umbrella in, Connor knocked on the door, pulling his sodden hood down to reveal equally-wet black hair.
Following the Boston Tea Party, both Connor and I held little patience for the Sons of Liberty - considering how they had attempted to pin the blame for said Tea Party on the Kanien'kehá:ka - but in this instance, with our interests aligned, we had to feign civility.
If Revere noticed our veiled hostility when he opened the door, he didn't let it show. "What a relief," he cried. "You came!"
Unfortunately, I thought as we stepped in the door. Connor remained tense at my side.
Revere lay a hand on Connor's shoulder. "Allow me to–" Connor shook him off; Revere continued– "to introduce you to William Dawes and Robert Newman. Gentlemen, these are Connor and Cassandra."
In the grey light, Connor's eyes were flat and black as a shark's. "Your letter said John Pitcairn was here."
With an eager nod, Revere said, "Yes. He's readying an assault on Lexington, where Adams and Hancock have taken shelter. After that, he will march on Concord, hoping to destroy our weapons and supplies. You must help us."
The threads of Connor's patience were fraying. "Only tell us where to find him, and we will put a stop to him."
I couldn't miss the uneasy glance passed between Dawes and Newman. It seemed Revere shared this sentiment. "He has dozens," he said, "if not hundreds of soldiers at his command. You cannot hope to match him by yourselves. But fear not; for you will not have to. We have an entire army of our own - merely awaiting the order to take up arms."
I almost pitied the Sons of Liberty and their incessant hope. Realistically, the British outmatched them hopelessly - in both numbers and tactics - while the colonial army was a ragtag group of rebels hiding out in the countryside. And blaming their follies on Connor's people.
Was Connor thinking the same things I was when he said, "Then you must call upon them," I wondered?
Revere either saw our doubts and ignored them, or didn't see them at all. "Indeed," he said brightly. "We three will cross the Charles River and rouse the boys." Now he turned his back on us to address Dawes and Newman: "William, I need you to take the overland route and do the same. Robert, I need you up in Christ Church. Light the signal. Two lanterns: our enemy comes by sea."
Plans were sealed, and soon we were on our way to the small docking point that bisected the river and connected the north of Boston with the south. The setting sun was black with oncoming rain, and though my pocket watch told me it was hardly five in the evening, the trees were as dark as though it were the middle of the winter.
When we reached our docking point, Revere tipped his hat to the attendant there, and the man, in turn, gave a knowing nod. A sympathiser, I realised.
Rain pattered against the surface of the river - which was so wide I couldn't see the other bank. A small rowing boat was moored to the dock.
I leaned over to Connor. "Tell me we won't have to row all the way across the river."
Before he could reply (undoubtedly with equal dread), Revere planted a hand on Connor's shoulder. "No time for dawdling, my friends. We have lives to save!"
Connor plucked Revere's hand from his arm and gave a sigh of resignation.
*
The journey across the river went without incident, though Revere kept up a stream of chatter to rival that of little Ryan. By the time we had crossed, night had fallen, and the sky, once dark grey, was now deep and heavy with clouds. The rain had eased off at some point, but the black clouds remained to warn us of oncoming rain.
As Connor and I pulled the boat ashore, Revere squinted at something hovering in the shadows just beyond the reach of his torch. "Ah," he said. "They've only left two horses."
Indeed, two horses - one chestnut, one black as oil - were tied to a rickety fence that bordered the dock. Connor shared a glance with me and said, "Revere and I will share."
Revere himself was already choosing which horse he wanted. "Ah," he said with a grin, "you take the reins; I'll navigate. Cassandra, follow us."
And off we went into the forest. At first, I was unsure if the horse would hold the weight of both Connor and Revere, but the chestnut was a sturdy one, and pushed onward.
Revere, as it would turn out, was terrible at giving directions. Many times, under his questionable instruction, we got lost, or ended up going in circles - but eventually we reached a few small settlements around John's Town and Concord. Revere knocked on the doors of the rebel militia there and warned them of the oncoming British.
Our final destination before reaching Lexington was the home of Samuel Prescott, a doctor and known patriot supporter who lived and worked in Concord. By this time, the rain was easing up, pattering not so heavily against the leaves above us. Prescott's house was small and neatly tucked away in a little village cut into a clearing.
The three of us dismounted (I had hardly gotten off my horse all night, and my legs ached) and waited by the door for Prescott to open it. When there came no reply, Revere knocked again.
Following his knock, there was only a silence permeated by the rain and the gentle buzz of crickets. "Where the devil is he?" grumbled Revere.
My nerves were frayed. "Are you sure we're in the right place?"
Running his hands over his face, Revere sighed heavily. "Sure I'm sure." He knocked again, but I could see in his face that he didn't think anyone would answer.
Something rustled in the bushes behind the house, too far from our torches to be seen. Still, Revere pressed forward. "Prescott?"
It was not a man that emerged but a woman, half-naked and covering herself with sheets. I felt heat rising in my cheeks and looked away. The full implication of what had been going on hit me like a brick as, a few moments later, Prescott himself emerged wearing only his long undershirt, which covered half of his pale, hairy thighs.
The woman must have been his fiancée, Lydia Mulliken, I realised. Prescott, proud as punch, said, "Good evening, folks."
"Listen, the regulars are out." Revere sounded tired. "You need to rally your men - and put on some trousers."
With a suddenly sheepish smile, Prescott nodded. "Right. At once."
Lexington wasn't far from Concord, and we, on our horses, made it there before the moon had reached its peak in the sky. The chestnut horse was beginning to slow, and the trees covered us enough for me to see that it was sweat, not rain, that glistened on its coat. I watched the water dripping from the corners of my umbrella and wished desperately that I was warm.
As the treeline broke and made way for a road, Revere said, "Welcome to Lexington. I'm sure you can become acquainted at some other time. For now, let's find Hancock and Adams."
In the night, the town of Lexington was quiet and dark, though some houses bore lit windows and drawn curtains. As we passed, I wondered who lived here; what they were doing; what were their lives?
Revere brought us to a stable and we hitched up the horses in the shelter. Connor and I followed him to a house cast in darkness, and at first I thought there was no one there - but a flicker of movement behind the curtain betrayed the presence of someone.
Revere knocked on the door, and moments later it was opened by Adams, looking haggard and tired, but otherwise unharmed. "Paul," he said; "Connor; Cassandra. Good to see you."
Connor, ever-blunt, said, "You need to leave. The redcoats are coming."
Adams stepped back to let us in the door, and once we were inside the warm glow of a lit hearth caught my eye. My numb hands began to tingle as the heat slowly began to thaw my skin.
"So William told us," said Adams, and then I noticed Dawes sitting by the fire. Adams added firmly: "Let them conduct their little search. They'll find nothing."
Sitting by the fire, Hancock nodded his agreement.
But Connor wasn't ready to back down. "You do not understand. Pitcairn intends to kill you."
"I'm afraid it's true," added Revere when Adams looked to him imploringly. I spread my hands in a helpless gesture when Adams's eyes came to me, as if to confirm what the other two had said.
After a pause, he sighed. "I suppose we have no choice, then, but to go. What of you three?"
"Dawes and I will continue on to Concord," said Revere, and addressed Connor and me: "It's best if you two stay here and help our man, John Parker, hold the town. It'll give us time to spread the word."
"All right," I said, and that was that. Revere and Dawes gave a hasty farewell and departed for Concord; Adams and Hancock snuffed out the fire and left the house under the cover of darkness. Connor and I remained.
The British weren't coming to kill the rebels, but to destroy ammunition, which was being stored at Concord. Revere and Dawes had been sent by the Boston Committee of Safety to warn the Minute Men of this.
Neither British nor American were willing to back down, and I feared that the worst was yet to come. A war would mean a deep split between the two countries I called home - the land that raised me and the land that forged me. If the British and the Americans began fighting, where would that leave me? I wasn't American, but I didn't consider myself an English citizen.
I would be stuck drifting somewhere in the middle, with neither side willing to accept me.
Suddenly, I was gripped with a longing to be back on our homestead. Our community was full of misfits: Connor was an Indian; Achilles, a black man. Warren and Prudence were freed slaves; Myriam, an outcast from society; Norris, a French man.
I may not have fit in with London or Boston society, but I fit in with them. Maybe home was not a place, but a people.
And if it came to a war between England and America, I would fight to defend that home with claws and teeth.
Chapter Text
We kept watch throughout the night, but our shift was long and irrevocably boring, and we ended up passing the time with Connor's pack of cards. We set up our post next to a small window upstairs that provided a clear view of the road in to Lexington, but we saw nothing until the day broke.
At the first sign of redcoat activity - distant drums, marching feet, scouts sent ahead - we were out of the house and heading for the centre of the town, where the rebel militia were starting to gather.
Already, though the dawn had only just begun to light the trees, rebel commander John Parker was arranging the troops into lines. As captain of the militia, Parker had the authority to command the army; however, due to his failing health (he was suffering with the white plague, just as my grandparents had been), his voice did not carry quite as well as it should have. I strained to hear him, though when I caught the odd word here and there, they were of no interest to me, for he was merely encouraging the soldiers.
Connor's hands were clasped before him. I leaned up and murmured, "The noose is hung. The coming battle will be the executioner."
He knew what I meant. War could not be avoided now: whatever happened between the British and the Americans today would spell doom in capital letters.
Neither Connor nor I needed to say the words we were both thinking: whatever happened, we would stay by the other's side; we would not leave each other. Knowing this - not having to question or doubt him - brought me great comfort.
The air was hazy with early-morning mist, but, just beyond Lexington Green, it was beginning to lift. And through the smoke-like fog, I could see assembled the lines and lines of British soldiers, their red uniforms carrying the uneasy quality of seeing blood in a dream.
But I knew this wasn't a dream when Major John Pitcairn took control at the head of the army, his deep grey cloak rippling in the morning wind.
"Disperse, you damned rebels," commanded Pitcairn. "Lay down your arms, and disperse."
If there was one thing I had learnt from my years in the colonies, it was that the Americans took no orders from England - or her representatives.
Born and raised in Dysart, Scotland, Pitcairn enlisted in the Royal Marines in 1746 and was posted in Canada to aid in the French and Indian War, and during this time he was promoted from lieutenant to captain. By 1771 he was an army major - and considered to be one of the most respected officers by both the British and the colonists.
But, looking at him now, all I could see was the silver ring on his right hand, like the Templar cross was burning before my eyes.
I could see Connor watching him with a predatory stillness - it reminded me of a wolf stalking its prey. If he weren't my friend, it would have horrified me.
I caught Parker's eye and beckoned him over with a tilt of my head. With a scowl, he stomped over; Parker was of a perpetually ill disposition, and I wondered if he kept his soldiers in line using fear alone.
"Who are you?" he grumbled.
"Associates of Sam Adams," said Connor. "We have been sent to help you."
Parker gave a cough that rattled in his chest. "We need no help. Once the British see we're serious about this, they'll back down."
I wasn't so sure - and neither was Connor, if I were to judge by his face.
Parker remained unimpressed. "All right, you can start by–"
A gunshot cut him off and sliced into the early morning air. And, all at once, the opposing armies opened fire.
The British were better armed, better organised, than the rebels, and several American troops were shot down within moments. In the face of the carnage, many of the rebel militia turned tail and fled.
"What the deuce are you doing?" yelled Parker, but it was no use: he was shouting to the smoke trails left behind them. To the few remaining soldiers, he snapped, "Hold your positions. Cravens! Traitors!"
Bullets whizzed by closer than I would have liked, and the three of us ducked behind a cover as Parker began to cough again - wet, hacking coughs that left traces of blood on his lips.
A memory surged, unbidden, unwanted to the forefront of my mind: blood on my grandfather Ryan's mouth; the frail, sunken face of Sophia; the fevers that kept them bedbound for days. During the last days of their illness, they sent me away to live with Thomas and his family, but every day I regretted that. I regretted not being with them when they needed me most.
"They are not coming back." Connor's voice dragged me back to the light. "You will have to make do with those who remain."
Parker turned on him, then. Blood glistened on his teeth. "Don't you lecture me on how–" he poked his head above the barricade, trail of thought lost, and howled once more: "Return fire. Return fire!"
It was no use. Smoke scratched my throat and stung my eyes, and as I peeked out I saw that the numbers of rebel troops had dwindled further, and those who remained seemed mere seconds away from following suit.
"You need to get to Concord," wheezed Parker, "and warn the others. Show this–" he pressed a folded letter into my hand, for I was the closest to him– "to whoever leads there. Should be a man by the name of James Barrett."
The name was all we needed, and before Parker could say another word, Connor and I dashed out from our cover, retrieved our horses, and galloped for the road. The Americans had all but fled, now, and we passed many of them, red-faced and panting, on their way to Concord.
The smoke thickened the further afield we got, and the paths were strewn with bodies. I'd never seen so many dead in once place since the Massacre, and the smell of blood clogged my nose. I should have been disgusted - I should have been sick and sobbing - but all I felt was a grim, morbid fascination.
We rode hard until we reached the North Bridge just inside Concord, on the farmland of James Barrett, who was the representative of Concord in Boston legislature. He had allowed the Continental Army to use his land to store their ammunition, and now the British were coming to seize it all.
I recognised William Dawes standing next to a greying man I assumed was Barrett at the end of the bridge. Around them, colonial troops were arranging covers and forming firing lines.
Connor's horse skidded to a halt. "Blood's been spilled in Lexington," he said, "and there's more to come. The regulars are on the march."
If I thought Parker had looked grumpy, Barrett was absolutely disgusted as he looked up at us on our horses. "You don't say," he said slowly, as though we were both idiots. "And why do you think I've men up here? Go home, before you get yourselves killed. I've enough to worry about without a pair of green kids looking to play heroes."
I was reminded of what Achilles had told me when I first met him: Assassins are not heroes; we just sacrifice our lives for a cause larger than ourselves.
"I can vouch for them," Dawes spoke up.
Eager to prove Barrett wrong, I said, "John Parker, too," and gave him the letter.
Barrett regarded me as though for the first time as he took the letter and stalked back a few feet to read it. In one graceful movement, Connor had dismounted. "Where is Revere?" he asked in a low voice.
"Captured," Dawes whispered back.
"What?" I demanded, tone hushed, as I got off my horse.
Grey light filtered through the trees and made Dawes's face seem almost sickly in his nervousness. "Fear not," he said. "That man's no stranger to sticky situations. He'll be fine; I'm sure of it."
Connor and I exchanged a sceptical look that couldn't have lasted more than a millisecond. We both knew the odds of that.
Behind Dawes, Barrett cleared his throat. "You ladies finished gossiping?" He carried a rough Boston accent - one which, to my abject horror, I had noticed little Ryan beginning to pick up, in spite of the best efforts of Lydia and Gabriel to raise him with a sensible English accent.
Barrett regarded Connor and me, now: he looked us up and down with the scrutiny of an overly strict governess. "Parker seems to believe you're not completely useless," he drawled, with raised brows. "I suppose there's a thing or two you might be able to help with." Switfly, he told us his plan, eyes darting over to the bridge every so often to check for advancing patrols.
"That sound like something you can do?" he finished gruffly. When Connor and I nodded, he huffed. "You'd best be telling the truth."
"You have our word," said Connor.
We were both handed military rifles; we didn't need to be shown how to handle them, for Achilles, during our training, had ensured we knew how to handle every weapon we might come across - and how to improvise their use should the situation arise. Rifles, however, were nothing new - but when three massive cannons were rolled forward, I fought a sick feeling in my stomach.
This was it. This was war, then.
My grandmother had often said that love and war were the same thing. But this felt nothing like how I thought love should feel: this was not warm or secure. It was frightening and huge and so very, very dangerous.
When I looked to Connor, I couldn't see past the cold mask he had, so easily, slipped into place. There were no emotions in his eyes, no feeling to the hard set of his mouth. It was like he had frozen the world out.
A flash of red just beyond the bridge caught my eye, and I squinted into the bushes across the river, searching for the movement again. The attention of a few rebel scouts further ahead had also been snagged by this, for one man sprinted across the bridge to Barrett, calling: "Regulars!"
Moments later, we saw them: three squadrons of redcoat soldiers, identical in their blood-drop uniforms, marching forward with military precision. Their lieutenant colonels, at the head of each squadron, drew their sabres.
Barrett watched with a grim expression, then called to his men, in a voice of steel: "Man the barricades."
Connor and I started forward to join them, but Barrett held us back with a hand on each of our arms. "No," he insisted. "Ensure my men hold those positions. If the red devils break through, we're finished. And if any of those bastards do break through, engage them. You must keep my men alive."
Then he let us go. I joined the ranks of the rebel soldiers, shouldering my way between them and ignoring their grunts and huffs of breath. Connor mounted his horse, gaining the better vantage point, rifle slung over his shoulder. For a split second our eyes met, and the world slowed to a stop.
I blinked away an image of him blown full of bloody holes. He would be fine. He could look after himself.
I was ready when the first round of shots went off; though men fell around me, I held my ground, and fired when commanded. Achilles had often criticised my aim, pushed me to improve my precision - and how grateful I was for those lessons now. All of my failures and small victories had moulded together like dough to form the shooter I was today.
And I would need every moment of experience I had accumulated.
Smoke rolled in thick waves across the Old North Bridge, and my eyes began to stream. Lines of redcoats fell and reformed, but their advance, albeit slow, was steady.
I didn't dare spare a glance back at Connor; instead, as my line knelt down to fire, I let out half my breath to steady myself, stared down the barrel of the gun, and fired. Across the bridge, a soldier fell, with dark red blooming on his chest.
Before this day, I had never killed. I had never taken a human life; never touched that cold darkness. But now, as I stood back with my line to reload, I felt myself falling backward in an icy river. Deep water surrounded me; trapped in a chasm; everything was black.
Another round of shots went off, and I snapped back to the present. My boots sank into the mud, and I let myself focus on that. I couldn't afford to stop now, to think of the lives I had taken, of the families that would be waiting for a father, a son, a brother, who would never return.
I thought suddenly of Parker - had he managed to encourage his troops to stay? His chesty cough reminded me so much of the suffering of Sophia and Ryan that, for a moment, I almost missed my cue to fire.
The number of British soldiers seemed infinite, but the red bodies were piling up on the road. The soldiers could not afford to waste precious seconds moving them, so they merely stepped over the corpses and continued their advance.
I squinted through the smoke as the redcoats began to part their ranks - they were making way for a massive cannon to be rolled forward.
My line was only a few metres from the barricade that bisected the bridge. Granted, said barricade was only a few planks of wood and some bags of sand, but it would have to make do.
The British soldiers loaded the cannon. The officer leading my troop hollered, "Get down!" and we that remained threw ourselves behind the barricade. I scraped my chin on the harsh gravel, but hardly had a moment to catch my breath before the first cannon ball was fired.
It made the ground shake beneath us. A gaping hole was blown through the barricade to my left, leaving rubble and a severed arm where a soldier had just been. Blood began to trickle between the grooves of the gravel and, slowly, for the blood was thick, it dribbled down the path towards the grass. The earth was calling it home.
Both of my knees were wet from kneeling in the grass, and as I crouched behind the cover, sand began to cake my legs.
Another cannon went off to my right, this time striking the wooden fence at the side of the bridge. Splinters flew in all directions, and I threw up an arm to cover my face.
The officer now lay dead, with a long shard of wood protruding from his throat. Three remained in my troop, myself included; two hid further behind me, the other concealed himself behind fallen sand bags, bleeding heavily from a gash along his chest.
Two more cannons had been rolled out to target the squadrons at my right and left. As the cannons fired again, and the stone bridge began to shake, I stuck the end of my rifle over the top of the barricade and poked my head up only slightly.
My heart was roaring in my ears, but my mind was utterly silent as I picked off the British soldiers one by one. The bodies began to pile up, but even as the cannons fired over and over, I didn't stop until–
The high, panicked screech of a horse pierced the air above the gunshots, and I looked back just in time to see Connor's horse collapse under him, its legs and chest blown full of holes. Connor himself disappeared in the smoke.
A white-hot anger filled me. It was one thing to shoot at the Continental Army; it was another thing entirely to shoot at my friend.
My aim was precise. Blood and red coats were impossible to tell apart. As more splinters flew, my forehead began to bleed with a stinging pain, and I was forced to duck behind my cover once more.
The injured soldier near me was dead. I couldn't crawl over to him to close his eyes; they remained glassy and staring at the sky.
This was war, I realised. This was annihilation. This was mankind in its darkest form. Strip away all that is good, all that is civilised, and this is the remaining residue.
I faintly heard someone order the squadron on my right to fire. Twisting around, I squinted into the smoky clearing by the river - the position which the squadron was holding. At first I saw nothing, but then Connor emerged from the smoke. He was limping, and his leg was bleeding, but he seemed otherwise unscathed. Holding his head high, Connor waited for the troops to switch lines before ordering their shots again.
He took one look at what remained of my squadron and passed us by. We were too scattered, our numbers too little. He was content to leave me to pick off the soldiers from my place behind the barricade.
I started to cough against the smoke, which scratched my throat with the force of eight angry cats. Just when I was beginning to think I wouldn't last much longer, what with my eyes running, Pitcairn came forward on a horse, looking pale.
"Fall back," he ordered his men. "Fall back!"
I couldn't believe it. We - a ragtag group that was slowly but surely falling apart - had made Major Pitcairn fall into retreat. In fact, I didn't dare trust my eyes, nor my ears, until one of the surviving members of my troop poked his head above the barricade and called, "We did it! They're turning tail!"
And indeed they were. The legion of British troops were retreating down the road, stepping over bodies as they went. None of us moved from our positions until the last red coat had disappeared and the beat of their footsteps had faded; then a great cheer went up among the colonial troops.
I felt myself smile in spite of the blood and sweat and tears. When I looked back, Connor met my eye like he had been looking for me all along. An elated rush went through me, and I joined in the cheering and howling of the troops.
I picked myself off the ground so I could go to Connor. Though we were both relieved at our success and survival in this battle, Connor's eyes were hard - he had watched Pitcairn leave with cold anger. His gaze softened just a touch when I reached him.
Barrett, too, remained solemn, and looked upon the battlefield, at the wasted lives lying in the dirt. So many young men, gone far too soon. The earth was almost black with blood.
"Takes a true monster to do something like this," he murmured. "At least they're gone."
Connor's voice was rough from the smoke. "We should have struck when we had the chance. Do you know where Pitcairn could have gone?"
Barrett scoffed. "Back to the withered bosom of the British, no doubt - so that he might regroup and plan his next atrocity." His dark eyes didn't move from the dead that littered the ground - his men. Barrett's sadness was well hidden beneath his anger, but it was there nevertheless.
Connor addressed me. "We need to find him. Every day we wait, more will suffer."
"Chin up, friends," said Barrett gently. "Many who should have died today now live because of you."
True as that may have been, I still couldn't erase the faces of the fallen from behind my eyelids. I still couldn't change the fact that I had taken more lives than I cared to count today. My hands were filthy; I could feel their blood on my trigger finger.
Connor, too, remained morose. "And what of them?" he asked, with equal quietude, and pointed to the dead.
Barrett followed his hand and set his jaw. "We do the best we can with what we've got."
"It's not enough," I said.
When Barrett looked at me, his dark eyes were heavy with mourning. "It never is."
Barrett then turned back to deal with his remaining troops, and I realised I was shaking. Adrenaline made me light-headed.
Now I had Connor's full attention. "You are bleeding," he said, looking me up and down in search of further injuries.
"I scraped my chin on the ground." I waved him away. "You're bleeding worse than I am."
He looked down at his leg; the side of his left knee was a deep, wet crimson. "I am fine. Bullet grazed my leg as my horse went down. Head up," he ordered me, and took my face into his hands.
I remained still as he tilted my head up and gently picked bits of gravel from the cuts on my chin. His fingers were warm and light on my skin; his breath tickled my cheeks.
When he finished, he tilted my head down again so it resumed its normal position. "We should go," he said. "Pitcairn still walks."
He was right: so long as Pitcairn still breathed, more innocents would die. Today's carnage was proof of that. The Templar scheme was laced with darkness; as good as their intentions may be, their methods were always bloody. One by one, we would make the Order fall.
One.
By.
One.
Chapter Text
We headed north, towards home. The inns were full with refugees of the battle, so we made no stops until nightfall, when we decided to set up camp beneath a wide tree. The earth was still damp after yesterday's rain, so Connor spread his coat out for us to sit on.
As the evening grew colder, we got a fire going beside our camp. I divided up the packet of hardtack biscuits I always kept on me in case of emergencies like this one, and Connor shared his flask of water.
His leg had, for the most part, stopped bleeding, so he rolled his trousers up to assess the damage. "I will live," he decided, examining a small patch of still-sticky blood.
I offered him a handkerchief from my pocket. "Good. I'd hate to see you die so young." I imagined, for one terrifying moment, that his face was among those we left behind at Concord. One of those rotting in the dirt.
I examined my hands: grubby; there was dirt under my fingernails; blood had dried in the creases of my knuckles. I wanted to cut my trigger finger from my hand.
"How did you do it?" I asked him quietly.
He knew what I meant. "Taking a life is a difficult thing," he murmured, dabbing at his leg with my handkerchief. "You take everything a man has, and everything he will ever have. There is nothing so sacred, nor so damned." He pressed the handkerchief to his leg, and a muscle in his jaw twitched at the pain. "At first, I tried to see it like hunting an animal. All animals have life, and we kill only what is necessary. I tried to see Johnson's death as a necessary one."
"And was it?" I asked.
He looked at me. "No. It wasn't."
His jaw was tense. I wanted to brush my thumb over the corner of his mouth, smooth out the creases until he was soft again.
"I am trying to convince myself," he continued, "that Johnson needed to die. If he had been spared, my people's land would have been seized. My village would have been sold. As for Pitcairn. . ." He gestured to his leg; my chin; the battlefield we left behind. "If he lives, this war will not end."
"But what about the innocent?" I asked.
His expression grew distant, but he didn't say anything. Neither of us were prepared to answer that question. I listened to the hiss of the sparks from the fire, watched little burning dust motes float up to the sky, and wished things were different.
This revolution had its reasons. Its wrath would be pardoned by the future; its result would be a better world. Hope was a spark in my chest.
Connor's eyes alighted on something beyond the fire and he stood, testing his bad leg gingerly before limping over to a plant. He picked some of the flat, white flowers from the thin stems and returned to me, stuffing the flowers into his mouth as he sat down.
I raised an eyebrow. "I didn't know you were that hungry. I'd have given you my share of the biscuits."
He shook his head, still chewing, and didn't grace me with a reply until he spat a greenish-white paste into his palm. "It is not for eating," he said, and pulled a face. "Tastes nasty. Yarrow is for wounds."
He spread the paste on his leg with a delicate finger, jaw tensing every so often with the sting. Then he turned to me. "Do you require some?"
I rubbed the cuts on my chin; they had dried and scabbed over, and I shook my head. "That is the single most disgusting thing I have ever seen."
He laughed, and what a sound it was. I could drown in it. As he applied the rest of the yarrow paste to his leg, I pulled a brush from my pocket and let my hair down so I could brush it.
Fire danced in his eyes. "Just what do you carry in your pockets?"
I winked at him, blaming the fire before us for the heat that had sprung into my cheeks. "I'll show you mine if you show me yours."
Both of us emptied our pockets, and we spread the contents around us like two children playing pirates. In total, our booty consisted of eight knives; five cartridges; a pocket watch; two spills; a switchblade; a ring of keys; smelling salts; various coins and notes that, when counted, amounted to eight shillings; a hairbrush; two rope darts; three flintlocks; a spare umbrella handle; twenty-two sugar lumps for the horses; and three blood-coloured rocks, each about the size of a peach stone.
I reached out and brushed a finger over these stones. "What are these?"
Connor's gaze followed my finger. "My mother gave them to me," he said softly. "For good luck. They represent the three planes from whom we exist and cease to be: the sky, the earth, and the spirit." He turned them over in his hand - they were smooth, and the flames reflected on the shiny surfaces like little lanterns - and he tilted his head at me. "Do you carry a token of good luck?"
"I don't believe in luck," I said.
He nodded like it was a fair point and replaced the stones on the ground. I picked up the brush to continue dragging it through my hair, but he gently pried it from my fingers.
"Allow me," he said.
He repositioned himself so he sat behind me. Tingles fizzed and sparked up my spine with every gentle touch, every stroke of the brush.
"Your hair is getting long," he commented. "One would never notice it when you keep it tied up all of the time. You should let it down more."
"Yes, but your hair is almost as long as mine," I teased. "People will think we co-ordinated it."
"Next we will be wearing matching clothes," he muttered.
"I'm not giving you any of my dresses," I said. "You can buy your own."
He laughed again, and ran his hand over my hair before resuming his brushing - long, tender strokes that reminded me of my grandmother's touch. I wasn't, therefore, surprised when he leaned forward and pressed a feather-soft kiss to my shoulder.
I chose to interpret it as his way of telling me he was finished, so I took my brush back, even though my shoulder felt like it was burning from the inside out; filled with molten gold.
As we collected our respective belongings and packed them away into our pockets, we decided that Connor would take the first watch for two hours while I slept; then we would switch. After getting no sleep the night before, our heads were spinning with exhaustion.
I was all-too glad to curl on to my side and rest my head in Connor's lap. He reached down and moved his tomahawk aside so it wouldn't dig in to my ribs, and then, hesitantly, he brought his hand to my hair.
I went still beneath his touch, and for a few moments, neither of us moved. Then he started to slowly stroke my hair, and I relaxed against him, watching the flames until they glowed yellow when I closed my eyes.
The sound of Connor quietly humming to himself was the last thing I heard before I fell asleep.
*
It was just before dawn by the time we returned home, so I made us breakfast, which we took upstairs with a chess board where we could discuss our plans for the weeks ahead. A letter had arrived in the night from Duncan Little, in which he explained that Pitcairn and his men had fled southward.
With that in mind, we agreed that I would meet with Chapheau and Little in two day's time, when I went to visit my family; while Connor would remain on the homestead to plot our next move.
Once Achilles was up, our day commenced as any other. Connor mucked out the stables while I made Achilles breakfast and cleaned up. By early afternoon, Connor and I had finished our exercises and training. But there were always things to be done on this homestead.
On our way in to the village (slowly, for Connor was still limping), we encountered a most peculiar scene: around half a mile from the centre of the town, just off one of the dirt tracks, there met a small group of people. Most of them I knew - Lance; Myriam; Godfrey; Norris - but the others were unfamiliar.
All were holding tin cups, and Norris and Myriam, seated side-by-side on a fallen log, took sips from these cups and laughed with each other, cheeks and noses rosy. The two strangers - a middle-aged man and his wife - had set up a small table beside their cart, which they had parked by the side of the road, and the unfamiliar woman was in the middle of pouring Godfrey another drink at said table when we were noticed.
It was Godfrey who first saw us, and his face split into a grin - white teeth gleaming from within a russet beard. The strange man, following Godfrey's eyes, beamed at us. "Good afternoon. Would you like a draught of ale? or some bread and cheese?"
Eagerly, Godfrey joined the conversation, ale splashing over the rim of his cup. "This is Oliver, and that is Corinne–" he pointed out the respective parties. "Great people." Now addressing Oliver and Corinne, he continued: "These are Connor and Cassie-lassie, the folks I was telling you about. The lord and lady of the manor."
Oliver's round face lost its openness and became a little more nervous. "We were just passing through, is all," he explained hurriedly, "and met some of your townsfolk. They were thirsty and we had some barrels in the back and–"
Connor cut him off gently. "We are no lord nor lady, and these are our friends, not our townsfolk."
"What brings you to the road," I asked, "with a cart full of spirits for sale?"
The new pair looked uncomfortable. "We were innkeepers," said Oliver carefully, "until the king took our inn for some military such-and-such and left us out on our round parts."
I liked the expression. Norris apparently did, too, and laughed very loudly. "You should settle here," he cried. "We could use an inn."
"Good idea," agreed Myriam heartily, and leaned a little too hard into Norris's shoulder, causing their drinks to spill over their hands. Flies started to buzz around their fingers, attracted over by the tartness of the ale.
Connor glanced my way, head tilted while he thought. "We certainly have need for something of the sort," he conceded. "I will speak with our friends at the mill, and see what we can do about building ourselves one. If it can be arranged, would you consider ending your search here?"
The joy on Corinne's face reminded me of those young street boys I had given my shawl to, on the night of the Tea Party - raw and unbridled joy. "Of course!" She beamed. "Ollie, we'll have an inn again!"
And thus the matter was settled. Godfrey practically raced to Terry's house to propose the idea to him, and together they agreed to the building of the inn. Achilles would be pleased - a local inn would provide both income and entertainment.
Connor's limp had gotten worse over the course of the day, but he didn't say a word about it. I took it upon myself to look after him as we left the group to drink themselves blind. "You should rest your leg."
"You should not fuss over me," he said.
"Forgive me for being unwilling to drag you back up the hill when your leg gives out." I shuddered at the thought.
He reached down with one hand and ran his fingertips through the long grass as we walked, picking blades wet with dew only to scatter them once more. I plucked a wild daisy and almost gave it to him; I pulled out the petals, one by one, instead.
As the sun gradually made its way across the sky, the shadows in the grass grew longer, and the world had a gold tint to it such that I almost kept walking, caught up in a dream, but Connor lay a hand out to hold me back.
"Look up," he said.
I followed his direction: above us, with only a rope ladder to provide access, was one of Myriam's tree blinds. She had not used this one for quite some time, and the wooden planks of the roof were caving in.
Connor tested the sturdiness of the ladder with his foot. "It holds," he reported back, and started to ascend into the tree stand. I watched from the ground, fearing that his injured leg would collapse and he would fall, but he climbed into the blind swiftly and steadily.
Once I followed him up, I found him peering at the fallen ceiling. "This can be repaired," he said.
I was small enough to be able to stand up straight inside the blind, but Connor had to stoop. I nudged some dusty fallen planks on the floor and said, "I'm sure we could fix this."
It seemed he had had the same idea, because his eyes were bright when he looked at me. He bent down and picked up one of the planks, inspecting it for rot, before tossing it aside. "New wood will be needed," he said. "Time and bad weather have caused this to decay."
Faded light drifted in through the cracks in the ceiling, and I watched the dust we disturbed dance in the late afternoon air. He moved the wood to one side, brushed away splinters and dead leaves, and sat down, and I beside him.
I brushed bits of twig and crumbled leaves from my skirts. The climb up had caused Connor's leg to start bleeding again, but only lightly. He gave it a disappointed look and stretched his leg out before him, lacing his hands together in his lap.
The world was humming around us; birds sang their sweet melodies; leaves whispered to one another; bees flitted by, buzzing so close that I felt my spine tingle. How was it that our scene here - our sanctuary, our haven - was so peaceful, but our throats still stung from smoke? How did it come to be that the sun could still shine golden when blood still stained our fingernails?
Connor and I occupied two worlds: the brutality and violence of the Assassins; and our peace on the homestead. And now, these two worlds were coming close to colliding. What would happen then? Who else would we have to lose to this war?
I focused on picking the dried blood from under my nails. "If you had to pick how you were to die," I said, "which manner would you choose?"
Connor gave me a strange look. "I would rather not die."
"But if you had to choose," I prompted. "Between, say, dying of an illness like the pox, or being stabbed."
He gave it some thought. "Stabbed. Less pain if done correctly. You?"
"I haven't quite decided," I said. "But I know that I don't want to be buried. Don't waste a plot of land on me. Burn my body, and plant a tree in my ashes. Then I'll live forever."
"Only a small tree, mind you," he said. "It must represent you as you lived. Short."
"Maybe a potted plant, then. Put a plaque on it."
"Cassandra Glade," he mused. "She died as she lived: without occupying much space."
His jibes about my height did not go unnoticed. "No grave will be long enough to fit you," I said. "We'll have to cut your legs off and pack them separately."
He chuckled softly. "The dwarf and the giant, laid to rest side-by-side. What a pair we would make."
"Promise me one thing."
When he tilted his head, his eyes were almost black. "Anything."
I only gave him a half-smile. "Don't die before I do. I don't want to have to go through the ordeal of losing you."
"I cannot make that promise," he said.
It was foolish of me to even ask. Our line of work was vicious - we faced the prospect of death almost daily. But I had never truly allowed myself to think of what life would be like if I were to lose Connor along the way. The burden of the Assassins would be mine alone to bear.
Suddenly I wanted to spend every spare moment I had with him. To make the most of his presence. Every day we faced the possibility that one of us might not make it to sundown, and I wanted to drink him in; absorb every last essence of his being; so that, should the fated day come when I would lose him, he would inhabit such a part of me that I would scarcely miss him.
"I'm going to teach you to dance," I decided.
He cocked his head to the side. "Oh?"
I nodded, looking down at first his hands, then my own. "Yes. Tonight will be our first lesson. After dinner."
His laugh was a song I wished I knew the words to. "All right," he said. "I shall clear my schedule."
"We'll do it after the old man's gone to bed," I suggested. "Otherwise he won't sleep."
"Tonight it is," said Connor, with a smile.
I grinned back, and repeated, "Tonight it is."
*
The moon was a full pearl-drop in the sky that night, bathing the grassy cliff in silver; the sea, far below, was still and quiet. My hands were pale and milky, cleaned of blood, and his hands were grey in the dim light of the moon.
I taught him baroques and reels and cotillions, and I hummed the tunes so we could stay on beat. We danced and danced and danced, laughing when we stepped on each other's feet (at times on purpose), standing so close we could breathe each other in. My chest almost ached every time we turned away.
My skirts brushed against his legs; his hand on my waist pulled me ever-closer. I held his hand in mine tighter, and still we danced: spinning on a carousel of our own, weaving tapestries with our feet. The trees, the grass, the land, faded away - everything became his eyes; his smile; his hands. Our world was music and shared breaths and our hearts, beating as one. The stars were our audience; the gentle sigh of the waves, our melody; the moon was our light, guiding us through the steps.
When at last we stopped, heads bent close and eyes closed, we didn't let go of each other - even as the world came back into focus and the music faded and our hearts calmed. A night owl began to hoot - long, rhythmic notes that rattled in my bones.
I let go of his hand and stepped out of his grip, and I lay on my back in the grass. The stars burned brightly over my head - hundreds and hundreds of them, more than I could count, and I thought of the Lord's promise to Abraham. Look now toward heaven, and tell the stars, if thou be able to number them: so shall thy seed be.
I didn't know the exact moment when Connor lay beside me, but when I looked over, he was there. His eyes were on the moon.
How small we both were! The universe was so huge, so incomprehensible, and here we were, breathing it all in. A horse, a dog, a rat all have breath in their lungs, and so, too, did we. To be able to share such a precious sliver of oneself with the rest of the world was breathtaking. We were alive, at this moment, in this lifetime, every beat of our hearts. We were not history yet. We were happening. How miraculous is that?
I looked at him. "Can I hold your hand?"
He didn't ask questions. By our sides, his hand found mine.
"The universe feels so huge right now," I murmured. "I need something to hold on to."
His eyes were soft. "I'm here."
Grass rustled in my ear. I turned my head. Around us, scattered in the grass like snow, were daisies - with petals closed for the night.
Connor, I decided, was a flower. By day they reach for the light, following it, grabbing for it with both hands. But, by night, they close up, curl in on themselves, and wait for the light to come. He was a night flower - and there was no sun to rouse him from his sleep.
Connor was a flower, a soul trapped in darkness, searching for a light that grew only further from him. And the further it grew, the more he closed himself like a rock sealing a cave.
But as he lay there, watching the moon, I thought: maybe he didn't need the sun. Maybe the moon would have the same effect - a light in the darkness. And, maybe, I could lie with him in the darkness and wait for the light to come. Maybe we could lie as we did now: surrounded by flowers, waiting for the sun to rise again.
Tomorrow would bring bloodshed. With Britain and America at war, the future was uncertain and shrouded in darkness. But the light would always come.
Chapter Text
My family's house was chaos. No one had answered the door when I knocked, so I had let myself in to see the frantic hurrying of Lydia about the house. She paused when she saw me. "Oh, good afternoon, darling."
"What happened?" I asked.
The usual peace of the house had been replaced with a mess: clothes lay strewn about the floor; chests of drawers hung open; I could hear Nadia in the kitchen, cooking something with vigour. And in the centre of it all, the eye of the storm, stood Lydia, with a half-open case in her hand. I could hear Meredith fumbling about upstairs, opening cupboards and rifling through wardrobes. My mother was either aware of this and paying no heed, or totally unaware at all.
It was not Lydia who answered me but Ryan, who came bounding into the hall and announced, in the largest voice he could muster, "I'm going to school!"
"School?" I repeated. "Where?"
"Virginia," said Lydia, and when she set the case down I could see that it was half-filled with Ryan's clothes. "We only just found out, and he's leaving in three days!"
Ryan was beaming up at me. I brushed his dark hair from his eyes. "But he's only four."
"I'll be five in a few months!" he protested.
"I know," said Lydia gently, more to me than to him. "But this school has a marvellous reputation, and his aunt (Gabriel's sister) lives in Virginia, too, should anything go wrong. And he is so looking forward to it."
"I'm going to learn Latin!" Ryan beamed up at me. "And Greek, and French, and mathematics, and classics, and. . ." His list went on. He would be attending this boarding school, I discovered, until he was sixteen - after that, he would decide if he wanted to study in a university.
Lydia was bursting with pride for him - after all, what mother wouldn't? - but when I looked at him all I saw was the baby I held in my arms; the toddler who couldn't pronounce my name. How had four years passed so quickly?
He was looking up at me with big, brown eyes, and he looked so hopeful that my heart twisted. Soon this little boy, who relied on his big sister, who saw the world with such bright eyes, would be gone, leaving me with a man who never needed anyone anyway. I would have turned time backwards in a heartbeat just to hold him again.
But we still had time before he grew up. I bent down and kissed his little nose. "Go and show me what you're packing."
*
As evening began to draw the shadows closer, the taverns and pubs grew louder with the crowds of workers off their shifts. The smells of beer and warm pies infused the narrow streets such that even the scrawny cats perched themselves on window sills, bathed in golden light, in the hopes that they might incite some pity and be given scraps of food. It was in one of these busy taverns that I met with Chapheau and Duncan. The two men were already sitting when I arrived, and they stood to greet me and to shake my hand.
"Cassandra." Chapheau beamed. "So glad you could make it."
"It's good to see you two again," I said as we sat. "How goes business?"
As a barmaid brought three cups to our table, Duncan said easily, "The workers are doing well, but we're having a little trouble finding the correct supplies for our next commission."
This was not new to me; the Templars had been lying low since Lexington. "Keep searching. I'm sure they have just been misplaced. Let me know how it goes for you."
My implication was clear: to remain vigilant and keep a sharp eye on all Templar activity. Where they moved in the city; who they spoke to; what they ate for breakfast; I wanted everything. The longer the Order stood, the more it threatened our Brotherhood, and everything we were fighting for. As Connor had said, their deaths, however unwilling we may be to commit them, were necessary.
I tried not to think about them too much. Thinking would allow me time to dwell on the morality of it all, and then the seeds of doubt would be sown. I could not afford to double-think every move we made; that would make me a liability.
I sipped the beer in my cup as Chapheau said, "It has been easier to watch the Scotsman since Lexington, but the others are still lying low." His smooth French accent was so at odds against Duncan's clipped Irish tones.
"Any word on New York?" I asked. Our first female recruit, an Irish woman by the name of Deborah Carter, had been stationed in that city to keep a close eye on affairs, as Hickey was said to have taken refuge there. It would seem that, after Johnson's death and the battle of Lexington, the Templars had scattered. There had to be a strategy behind that - they never did things out of fear. Connor and I would brainstorm ideas once I returned, I decided.
"Dobby's keeping an eye out," said Duncan, taking a casual swig from his cup. "She has nothing to report as of yet."
"Good." The last thing we needed in the aftermath of this battle was Thomas Hickey stirring matters on his end. As long as affairs in New York and Kenway's residence in Virginia remained quiet, we could focus our sights on Pitcairn alone.
"And what of Lee?" I asked.
Chapheau shook his head, and the shadows creasing his face deepened. "No word yet. But we hear that he owns a residence in Virginia, quite near to where Kenway does."
The thought of Kenway and Lee as neighbours was enough to make me chuckle into my cup. "We need to get eyes on that residence as soon as possible. I want you, Duncan, on that, starting early next week."
Duncan nodded. "Got it."
"And Connor would like you–" I addressed Chapheau– "to keep your ears open on the streets. Some soldiers deserted from Pitcairn after Lexington; watch out for them. They could be allies."
Once we had no more business to discuss, Duncan got us more drinks, and we talked about nothing as we drank. A warmth began to fill my veins as I laughed at a tale Duncan was spinning. It was utterly fictitious ("You haven't even seen a polar bear," cried Chapheau. "How could you possibly have fought one?") but it was funny nevertheless.
The pub grew busier, and the evening grew darker. A cold draught began to blow through the open door. It soon became apparent that the tavern had a resident cat, whose name I discovered was Dónal, and Chapheau very quickly became attached. Two drinks turned to three, and a fuzzy feeling pervaded my chest, like my heart had spilled warm blood into the cavity behind my ribs. It made me giggle.
When we eventually decided it was time for us to go home, the lamps of the city were lit with gentle golden flames, and the stars glistened in the sky above. I assured Duncan and Chapheau that it was not a long walk to my family's home and that I would need no escort.
I picked up my skirts so I would not track dirt on them as I walked. The streets had emptied themselves of people for the night, save for the occasional young couple tucked into the shadows between narrow alleyways. A patrol of redcoats passed me by, and I stepped aside to allow them passage.
It had been Achilles's wish to know every move made by the Templars, and I knew that Connor would be eagerly awaiting news of our progress. With Duncan relocated to Virginia, and Dobby in New York, we would need another pair of eyes in Boston. I trusted Chapheau to locate someone reliable for us.
Nicholas Biddle remained an issue for us, as we had no way to keep tabs on him while he was at sea; Connor hoped that the Assassins would have informants scattered through the cities, from Boston to South Carolina, by this time next year.
I paused beside a lamp-post so I could look into the sky, at the stars - and when I glanced behind me after a few long moments, I realised that Dónal, the dear cat of the pub, fat as butter and the colour of marmalade, had followed me. I called him to me and scooped him into my arms.
I only managed to walk a few metres further when the marching steps of another patrol sounded behind me, and Dónal decided he wanted to be in my arms no longer. He clawed at my hand until I dropped him, and he scurried away. I hissed, "You bastard!" and gingerly touched the long scratches on my hand.
The soldiers passed by in a red cloud, but one pair of boots fell behind, and stopped. "Cassandra?"
It was Tobias. The scar on his cheek was harsh and stark against his fair skin. Only then, in this lighting, did I realise something: I was the one who had given him that scar. He had been there on the night of the Tea Party, and I had marked his face with a permanent brand; he would never forget me now.
"Good evening," I said.
He looked up at the sky, directing his face towards the moon. "Why are you out this late, all alone?"
"I met some friends," I said, "and now I'm going home."
His smile was dazzling. "Would you mind terribly if I walked you home? It is too dark to be alone."
His uncomplicated presence was a relief. "I would like that."
It was not far to my family's house, and we walked in a comfortable silence. An owl flew over our heads, and I stopped to watch it fly into the night, its pale wings beating against the darkness. As Tobias patiently waited for me, his mouth quirked with amusement.
I led him until I could see the silhouette of the house; an area of darkness that did not reflect the moonlight. The curtains had been drawn, the hearths extinguished. No movement broke through the reigning stillness save for the rustling of the trees and the occasional flutter of a night bird.
"This is me," I said, tone soft, afraid to pierce the silence with my words. We had stopped next to the perimeter fence that surrounded the front of the house, and I leaned my hand on the worn-down wood.
He hummed in acknowledgement. "It's a nice house," he said.
I nodded, quite suddenly unable to look away from him. His blond hair, or what I could see of it under his tricorne, was nearly white under the glow of the stars, his skin was a clear alabaster. The scar on his face was jagged, and I did not look away.
"How is your hand?" he asked, caressing my fingers gently between his own.
The scratches still stung, but they had stopped bleeding. "I'll live."
He smiled, then, and my breath snagged in my throat as he lowered his mouth to my hand and, one by one, kissed the wounds.
The alcohol in my veins lent me courage. He opened his mouth, but before he could say anything I reached up with one hand and drew his face down to mine, brushing my lips against his.
He stood very still for a moment, and I could feel his pulse at the base of his throat. In a dream, I wound my other hand up behind his neck, into that silvered hair, knocking his hat askew, and he began to kiss me back - slowly at first, like I had caught him off guard.
We stumbled for a moment, until my hips were pressed against the fence and he against me. Still, I pulled him closer, wrapped myself around him. My fingers tugged his blood-coloured coat, and I felt his heart beating in his chest, in time with my own. His breath was hot on my cheeks.
He trailed light kisses along my jaw, and I almost stopped breathing. His tongue was pushing into my mouth, his hands were on my hips, pulling me closer, and I wanted more. I wanted everything all at once - fire and brimstone.
It was my first kiss. It was everything I wanted it to be, and yet. . .
I found myself imagining it was with someone else.
I imagined, for a desperate moment that stretched aeons and aeons, that it was Connor.
As this one coherent thought cleared the clouds from my mind, I pulled away from Tobias, breathing ragged. I gently took his hands from my hips, brushing my thumb over a ring on his finger.
My first assumption was that he was married, but this ring was too wide to be a wedding band, and it sat on the wrong finger. He stood so close to me that his uneven breaths stirred my hair, and I was almost sure he was going to kiss me again - until his ring caught the glare of the moonlight, and that's when I saw it.
The unmistakable cross of the Templars branded that silver ring.
A haze of panic clouded my eyes, and I placed my hands on his chest. "Tobias," I said, my voice hoarse, and I felt him stiffen as he took a step back. "I can't. . . I'm sorry."
I slipped past him and stumbled up the path to the front door as quickly as my trembling legs would take me. When I glanced back, he was gone.
I could still taste him in my mouth, and I felt no shame in spitting into the grass before I went inside. As soon as I was in I sagged against the door, pressing my shaking hands to my face. What had I done?
I had crossed a line - one that I could never step over again. Now that my mind had summoned this fantasy of Connor, I felt as though I could not stop thinking of him. He was my best friend, my partner-in-crime, whose friendship I would for ever lose if I were to reveal this to him.
But I couldn't stop thinking about him. Tears slid down my cheeks. I had ruined things. I would never look at him the same way because it was him I wanted to kiss. I wanted to lavish all of my tender affections on him. I wanted to watch a fire slowly die while I sat beside him. I wanted to embrace him and look at the clouds with him and show him what it was to breathe stardust - because if this was love, I was drowning in it.
I wanted to kiss him, but more than that, I wanted to hold his hand and buy him flowers.
It terrified me. I sank down the door until I was sitting, crying into my hands. Tobias was a Templar. Connor was. . . Connor was everything I wanted, everything I longed for.
And I was so, so ruined.
Chapter 25
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
I remained with my family until Ryan left for boarding school with his eyes full of tears. He had been buzzing with excitement all week, but once the time came to say farewell to us all, he broke down - which, in turn, made Lydia cry. Meredith embraced him tightly, holding back her emotion until after he and Gabriel had left for Virginia. She kept her sadness to herself, and shut herself in her room soon after.
Nadia was especially tearful as she embraced him, for she doted upon him as though he were her own son, and he, in turn, adored her like a second mother. Their parting sorrows were the hardest to bear.
Long after the wagon had disappeared down the road, Nadia and I were still standing by the fence, watching the sun slowly turn the trees to gold. All was eerily silent - even the wind did not whisper - like all of nature was lamenting the absence of little Ryan, the shining one.
Nadia's dark eyes were distant. "We can visit him in two months. I'll make him up something special. Maybe that orange cake he loves so much. What do you think?"
"I think he'll be sick from eating too many sweets," I said with a grin.
Nadia tutted and shook her head. "I hope he would share with his new friends."
I felt myself smile as I imagined him settling in to his boarding school - making friends with other young boys from the colonies - staying up past curfew to dine on secret midnight feasts. "He's going to be trouble," I said. "The teachers don't know the storm that's coming to them."
"Oh, there will be tribulations." Nadia grinned. "Biblical. Shakespearean."
"Like that time when he let Merry borrow his favourite toy soldier and she used it to re-enact the battle between David and Goliath," I laughed.
"She nearly had that poor toy beheaded before Ryan came storming in," chuckled Nadia. "That was one of the biggest tantrums I have ever seen."
We lapsed into silence. Remembering. Little Ryan had such a huge smile - it took over his round face in his moments of great joy, of which there were many. It did not take much to make Ryan laugh, and the peals of his laughter were so infectious that one simply had to laugh along. His bottom four front teeth had fallen out, lending him a heavy lisp that would fade as his new teeth grew in.
His room would be empty now. Not empty in the physical sense - because his toys, his furniture, his cuckoo clock, had been left behind - but empty because he would not be there.
"The house will be so quiet without him," murmured Nadia. "Now two of you have flown the nest; only Merry remains." She gave me a sideways glance. "When will you return to the homestead?"
"Tomorrow," I said, but I must have looked apprehensive, because she lay a tender hand on my shoulder and said gently, "You don't sound all too eager."
I couldn't say the words out loud: that Connor was the object of all my soft and tender affections. The past week had given me the time to think. I didn't even know how long I had been afraid of this. There had been small moments throughout the years - fractions of moments - times where I would look at him and feel my breath catch in my throat, or I would ache to reach for his hand. These feelings would ruin everything we had built together.
Nadia's face was full of gentle concern. "Has something happened between you and Connor?"
I shook my head, thinking only of the way he smiled. "No."
"Ah." Nadia pulled back, and now amusement was mixed in with the sympathy in her eyes. "But you want there to be something."
Yes. "Nothing can happen," I said firmly. "It would ruin everything."
"What makes you so sure?" she asked, her words long and slow in her southern drawl.
Her calm outlook only made me overthink it more. "Okay. Say I did want something to happen. Say it did happen. What then? It would jeopardise everything we have built and worked for. If we were to split, our friendship would be ruined." I sighed. "It's the wrong time, wrong place, wrong person."
"There is never a wrong time or wrong place for love," said Nadia. "It just happens."
Her smile was soft and knowing. I asked her, "How long until you marry Finch?"
"Eight months," she said. Nadia had met Finch, a fellow freed slave, two years ago at the market. He was working as a farrier, and had been since he was freed two years previous. The pair had gotten talking, and had been courting ever since.
Both had bonded over their shared history of slavery: Nadia had been born into it on a plantation in South Carolina, and she and her parents had been freed when she was fourteen. Finch, by contrast, was freed at the age of twenty after the death of his former master in Georgia. Now the age of twenty-two, Nadia was eager to marry - and Finch, twenty-four, was head over heels for her.
Their marriage would mean that Nadia would move out of my parents' house, which she was also eager for; she had been in service to them since she was sixteen and had lived with them thence.
"Will you continue to work for my parents," I asked, "after you marry?"
"I don't think so," she said. "There are no small children who need looking after, with Ryan in school and Merry growing up. Lydia can look after the house by herself. If she needs help cooking I can do that, but she seems competent enough."
I laughed. "You overestimate her."
Nadia smiled. "I believe I do." She tilted her head, and her coiled braids caught the last of the evening sun. "Just because I'm not working here anymore doesn't mean that I'm not here for you. You know that. You can come to me, and we can go shopping, or we can talk, or you can come over for a cup of tea. I'd love to help you, Sassy."
Her raised eyebrows told me that she had left out a certain person's name. "I just don't know how I feel about him," I said.
"Is he aware of this?"
"No," I said firmly. "And it's going to stay that way."
"Why not?" Her eyes pitied me. I didn't want her pity. "He might be open to the idea."
Which was more dangerous? Speaking these feelings and facing his rejection, and the subsequent destruction of our friendship? Or having these feelings requited, and therefore placing the Assassins in jeopardy? I didn't want to think of either option, because both would spell our doom.
Thus, I ignored Nadia's suggestion. "Do you think it will be awkward," I asked quietly, "when I get back home?"
Her gaze was soft. "Only if you make it awkward."
I pondered this during my journey home the next day. What Connor didn't know wouldn't hurt him, I reckoned. These were just feelings, after all - they would go away if I stamped on them hard enough. No, I thought, perhaps stamping on them wasn't good. After all, one can stamp on a cockroach and it still won't die. Perhaps feelings and cockroaches are one and the same: unwanted creatures that find their way into everything.
As the manor came into view, and my horse's ears pricked forward in delight (she recognised home), I decided that my best course of action would be to ignore these feelings, and continue in my life with Connor and Achilles as normal. If I ignored these feelings for long enough, they would go away.
At any rate, Connor and I had spent our teenage years living together - we had been raised with a relationship more akin to that of siblings, or close friends in the very least. Achilles looked upon us as his children - did I dare to ruin everything we had built?
Connor was grooming his horse in the stables. Even from my distance, I could see him reach into his pocket and present a lump of sugar, and he smiled when the horse ate it from his palm. How I longed to be the subject of that smile!
Feelings are not like cockroaches. Feelings are like trees: they grow back even after one cuts them down. They grow taller and taller until they block out the sky and all one can see are trees, trees, trees.
My horse led me, without prompting, right to the stables, and Connor paused what he was doing to greet me. "Good afternoon. How are your family?"
I had not written to tell him of Ryan's schooling - by the time the letter would have arrived here, I would have already been home. "They are well," I said, and dismounted. "Gabriel and Ryan have gone down to Virginia, because Ryan has been enrolled in boarding school."
Connor took my saddle from the horse and hung it over the fenced stable wall. "That is great news. I am happy for him."
I grinned and slid the halter from my horse. "He's going to be America's next top lawyer, I'm telling you," I said as I led my horse into the empty stall beside Connor. "Any homestead news I need to catch up on?"
He helped me groom my horse, and at length, he spoke. "Norris has made various attempts to court Myriam, to no avail. He even had me climb all the way up the cliffs to pick flowers for her - which she rejected."
"What kind of flowers?" I asked.
"Peonies." He offered my horse a sugar lump, which was greedily accepted, much to his amusement. "By the way," he added, "Sam Adams has informed us that a second Continental Congress is due to meet on May the tenth, in Philadelphia. A new president of Congress is to be elected."
I nodded. "I'll tell the others to keep an ear out."
Once both horses were groomed, and my horse was watered and fed, we began a slow, meandering walk back to the manor, with the goal of reaching Achilles so I could greet him. Before we reached the door, however, Connor looked down at me and teased, "Have you any more news to catch me up on?"
My stomach exploded into fireworks at the sight of his cheeky smile. A small, desperate part of me suddenly turned and snarled at me to keep my mouth shut about Tobias, but I thought of my parents, and what had happened when I kept the Assasins a secret from them.
Secrets would only drive a rift between us, and I couldn't lose Connor that way. "I've discovered the identity of another Templar. One we didn't know about."
That made him pause, and his face became serious. "Oh?"
I told him everything - from the night at the Boston Tea Party, to Tobias finding Ryan, to the night we kissed, and how I discovered Tobias' ring. Connor's expression did not change throughout my explanation - he was as inscrutable as ever. I was uncomfortable when I told him that I had kissed Tobias, but I did not want secrets between us, so if the price to pay for that was a little discomfort, so be it.
He was very understanding. "Thank you for telling me," he said, slowly nodding. "I recognise that that may have been difficult, and I commend you for that."
"What will we do about him?" I asked.
"Add him to the list, I suppose," he replied, and his dark eyes were far away. "If he wears the ring, then he is already a trusted member of the Templar Order. There can be no mercy for him now." He reached out to open the door, and then paused. "Didn't you say that Rowan Carter has a friend named Tobias?"
The dread that his words brought hit me like a bolt of lightning. "I don't know if Rowan wears the ring. I'll find out."
If Rowan did wear the same ring as Tobias, as Thomas had pointed out to me some months ago, then he was a Templar. And if Rowan was a Templar, would I be able to trust Thomas? If I couldn't trust Thomas, what then? Was I living in a lie? Was my entire life - from the moment I met Thomas in London, all those years ago, a fond memory I kept locked in a gilded box - up to this point, knowing Thomas' greatest secret, and trusting him to keep mine - was it all a hoax, an illusion, a plan set in motion by the entrance of Thomas into my affections?
*
I pondered these things in my heart as April turned to May, and May to June. The second Continental Congress had met in May as planned, and John Hancock was elected president. Adams had kept a close eye on the proceedings, and informed Connor and me that the Congress would meet again in June to discuss matters of the army.
Now, on the sixteenth of June, Connor and I were seated in a stuffy, though brightly lit, room in the town hall in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, surrounded by members of the Congress, and delegates of each of the thirteen colonies. Six days ago, on the tenth, Hancock had proposed that the American forces in Boston be considered by the Congress as a Continental Army, and thus needed a commander in chief. The man before us, George Washington - a tall man with a powdered wig and a stern authority in his eyes - had been nominated to lead this army.
Adams had thought it best that Connor and I be present for Washington's official acceptance of his position, and he sat next to us on the bench, listening in rapture to the Virginian's speech.
"Mr. President," Washington addressed Hancock and the rest of the Congress. "Though I am truly sensible of the high honour done me, in this appointment, yet I feel great distress, from a consciousness that my abilities and military experience may not be equal to the extensive and important trust. However, as the Congress desire it, I will enter upon the momentous duty, and exert every power I possess in their service, and the support of the glorious cause."
We had been here for two hours already. I watched Connor from the corner of my eye, fascinated. At times like this, he really did embody the phrase as still as a statue - for, throughout this meeting, he had not moved, not even to fidget, as I had.
"I beg they will accept my most cordial thanks for this distinguished testimony of their approbation," continued Washington. "But, lest some unlucky event should happen, unfavourable to my reputation, I beg it may be remembered by every gentleman in the room that I, this day, declare with the utmost sincerity: I do not think myself equal to the command I am honoured with."
Four days ago, on the twelfth, another battle had broken out at Bunker Hill, and the Continental troops were led by one General Israel Putnam. Already, this battle was becoming one of the bloodiest in American history. The troops would need a miracle to save them - and, perhaps, Washington would help to bring that about.
Adams leaned over to us and murmured, "Truly, there is no man better suited to the task."
"Really?" someone sitting behind us muttered, listening in on our conversation - perhaps he was bored, too. "I can think of several."
Neither Connor nor I turned around; manners and propriety outweighed the desire for distraction, even if said distraction was a man with a nasal English accent behind us.
"As to pay, sir," Washington went on, "I beg leave to assure the Congress that as no pecuniary consideration could have tempted me to have accepted this arduous employment at the expense of my domestic ease and happiness, I do not wish to make any profit from it."
In order to pay the wages and funds for the newly appointed Continental Army, the Congress, under Hancock's directive, issued bills of credit. The thirteen colonies represented in the Congress - New Hampshire; Massachusetts; Connecticut; Rhode Island; New York; New Jersey; Pennsylvania; Delaware; Maryland; Virginia; North Carolina; South Carolina; and Georgia - had each promised to aid in repaying these bills.
"I will keep an exact account of my expenses," said Washington, and I gathered from his tone that he was at the end of his speech. "Those I doubt not, they will discharge. And that is all I desire."
The room rang out with applause as his speech concluded. Connor and I did not clap. We turned to face each other, but we did not speak - we were trying to get a subtle glimpse of the man who had spoken against Washington earlier. I only saw a dark moustache and pale skin before Connor abruptly stood, stiff with fury.
"Charles Lee," he growled.
And so it was: Lee sat, large as life, on the bench behind us, glaring up at Connor with thinly veiled hostility. "Do I know you?" he said lazily.
"I would not expect you to remember," Connor seethed.
I pulled him back by the arms, and I could feel him trembling. "Come along," I said, hauling him away. "I must speak with you." Lee's eyes, pale and thoughtful, bored into me, without blinking, as I brought Connor a respectable distance from the benches. "Sorry about that," I muttered to him, "but the last thing we need is the two of you coming to blows."
Connor's eyes had not left Lee, and he still bristled like a vicious wolf - but he was forced to tear his eyes away when Adams returned to us jovially. "Ah, you two. There's someone I want you to meet." He took me by the elbow and ushered us towards the head of the room, where Washington had been speaking. "Connor, Cassandra," said Adams, "allow me to introduce you to our newly-appointed commander in chief, George Washington."
The corners of Washington's blue eyes crinkled as he smiled. "Ah. So you're the pair who saved Sam and John at Lexington."
Connor spoke first. "It was the Patriots who did that. We merely lent support." His voice was strong and unwavering - I almost found it hard to believe that the object of his fury, Charles Lee, had been only seconds away from finding out for himself just how cold Connor's anger was.
Connor's words seemed to delight Washington, who laughed. "As humble as he is brave. We could use more men like you." His eyes wandered behind us, and his polite expression faded. "I'm sorry," he said distractedly, "I should attend to Charles over there. He looks none too happy about being passed over for command." He shook each of our hands. "It was good to meet you."
Connor nearly turned to glare at Lee as Washington brushed past us - the mere mention of Lee's name sparked the flames in his eyes - and to prevent that from happening, I said quietly to Adams, "Tell me you have news of Pitcairn."
Adams obliged, and Connor's attention was snagged. "I'm told he's taken shelter in Boston," whispered Adams, "where he's guarded by a thousand redcoats. The only way you're going to get at him is if we draw him out. Lucky for you, we're launching an offensive against the city in order to do just that. General Israel Putnam has been given command of our forces. Present this–" he handed Connor a folded piece of paper bearing his signature– "to him, and he'll provide whatever aid you require. You'll find him at the encampment on Bunker Hill."
I nodded. "Thank you."
Adams regarded us with kindness. "It's the least I could do. Pitcairn's a dangerous man - the sooner we are rid of him, the better."
Connor's dark eyes, once again, turned to the back of the room. "I would say the same of Charles Lee."
With a half-hearted laugh, Adams patted his arm. "That's an altogether different beast. Let us leave that for another day. Best you two head to Boston."
And that was that. Adams's attention was soon turned to Hancock, president of the Continental Congress, so Connor and I, seeing no reason to stay, walked out of the building and into the damp heat of Philadelphia. The grey clouds overhead foretold rain.
As we retrieved our horses, I asked Connor, "What's the quickest way to Bunker Hill?"
His face was solemn. "Follow me."
Notes:
Wow guys, this is crazy . . .
. . . that this chapter is literally longer than every essay I have written for college in the last month.
Hi everyone! How are you? I hope you're all doing well. As this is my last upload before Christmas, I figured I had better check in with you guys - and wish you a very happy Christmas! Don't forget to spend time with the people you love most. Smile at a stranger. Invite someone over for dinner. Be you and be extraordinary. ♡
Another reason why I am posting this A/N is because I thought I would open up the opportunity to you: have you any questions? About this story, about me, about the weather? Hell, ask me about cats, if you want to.
Merry Christmas, you dastardly lot! I hope that the remainder of 2021 is filled with love. God bless!
–Panda
Chapter Text
We set out from Philadelphia on horseback, following the route that Connor directed, travelling through the night - we stopped to rest for only a few hours. Crossing the border from Pennsylvania to New York was easy enough; our slight trouble was found in locating where Bunker Hill actually lay.
I firmly believed that it would be faster for us to cross over Breed's Hill. Connor was opposed. "Considering the amount of time it would take to simply get up the hill," he insisted, "we would be better off going around it."
"But passing over the hill would save time," I protested. Our horses had stopped to nibble at some grass on the side of the road, which enabled Connor and me to hold our debate face-to-face.
"How would it save time?" he demanded. He used his hands while he spoke, to create diagrams to back up his points. "This–" his hand, fingers bent into a curve– "is a hill. This is the path around the hill. It seems shorter from this perspective, but if flattened–" his hand straightened– "the road along the hill is physically longer. Hence my point. We should go around Breed's Hill."
"We're not going over a flattened hill, Connor." We were quickly starting to irritate each other. "Going around the hill is a detour we cannot afford to make. Look at the smoke rising over the hill. It would be faster for us to cut that detour out, and cross over the hill on a direct path." He was glaring at me; I glared back and sighed. "We can't afford to split up. Only one of us has Adams's letter."
"So let us both go around the hill." His tone was exasperated.
"We're not going around it, Connor."
"Why not?"
Thus we bickered, back and forth, for a while, getting nowhere, proving nothing. The horses were content to remain by the roadside and graze, oblivious to their riders growing increasingly annoyed at each other. We quarrelled for so long that a patriot soldier, summoned from his post by the sound of our voices, came riding down the dirt track ahead of us.
We knew he was there before he spoke, and as one, Connor and I turned our heads to him. He looked between us for a moment, toeing the line somewhere between irritated and bemused, and said, "Halt, and state your business."
Connor was the first of us to speak. "We're looking for Israel Putnam."
The soldier's horse flicked its ears. "On whose orders?" asked the man with the sort of tone that mocked us. You won't find him here.
Connor took Adams's letter from his pocket and held it out. "Samuel Adams."
With a look of wary scepticism, the man took the letter from Connor. A few moments stretched into a millennia as he read it; Connor and I met each other's eyes, our previous tiff forgotten.
The sky overhead was dark and overcast, and the light shining down on us was dim. The soldier's face was in partial shadow. Connor raised his head, and I saw his eyes dart sharply around, saw his nose twitch as he sniffed the air. It was faint, but the distinct smell of smoke was slowly permeating the air. The sky was hazy with it.
The man finally looked up and folded the letter. "Follow me."
He led us up the path he had descended on - the path that brought us over Breed's Hill. I shot Connor a smug look; Connor pointedly ignored me. Soon the trees cleared, and we could see the crest of the hill ahead. We heard the deep booms of cannonfire even from here, and the horizon was nearly black with smoke.
Just to clarify, Connor said, "This is not Bunker Hill."
The man nodded. "Aye. It's Breed's. There's been some disagreement as to where we should encamp."
"Any word on Boston?" I asked.
In April earlier this year, a siege of Boston had begun, wherein the American troops had contained the British within Boston, and thus many residents moved out of town. My family stayed. Conditions in Boston were getting worse - though the British controlled Boston's harbour, provisions were dwindling as they waited for supply ships to arrive. That was part of the reason why Ryan was sent to boarding school down south - to escape.
"The Tories aren't moving," said the man, leading us closer to the source of the cannonfire. The acrid tang of smoke stung my nose. "Any time we try to press them, we lose a dozen men. Putnam and the others have assembled artillery on these hills. A good shelling might make the redcoats rethink their strategy."
Connor's face was grim. "And what of John Pitcairn?"
The soldier scoffed. "That bastard is the cagiest of the lot. He's appeared from time to time, to taunt us or to send his regards by way of cannonfire. It's all right, though. He'll have what's coming to him soon enough."
The soldier turned back, telling us that he had to return to his post, and left us at the foot of the hill. The British cannons were louder here, and I could see plumes of smoke drifting over the crest of the hill. Our horses shied away from the source of the noise, so we dismounted and tied the horses further back by the treeline.
I grinned at Connor as we picked our way up the hill, over craggy chunks of rock and clumps of wet grass. "I was right!"
He fixed me with a weary look just as we passed over the crest of the hill, but both of us stopped dead at the sight of the scene before us. Blood was gathering in muddy pools along the line of the barricade at the opposite edge of the hill, and in the footprints driven deeply into the mud. The harsh scent of smoke was so strong up here that my eyes watered; Connor's face remained cold, betraying nothing.
The camp at Breed's Hill was small and ravaged; it faced a valley that was red and hazy. Upon a second look, I realised the valley was filled with redcoats, both living and dead. Blood snaked through the grass down the slope of the hill, in small rivers, like the Nile. The air stank with it.
Around us, soldiers were scurrying back and forth: some carried stretchers, on which lay men so drenched in blood one might hardly recognise them, many of whom were missing limbs, clutching bloody stumps in their stead. I had never seen so much blood, so much carnage, before; never heard such wails of agony, and I hoped I never would again.
A little way off, surrounded by shards of broken wood and empty cartridges, General Israel Putnam and Colonel William Prescott were arguing loudly enough for Connor and me to hear, even from where we stood.
"I don't care much for your excuses," snapped Putnam. "We should have built on Bunker Hill. Breed's is closer to the city, but it is also closer to their artillery."
Prescott's lip curled. "Our orders came from men so divorced from the situation that we are compelled by reason to employ our own faculties to make a proper determination."
"Were it that I could understand even half that nonsense you just uttered," Putnam scoffed, lighting a cigar.
"What's not to understand?" retorted Prescott. "I'm trying to ensure our victory."
"What would you know about victory?" Putnam fired back. "I killed a she-wolf in her den, armed with only a knife. I escaped the Kahnawake Indians who sought to burn me alive. And I was the sole survivor of a shipwreck at the Battle of Havana. So you'll excuse me if I choose not to follow your advice."
I did not know what Kahnawake was, so I later asked Connor. He informed me, pleasantly, that the Mohawk people of Kahnawá:ke were distant relations of his, from Québec, Canada. Putnam had been captured by them during the Seven Years' War, and it was ritual for them to burn their enemies alive, though Putnam was saved from his grisly demise by a French soldier.
Another stretcher went by, carrying a young man hardly old enough to be out of his teens. Blood, so dark it was almost black, streamed down his face from both of his eyes. Putnam watched the stretcher pass by, his face full of grim sorrow. His deep-set eyes were hard.
"I rest my case," he said firmly. "I'm going back to Bunker Hill. Good day." He shoved the cigar into his mouth and curtly pushed past Prescott.
I held out a hand as he passed us by. "General Putnam."
He paused and looked down at me, grumbling around the cigar, "What?"
"We were looking for John Pitcairn," said Connor next to me. "We were told you would be able to help us find him."
Putnam scoffed and waved his cigar in indignation, and specks of ash floated to the ground. "He's tucked away inside the city with no reason to leave. So long as those ships continue their assault, we'll never flush him out."
"But if the ships were silenced. . ." I thought aloud.
Putnam nodded, though he sounded bored. "Then poor old John might be forced to get off his arse and come forward." He took a deep drag from his cigar and exhaled the smoke slowly.
Connor, following my train of thought, picked something up from the ground; it might once have been a white flag, but it was so stained with blood and dirt that it was almost impossible to tell. "I shall fly this flag to signal our success."
"And I shall speak fondly of you at your funerals," muttered Putnam. His dark hair was streaked with dirt, and he scrubbed an aggravated hand down his face.
Connor rolled the wet flag as tightly as he could, and I helped him to sling it over his shoulder, wedged between his back and the strap of his arrow quiver. Putnam watched distastefully as we walked to the edge of the steep decline that would lead us into Charlestown. The houses near the waterfront had already been reduced to mounds of rubble - the British ships were relentless in their fury.
Connor and I had worked together for so long that we hardly needed words to form our plan. A look was passed between us before we took off running down the steep hill. Momentum seized me as soon as I stepped over the edge, and I hurtled down the hill, strides long enough to take flight.
Charlestown was deserted, and I could see the last of the citizens fleeing as the British ships rained mortar upon the town. Our thundering feet stirred pools of mud that clung to our legs. Above the roar of my heart and the shattering buildings, I heard Connor call to me to go left.
I didn't question him, and no sooner had I veered to the left than the building I had been running past crumbled from the inside out, and the ground shook with the force of the bricks toppling down. Waves of mud splashed my way.
Connor was gone when I looked over my shoulder for him. All I could see was dust. My eyes stung with it.
A sudden horror seized my heart. What if he had been crushed amid the chaos? I might never see him again. What if he died, and I lost him for ever?
I stopped running, even though every instinct in me told me to keep moving. But I had to find him. I had to.
There was nothing but dust creeping towards me; in spite of the deafening roar of the town falling apart, it was the silence, the absence of familiar movement, that unnerved me. My heart was in my throat, thrashing to be let out, as I retraced my steps.
I took a breath to call his name, but then he was there - he materialised from the dust and grabbed my arm, pulling me along beside him. The streets were narrowing around us, pushing us together, until we were almost running on each other's feet. Each breath burned in my lungs.
Once we had made it through the town and onto the dock, we separated. Connor, the stronger swimmer, shed his coat and his weapons, save what was needed, and dived into the water. I dropped behind a pile of rubble and loaded Connor's rifle.
The two ships had weighed anchor just off the harbour, and Connor was making the treacherous swim through the blackening waves alone. Every so often, I would lose sight of him behind the white-tipped crest of a wave, but he would be a little further away each time he reappeared. Once he reached the first ship, I saw him turn and look my way - just for a moment - before he dived down and disappeared.
I waited until I saw him again, soaked through with water and creeping within the shadows on the deck of one of the ships, before I lined up my shot. Next to the mast, practically begging to be set off, were six crates of gunpowder, stacked on top of one another.
Shutting one eye, I loosed a slow, steady breath, and pulled the trigger, clenching myself against the recoil. Far away on the deck of the first ship, a little hole was blown in one of the gunpowder crates, and slowly the black powder began to trickle out.
Though I was too far to see Connor's face, I knew he was looking at me as he lit the powder and dived from the ship when the crates, one by one, caught fire. The flames spread quickly over the deck of the ship, and I could see, even from here, the frantic scurrying of the crew as they rushed to put the fires out. Their red coats almost blended with the flames on board, and the men were walking silhouettes.
We repeated this with the second ship, though at the last minute Connor scampered up the rigging to the top of the mast, where he hung our flag of victory. When both ships were burning, he returned to me, dripping with water and panting - due to a combination of exertion and the cold water.
I wrapped his coat, which he had left with me, around him. "There, darling," I said. "Keep yourself warm."
He looked at me like he had not heard me. "Why did you stop?" he asked slowly. "When we were running, you stopped and went back. Why?"
I remembered that momentary terror, that flash of panic, like a fire that was ignited and just as quickly stamped out. "I was looking for you."
Without the roaring cannons, the air was oddly still. Silent. Connor blinked water from his eyes. "You should not have done that."
I knew he would say that, and I knew he was right. Dusting stray black powder from my fingers, I said, "I know."
It was a fatal mistake for me to have made - had we been in a different situation then, I might have endangered our entire plan. I might have died. He might have died, as a result of my foolish mistake. Self-loathing rose up in me like bile; a hatred for the feelings that clouded my judgement.
"I just didn't want to lose sight of you," I said, boldly. "You're my partner in crime, and we work as one unit, and I love you for that." A small confession - one which did not make him bat an eyelid, as he was well used to my affection.
Connor fixed me with a look I could not read, and said, "Do not do it again. You could have put so much on the line back there, and we cannot afford that."
His rebuke was what I needed to snap myself back into attention, and I swore to myself that it would not happen again. These feelings would pass; they were a result of the overly-hopeful imagination of a lonely teenage girl, and nothing more than that.
It took us longer to get back to the camp at Breed's Hill, and by the time we returned, Putnam was rallying the troops that remained armed and ready for battle. His voice was harsh with passion and his eyes were wild.
"The enemy advances," he was sneering, "and you tremble. They've better numbers, you say. Better weapons. Better training. But I do not fear, and neither should you." The cigar in his mouth shook with the fervour of his words. "For what they have in material, they lack in conviction and care. But not us. We have discipline. We have order. But most importantly, we have passion - we believe. So maintain vigilance. Conserve your ammo. Ensure a proper line of sight. And above all else, men: do not fire until you see the whites of their eyes."
Some of the soldiers were veterans; men who had fought and bled in the Seven Years' War, as Putnam had. Others were young - too young to fight - men my age or slightly older. Their faces were streaked with dirt, but their eyes were hard with determination. These were men willing to fight, and to die, for their country.
When Putnam caught sight of us, he took the cigar from his mouth. "Well I'll be damned," he said. "You did it."
What a pair we must have been: me, covered with dust, and Connor, dripping water. Connor's voice was firm. "That was quite a speech."
Putnam stuck the cigar back into his mouth. "Lies, all of it, I'm afraid. Still - such words have carried us thus far."
Ever goal-driven, Connor said, "What of Pitcairn?"
With a spyglass and his vantage point on the hill, Putnam was able to tell us with ease what he had seen. "He's left Boston, as I said he would, and set up camp on Moulton Hill. There's no good way to get at him, not with that maelstrom brewing down below."
The spyglass was passed between me and Connor, and we formed a new plan to reach Pitcairn. It was bold and daring, even for us. Putnam thought we were insane. "That's twice today you've proposed the impossible!"
Connor's dark eyes betrayed nothing. "I see no other choice."
Putnam took a deep drag from his cigar, and smoke curled from between his teeth. "That's 'cause you're as mad as a March hare, son."
Connor bristled - not because of the jibe about madness, but because Putnam had called him son. I suggested we get moving, then, so that we would not waste time - but also because I did not particularly want to see Putnam become a red splat on the ground at Connor's feet.
We crossed the battlefield on foot and crept behind the enemy lines. The slope of Moulton Hill was not as steep as that of Breed's, but the trail was longer and crawling with redcoats. Connor and I clung to the shadows of the thick foliage, remaining unseen by the passing soldiers.
The closer we got to Moulton Hill, the less dense the smoke became, and I could soon breathe again. Pitcairn's encampment was small, but well-protected: I could count at least eighteen soldiers, of varying ranks, among the crowd guarding Pitcairn.
The redcoats had set up temporary tents around their circular camp, and Pitcairn stood in the centre of it all, talking heatedly with a few of his officers. Connor and I crouched behind one of these tents, deep within the long grass.
"It seems we are well and truly at war," Pitcairn was saying. "A pity, that - for it is a war we did not ask for; a war we did not wish. And why would we? We're killing our brothers down there - and for what? Duty? Honour? Liberty and justice, as the Yanks claim? No."
A patrol passed us by, and I shrank further back into the wet grass. My trousers were steadily getting wetter; Connor's clothes were wet enough as it was, and I worried that he would become cold. We discussed our next step very quietly, hardly loud enough to be heard above the rustling of the grass in the smoke-tinged wind.
(I made a comment about our collective madness, worthy to rival that of Shakespeare's King Lear.)
Pitcairn's voice cut through our murmurings, sharp and clear. "Clinton, Pigot; to me. We must ready the next offensive."
Connor and I split up then; my friend went around the back of the tents and swiftly into a tree, while I crept to the other side of the camp, where the line of tents ended and the line of trees shielded me from the eyes of the redcoats.
Across the camp, Connor met my eyes; even from this distance I could see his dark eyes, though I was unsure if I was actually seeing him or if I simply remembered him.
There was a soldier standing guard before me, with his back to me. I crouched low and slashed my blade across his hamstrings. He collapsed with a cry of pain, and the blood welled up fast; it ran down his legs, staining his white stockings with red.
His cry alerted the other soldiers in the camp to my location and they drew their weapons for attack. That split second of panic was all the time Connor needed to jump down from the tree and drive his blade through Pitcairn's neck.
The fall of the Templar did not attract the attention of the soldiers, focused as they were on me. One swung at me with the long blade of his bayonet. I feinted left and slashed right, gouging a deep line into his side.
But he was only one man, and I was vastly outnumbered.
Connor saw this and left Pitcairn to bleed on the ground. Together we fought, and the redcoats began to drop like sacks of flour. The images of the camp at Breed's Hill, the blood, the bodies - they played inside my head in a vicious loop, a twisted spinning wheel.
The few redcoats remaining chose to flee with their lives, and we stood, panting, and watched them. Around us lay the bleeding soldiers, some of whom were men who would never see their families again.
A gurgle came from behind us, and I turned. Pitcairn was still on the ground, one hand pressed to the wound in his neck, and dark blood was leaking through his fingers. Our eyes locked, and I saw his lips moving, but his voice was taken by the breeze.
I stepped closer. He repeated himself, weakly. "Why did you do this?"
Beside me, Connor's face was hard. "To protect Adams and Hancock, and those they serve. You meant to kill them."
Had Pitcairn the strength to laugh, I knew he would have done it. "Kill them? Are you mad? I wanted only to parley. There was so much to discuss, to explain. . . But you've put an end to that now."
Connor knelt next to him. There was more blood on one of his hands than the other. "If you speak true, then I will carry your last words to them."
The Templar's voice became fierce with conviction. "They must lay down their arms. They must stop this war."
I felt my head tilt to the side. "Why them, and not the redcoats?" I said.
Pitcairn's eyes, dull with pain, slid to me. "Do you not think we asked the same question of the British? These things take time. . . and it would have succeeded, had you let me play my part."
"The part of the puppeteer," hissed Connor. Fury and pain had joined together and birthed him, fifteen years ago, when his village was burned and his mother was killed.
Pitcairn's face was pale and waxy, and his voice rasped in his throat like sand. "Better we hold the strings than another."
We. The Templars. They believed it was better that they controlled things, that they were the dark rulers, the shadow government - better for them, surely, but what of the rest? The people who did not hold power? Who could not fight against their chokehold?
Connor spoke my thoughts for me. "No. The strings should be severed; all should be free."
This time Pitcairn did laugh, and more blood, thick and dark, oozed from under his hand, which was growing limp on his neck. "And we should live forever on castles in the sky." His voice was full of loathing, full of scorn. "You wield your blade like a man, but your mouth like a child. And more will die now, because of that."
John Pitcairn spoke no more after that. Once the Templar was dead, I fished out a letter, the corner of which had been protruding from the pocket of his deep red coat. Its wax seal bore the cross of the Templars. I cracked it open and read the letter to Connor.
"We should bring this to Putnam," I said.
We picked our way back to the patriot encampment. Before we were even fully up the hill, I could hear the general yelling at a soldier for sneaking up on him.
The camp was emptier than when we had left it, and the few who remained were carting off wagons of ammunition and rifles. The mud was dimpled with boot prints, and bloody water was gathering in the dents left behind; evidence of the war.
When Putnam saw us, his face cleared somewhat, and the unfortunate soldier scuttled off. "You live!"
"The same cannot be said for Pitcairn." Connor's voice was empty, hollow. He was thinking over Pitcairn's final words, judging if they were true or not.
"Well done, I suppose," said Putnam gruffly, and I knew that that was all the praise we would get from him, not that we sought any. "But it matters little now. I'm ordering a full retreat. We have lost too many in exchange for too little. If the Tories want this hill so badly, let them have it. Boston is the true prize."
Thomas was in Boston. My family were in Boston. Fear for them slowly filled my veins, heavy as lead.
Connor held out Pitcairn's letter. "We have a bigger problem."
"What do you mean?" grumbled Putnam, sticking his cigar in the side of his mouth while he read the letter. Once he had finished, his face was so shocked that the cigar fell to the muddy ground. He did not appear to notice.
"This can't be right," Putnam said. "It says they plan to murder George Washington."
Chapter 27
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Three weeks after the slaughter at Breed's Hill, and the patriots' retreat, I went to see my family, to make sure they were all right. My mother had written to me with news she could only tell in person, so I brought Connor along for support. Connor needed to get out of the manor for a while, anyway - tensions had been rising between him and Achilles since Pitcairn's death. He did not like to admit it, but the words of each Templar, both Johnson and Pitcairn, were affecting him deeper than he cared to say.
We were greeted at the door by Meredith, who shook her head distastefully. "Mother has organised an outing."
"It's nice to see you, too," I said. I hugged her, and she squirmed away - I thought it was because she did not want me to crease her dress, which was white and inlaid with hand-embroidered ruby roses.
We were led into the drawing room, where Lydia waited with restless anticipation. "Sassy, darling." She beamed. "And Connor, how lovely to see you."
He dipped his head. "The pleasure is mine." He had changed in the months since he had last seen my family; he was taller, broader, leaner. He was a flower, a rose, bloomed in the summer sun. His eyes were sharp and his hands were shy. Nadia gave me a look that I ignored.
"Merry says you've organised something," I said to my mother.
She rolled her eyes and deflated a little. "Thank you, Meredith, for ruining the surprise. Yes. I've decided we need something to cheer us all up." With Ryan away in the south, and the harsh shortages throughout Boston as a result of the siege, it was no wonder we were miserable.
When I asked what it was she had planned, Lydia gave me a secret smile. "We're going to the theatre."
The Continental Congress had made all theatre performances illegal a few years prior, in an effort to further distance the American colonies from the ways of the British across the pond. These laws, however, did not stop the few brave writers who persisted in trying their hands at playwriting under the noses of those in authority.
I had only even been to the theatre in my childhood, with my grandparents. We would walk down to the Theatre Royal on Drury Lane and drink cups of tea in the stalls high above the audience. I remembered looking down at all of those people below, so small they were like ants, and I used to giggle because they didn't know I was hovering above them, moments from falling - or flying.
We had seen The Country Wife and The Alchemist and The Beggar's Opera. I wondered now what Lydia had arranged.
"It's a play called Doctor Faustus," she said.
I had heard of it before. There was a performance of Christopher Marlowe's The Tragical History of the Life and Death of Doctor Faustus in the Theatre Royal when I was a child, and I remembered begging my grandparents to go and see it. Sophia, my grandmother, had read a copy of the play before, and had fervently refused to let me see it. I had always wondered why.
"How did you know about this production?" I wondered. "And where will it be held?"
She tapped her nose with a secret smile. "My friend's daughter was cast as Helen of Troy in this show, that's how I know. And the space for the show is being provided by Faneuil Hall."
We set out that evening, crammed into one wagon: Lydia, Gabriel, and Nadia at the front, and myself, Connor, Meredith, and Thomas, whom we had picked up along the way, squashed onto the benches at the back.
Thomas, who was beside me, grinned. "I have a friend who saw Doctor Faustus. He said it was very. . . alternative."
Connor, sitting opposite Thomas and next to Meredith, frowned slightly. "Alternative. What do you mean by that?" Thomas leaned forward and whispered something to Connor that I couldn't quite pick up.
Connor's eyes slid back to me, and a smile curled the corners of his mouth. "Cassandra and Meredith will not like that."
"What won't we like?" demanded Meredith, her dark eyes flashing indignantly.
Thomas reached over and tugged one of her golden braids, much to her annoyance. "You'll have to wait and see, won't you?"
"That's hardly fair," she insisted. "You say I won't like it and then you don't tell me what it is."
"That would ruin the surprise, wouldn't it?"
Back and forth they bickered, but all was in good humour. I heard Lydia murmur something about, We had better keep an eye on them when Merry gets older, to Gabriel, and the secret knowledge of who Thomas was weighed heavy on my heart. Connor was still looking at me, and his face was thoughtful and almost at peace.
I narrowed my eyes at him. "What?"
"Nothing," he said, and his voice was very soft. "Nothing at all."
Meredith tapped my knee, and I looked away from Connor. She leaned forward a little and said, "I was writing a letter to Ryan earlier."
Though she tried to hide it, my sister missed Ryan terribly. She was the only child in the house now, and I felt a twinge of guilt that she was alone once more. She began to tell me what she had wanted to write but didn't, and I noticed that she artfully avoided telling me what she did write. What a strange thing to observe - to hear everything except what my sister meant to say to him, what was perhaps the most important part. I felt as though I were reading a letter with a large hole burned through the centre of the paper.
Next to us, Connor and Thomas had gone quiet. I nudged Thomas with my knee, but he was still. Meredith leaned across the narrow wagon again and whispered to me, "Are Connor and Tom having a staring contest?"
I looked between them and grinned. "Tom is having a staring contest. Connor is thinking and hasn't remembered to blink for the past five minutes."
Connor blinked, then, and looked at me once more - and I was unsure what I saw in his eyes. He was not one to openly express himself, and although I longed to see the real Connor, whom I caught mere glimpses of, he only rarely let me in, let me see the person within - but when he did, he was more beautiful than any rising or setting sun.
The scariest part about letting someone in, I mused, was that they could take one look inside and never come back. How could I convince him, then, that I wanted to see him?
I looked away from him, and found Thomas watching me carefully. When our eyes met, a slow smile began to take form on his lips. I punched his shoulder. He punched me back, but not as hard.
*
By the time the show was over, the sky was fully dark, and a thin layer of water covered the ground after a light bout of rain. I thought of another visit to Faneuil Hall, a long time ago, when blood stained the snow a deep scarlet. A glance at Connor told me he was remembering the massacre too.
Meredith and I carefully avoided the puddles on the ground, and neither of us said much as we got into the wagon. Gabriel brushed water droplets from his seat, and once everyone was on board, he guided the wagon out of the street. This time, Connor and Thomas sat beside one another, and I could see them digging their elbows into the other's ribs and chuckling softly.
I knew they were laughing at me and Meredith, and I scowled at them. Lydia turned in her seat and asked how we had enjoyed the show.
"It was very–" I frowned, trying to properly articulate my thoughts into coherence– "secular."
Thomas turned to me with a wide, provoking smile. "What were you expecting, a production of the Gospel?"
"No," I grumbled. "I just wasn't expecting that the plot would be Faustus selling his soul to a demon. Don't get me wrong," I added quickly, fearful that Lydia should think me ungrateful, "it was well-performed, and I commend the actors for their performance, but the subject matter was not to my taste."
Meredith murmured her agreement; at first I thought it was because she still wanted to be a nun when she was old enough to enter a convent, but looking at her, I saw that her eyes were bright and starry. She had loved the show.
"They'll be going to New York next," she said, in a voice more akin to a whisper. "And then Virginia. And the southern colonies. Perhaps Ryan will see it, when it gets to him."
"Perhaps not," I said.
Thomas leaned forward and prodded my knee insistently. "I wanted to talk to you about that."
"About Ryan seeing Doctor Faustus?"
He shook his head. "No. New York. I've been thinking of relocating."
The wagon jolted as the wheels turned over a stone in the road, and with the movement, his words sank in. "You're moving to New York?"
It was only inevitable, I supposed. Many people had fled from Boston during the siege, seeking freedom in the other colonies. Thomas would have a new, better life in New York. And he would also be closer to his lover, I realised. It was convenient for him, really. Though his situation was not an easy one, he was making the most of it, and making a bright life for himself - and I admired that quiet strength in him.
*
My birthday passed in August, and Connor and I spent our days holed up in the basement, poring over maps and keeping track of all our progresses. I saw Connor more often than I did Achilles, and I admitted that to Connor, who demurely agreed. But one thing I would never admit was how desperately I wanted to be loved. I didn't think I could say it. I wanted to be wanted, and I did not know how long poetry and music would substitute for that want.
The portraits of Johnson and Pitcairn in the basement had both been turned around so we could no longer see the faces of the men (men whose blood was on our hands) - it would not do to dwell on the past, for the past was gone and could not hurt us anymore. So we moved on, like every season, like every day - but the dying words of those men remained; two scars in the tapestry of our story.
Achilles, too, grew concerned. "How fares the hunt?"
Connor did not tear his eyes away from the remaining portraits - and I noticed he lingered on the stern face of his father, Haytham Kenway. "There is progress," he conceded, "but I worry it is not enough."
The old man peered over my shoulder at the map I had spread across the desk. "You must strike where you're needed most," said Achilles, tapping a blunt fingertip on the sketched outline of New York city. "What if you pursued Charles Lee and your father - what, then, of Paul Revere? and the soldiers at Lexington?"
We were laying the foundations of a solid plan between us, but Connor's temper was short today, and before I could get a calm word in, he snapped, "Soldiers? There were no soldiers in those towns - only men and women who were forced to defend themselves."
Achilles' voice carried with it a quiet anger. "Is this not why you fight - to protect your people? Your struggle is the colonists' struggle - in helping one, you help the other."
"Encouraging words from one who thought mine a fool's errand," spat Connor.
Moving away from me, Achilles huffed out a dry, humourless laugh. "Make no mistake, I still do." From the corner of my eye, I saw Connor turn away from the paintings to glare at Achilles with a look of disgust. "But," Achilles continued, "I can't help but feel some pride in your success."
I assumed he meant well, but Connor did not take it that way. "And why should we give you any credit?"
I did not like that Connor had dragged me into this argument, and opened my mouth to protest, but Achilles got there first. "Then don't - but first, return the robes, and the blades, and the darts, and all the years of training and knowledge I have bestowed upon you. Return these, and then your words may have some merit."
Connor shot Achilles a very dark look that was not reciprocated nor noticed; Achilles turned away from us, then, and stepped heavily onto the first step of the stairs, and thus Connor's angered eyes turned to me - not directing his anger at me, but sharing it.
"Or you could just admit that you are wrong," he said to Achilles' retreating back.
The old man cast a pitying look over his shoulder, now halfway up the stairs. "Oh, child. Please. You've killed two men, one more salesman than soldier. You're going to have to try a lot harder than that to impress me."
That was always the same with Achilles - he was tough with praise and liberal with criticism; he would sooner exploit our every fault than commend any small victory. I tried to explain this, quietly, to Connor, as Achilles hauled himself up the stairs, but my friend was having none of it, and strode after the old man, two steps at a time.
"Is that so, old man?" he seethed, completely ignoring the warning looks I gave him. "Or perhaps we should step outside? I will gladly demonstrate how easily I could–"
Achilles' sharp reprimand was drowned out by an insistent knock on the front door. Eager to step away from the tension in the air, I opened the door - and was greeted by a young man with dark hair and a nervous smile.
"Good afternoon," I said, stepping back to let him enter. The open door brought the sweet smells of late summer flowers, and I murmured a prayer of thanks in my heart that the Lord would provide such beauty.
Achilles recognised our visitor instantly. "Benjamin Tallmadge," he said smoothly, and all essence of his earlier ire was wiped away like a cloth over spilled milk. "His father was one of us, no need for secrecy," he added to Connor, who remained sullen.
"Achilles tells me you've uncovered a plot to murder the commander in chief." Tallmadge had a kind voice, though it had a nasal quality that made his Boston accent bounce.
I nodded, and Connor said flatly, "Yes, but we have only false starts and dead ends to show for it."
"Not anymore, my friends." Though his words were bright, Tallmadge's tone was grim. "Thomas Hickey is your man, and I aim to help you find him."
I tilted my head. "How?"
"I'll explain on the way," he said, and his words were quick - this was a matter of urgency. "We three are going to New York."
Notes:
Hi everyone! How are you all?
Literally nothing important to say here, I just wanted to check in. Treat others how you want to be treated. Love unconditionally.
Follow the light, dear readers.
xoxo
Chapter Text
New York was a few hours' ride away, and when we arrived the day had turned to a hot, stuffy evening, with elongated shadows following us where we went. Barely above the birds' songs, Connor and I talked quietly - or, rather, I reprimanded him for his behaviour with Achilles. Time and fresh air had calmed him down, and though he was not apologetic, he was no longer seething with anger.
Once we passed by the first little cottages in the outskirts of New York, Connor addressed Tallmadge. "So, what is your stake in all this?"
Tallmadge, riding slightly ahead of us, looked over his shoulder to answer Connor. "Same as you - peace; stability; a land in which all might live side by side, free and equal."
"Why not join the Brotherhood, then?" I asked.
"My father was an Assassin," he replied, steering his horse away from a particularly stony patch in the road. "Quite good at his job, too, as I understand it. But I hope to have children some day. It's hard to live in two worlds at the same time - so I choose to live in one."
His words struck my core deeper than I liked to admit, because I knew he was right - I was foolish to ever have hoped that I could lead a normal life once this was all over. The ghosts of the Templars would follow me no matter where I went to escape them. And though I wanted a family, one day, I could not subject them to a life lived in fear and stained with blood. But did this mean that the notion of having a family of my own was a faraway one - that it was impossible?
Connor, too, was considering this, and said, "I understand."
I wanted to change the topic before I could start to think too much. "What can you tell us of Thomas Hickey?"
Tallmadge's face was grim. "He's been running a counterfeiting ring in the city. Locate the source of his operations, and we can have him arrested. He cannot harm the commander if he is in prison."
He did not know where Hickey was located, as his sources had not yet disclosed that information, so for the time being, Connor and I were stuck sitting on our hands. Days turned to weeks, and as we carried on investigations of our own, we discovered that Hickey had set up an elaborate scheme to counterfeit money from various business owners throughout the city, though we had yet to discover where his primary base of operations was set up.
We spent the winter in New York, and the spring, too - and as spring turned to summer, we began to see progress. Hickey was using a printer's shop as his cover, while he ran his counterfeiting through the business.
Tallmadge had, very kindly, set us up with accommodation in the city, though we were careful to discuss matters of our business very discreetly - primarily because I had found a drawing of an eye on one of the walls in our room and I became paranoid that we were being watched.
On a warm day in June, when Connor and I had split our duties between us, I found myself shopping in the market for something to make for dinner. The evening was soft and golden and smelled of honeysuckle. Well - some places smelled of honeysuckle. The rest of the city smelled distinctly like horse.
This did not deter me. At that moment, in the sun, with a basket hooked over one arm, I felt as though nothing could burst the bubble of quiet joy I was enveloped in. I slipped a few extra pennies to the young boy at the stall I was leaving, if only to see the joy in his face, too.
A dog whined at me from the shady shelter of a doorway, and I reached down to stroke its soft, golden head. The ears flattened back, and one paw lifted to prod my leg; I couldn't help my smile as I fed the dog a sliver of ham and received a grateful snort in response.
The city smelled like wet horse: not the most pleasant of attributes, but one I had grown accustomed to nevertheless. The people, too, I also began to like. Cities were almost like their own countries, when compared with the soft, green countryside: in place of the gentle birds in the forest, the city pigeons had no fear, no remorse; the people of New York were loud, brash, crude - nothing like the softer country folk with whom I was accustomed. I could almost feel the city's air buzzing with a barely-contained energy, crackling like snow underfoot. It both fascinated and intimidated me: it reminded me of my childhood.
It aggravated Connor. And because it aggravated him, it amused me.
I still did not know what I would make for our dinner; I had only a humble request from Connor (gravy) to inspire me. I paused by the window of a book shop, eyes narrowed at a cookery book, and debated going inside to flick through the pages.
Feeling someone stop next to me, also looking in the window, I took a small step to the side. I caught a glimpse of pale golden hair a heartbeat before I heard him speak. "Cassandra?"
I looked towards him, and my heart froze. Tobias was looking back at me, his green eyes bright and quizzical. His mouth was twisted in a half-smile that stretched and puckered the scar on his cheek.
"Tobias," I said weakly.
"Cassie. I haven't seen you for months." He touched my elbow. "I was worried I had done something wrong."
You did, I wanted to say. "Sorry. I've been busy."
While his smile was still amicable, I noticed that his eyes were cold and unfeeling. The eyes of a snake. "What brings you to New York?"
"I'm visiting a friend," I said. That wasn't exactly a lie: Thomas was in the process of moving into his new home, and Connor and I liked to pay him visits on occasion, when our work allowed it.
Tobias did not inquire further; I wondered if he already knew, if he was familiar with Thomas. "Well," he continued, "now that you're here, and I'm here, I wonder if you might like to have dinner with me."
He phrased it as a statement, not a question. "I'm sorry, but I have plans."
The smile slipped from his face, then, and was replaced by something harder, something colder. "Oh, so now you're too good for me?"
"I didn't say that."
If he heard me, he didn't acknowledge me. "Yes, you think you're so entitled because you're an Assassin - and don't pretend you don't know what I'm talking about. Don't pretend it wasn't you who ruined my face. You are an Assassin, but you are worthless - less than worthless. You are a worm. You Assassins are worms. And we all know what happens to worms." His grip on my arm tightened to the point of pain, and he leaned closer to me, until his hot breath on my ear made me squirm. "They get stepped on."
He let my arm go with a shove, and stalked past me, roughly bumping his shoulder against mine. I glared after him, but I felt like I couldn't breathe.
I bought a bottle of wine (to conclude my shopping trip) and managed to walk back to our makeshift home without further incident. For the past few months, Connor and I had been living in the attic of Tallmadge's aunt's house (though said aunt had been away for three months (and counting) visiting a cousin): the attic was one room, long and dusty, with two windows set in the roof. We had divided the room into two halves using a dressing screen.
I arrived back before Connor did, and had scarcely shut the attic door behind me before it all hit me like a brick. Tobias knew me. I ruminated on this while I stirred up a pot of gravy. If he had known my identity from the beginning, why had he pretended to be kind when we first met?
To gain my trust in order to get close and kill me, I decided. One less Assassin to worry about. And, in killing me, he would thus lure out Connor; and if both of us were to fall, there would be nothing left of the Assassins.
Or, a little voice inside said, he wanted to unite the Assassins and Templars in the only way he could think.
That was certainly a more pleasant option to consider. I sighed heavily and pressed my forehead into my arms as self-loathing began to fill me, like dirty water in a cup. I had ruined our chance for peace - perhaps our only chance.
He wanted peace, and I had blown it. And because of that, he had no choice but to revert back to his first option: to kill. The only option that Connor and I entertained.
By the time Connor returned, quiet and tired (for today he had been given the more grueling task of keeping eyes and ears on Hickey's lackeys), I was sitting on the floor with my back against the wall, pulling the cork out of the wine bottle with my teeth. When he saw me, he paused, and tilted his head slowly. "Drinking without me?"
I spat the cork across the room; it hit the opposite wall with an empty thunk. "Join me, then."
The evening sun turned the room golden, and quite warm. Connor sat next to me, unbuttoning his shirt as he did so. I passed him the bottle, and distantly I thought that I had not prepared anything for dinner: just a pot of gravy that was coming to the boil over the fireplace.
I could see him looking warily at me. "Are you going to tell me what has happened?"
He always could see through me: he was the only one who could. Maybe he was the only person I allowed. "I saw Tobias again."
Though he said nothing, I could clearly picture the look on his face - wary, and yet patient all the same. He passed the bottle back to me, and I drank. "He knows who we are."
He was quiet for a few moments before saying, "Why has this upset you?"
I released a slow breath, and, to stall a moment longer, I took another mouthful of wine. "Because I messed up," I said finally. "What if he wanted to unite us with the Templars? What if he wanted peace?"
He reached out and took the bottle - I thought at first that it was to keep it from me, but it was only to take a sip for himself while he gathered his thoughts. "Would you have done it?" he asked. "Subjected yourself to unity with him for the sake of peace?"
I thought of all of the lives that could be spared. "I would do what needs to be done."
When I looked into his face, I saw sadness in his eyes - sadness and understanding. "You know," he said softly, "you do not have to do everything for the good of others. You can do things for yourself, too."
"But that's selfish," I said. "I've messed everything up. Did I make the wrong decision?"
He took a few moments to think, and I found myself wanting to smooth the crease that formed between his eyebrows. "You did what your heart told you," he said. "With that as your compass, you will not make the wrong decision."
Trust him to be the voice of reason in the middle of my storm. I swirled the bottle of wine half-heartedly. We were down to half a bottle, and my self-pity was clearing like clouds on a sunny day, making way for something sharper, more acute. We sat in silence for a few more minutes, passing the bottle back and forth and watching the shadows creep across the dusty floorboards. This attic had been crammed with boxes and boxes of junk (we had decided that Tallmadge's aunt had a hoarding problem) that we, in our first few weeks of lodging here, had moved aside to make space for us to breathe.
By the time the bottle was finished, I was not thinking of Tobias. I was not thinking of the Assassins or the Templars. I was admiring the way the last of the sunlight outlined Connor's face with gold, like he was stitched into a tapestry.
A feeling was growing in my throat: like roses were crawling up my neck, smothering me in their perfume. I wanted to open my mouth and say something to him, but everything would be a song filled with rose petals and molten gold. I wanted to be loved so desperately that my fingers shook with it.
He spoke, then, while peering into the empty bottle. "Sassy, we are out of wine."
I ignored the rest of his statement: I focused only on one word. "Sassy?"
The look he gave me was momentarily blank, like he had not thought through his words before saying them. "Should I not have?"
I rather liked the way he said it. It sent sparks of heat through my blood. "No, I like it. My family call me that. But you're my family, too."
He was my family, I realised. He was closer to my heart than any friend, any brother. I found myself smiling at him, if only so I could see him smile back. He reached out, then, and brushed stray hair away from my face, tucked it behind my ear.
The wine made everything feel slow and golden, like we were breathing in honey. I wished I had bought a second bottle; I wanted to drown in it; to drown in him.
Connor's hand trailed along my hairline, along my jaw. I leaned into it, closing my eyes. "Sassy," he murmured again. His hand slipped lower, his thumb moving to circle the jut of my throat. I made a surprised noise, but he didn't clench, didn't threaten - or if there was a threat in this motion, it was the softest one I had ever received. A notion flickered in the back of my mind - Connor was the only person in seven years to touch me with this much tenderness.
Or maybe he was the only one I had ever allowed. Maybe the only one I ever would allow.
He used his forefinger and thumb to gently tilt my face up, and when he kissed me, it was deep and tasted of wine.
I was startled, but I leaned into him, giving myself freely to him, to his hand on my throat. The empty bottle rolled away - I registered the hollow sound getting further away - but I didn't care, I didn't care; I reached up and touched his cheek and he did not pull away. My eyes were closed, but somehow my inability to see him only brought him closer.
He pulled back ever so slightly; not far enough for us to truly part, for his mouth still moved against mine as he murmured, "Íse'. . . íse' khok." (You. . . just you.) This time, I was the one to kiss him, and with each one, thoughts of Tobias grew more and more distant.
Time seemed to fold together, slowly, softly, like kneading dough. Like we were inside our own hourglass, but our time was not running out: it was only beginning. When we eventually parted for breath, only one coherent thought formed in my mind, but it was a rather urgent one. "The gravy!"
It was only a little burnt. I had forgotten to prepare anything else for food, so we ended up sitting on the floor with the pot of gravy between us, dipping chunks of bread into it.
By the next day, we were both quite hungover. I found myself cranky and tired and full of regret - I never should have kissed him - and the sun was too bright; it hurt my eyes. My headache was like a flower, unfolding petal by petal, until it was everything. We left the house in subdued silence, and Connor squinted into the bright day.
We had a plan for today: tail Hickey's accomplices to their base of operations. Finding them proved easy enough, as Hickey's cronies were not subtle in their ways. After they fled from the market square, having been caught circulating counterfeit money, Connor and I followed from a distance, listening intently as they mindlessly discussed their business with Hickey.
Connor barely spoke a word to me for the duration of our walk through the baking hot city. I wasn't sure I wanted him to. I had ruined our friendship by kissing him. But he kissed me first. So, either everything was shattered like glass, which I feared. . . or there was something softer, something warmer, like new leaves in the spring. What did that mean? I told myself it was nothing. We had had too much to drink, that was all.
But he had called me Sassy. That surely had to mean something - because he was the only person who did not call me by a shortened name, until yesterday. And he had kissed me like he meant something. But now, today, I felt as though we were both pointedly ignoring it.
But, as with an illness, ignoring it would make it worse, in the long run. Love is not so different from a cough: it cannot be hidden.
So lost was I in my thoughts that I almost tripped over a stray cat, and I would have fallen had Connor not seized my arm and hauled me along. His grip was strong, and he did not look at me - and my attention, too, was snagged when the men we were tailing finally started talking about something interesting.
"Boss wants everyone back at the shop," the first muttered. "Says we strike tonight."
His partner - a squat, bald man with a face like a chipmunk - snorted. "He worried about that business with the guards? I'm telling you, it's nothing. Haven't had a spot of trouble since we slipped away. 'Course, we're taking care to keep our distance."
The first shook his head. "I can't believe we're really going to do this."
"We'll be heroes!" insisted the shorter one. "The ones who ended all this talk of revolution. They'll set us up like kings."
His companion scoffed with disdain. "Revolution. Bunch of trouble makers looking to upset the apple cart 'cause some fool filled their heads with rubbish. Ruining it for the rest of us good folk."
"Good folk? Really?"
"Of course," said the first. "You and me and Hickey. Just some hard-luck lads trying to survive in this cold, cruel world."
One of them glanced over his shoulder, then, and I hurriedly pulled Connor back, looked innocently at a display of knitted socks in a window; the two men opened the door to a printer's shop and slammed it shut behind them. Hickey was in there - he had to be, else they would not have discussed their business with him.
Connor's thoughts were on the same track as mine - or, I assumed they were, as he had still not spoken to me.
The heat of the day was making my headache worse (it made me want to throw up), and I knew Connor was not much better, but he strode up to the door, and his face shifted, minutely, into a mask of quiet anger. When he pushed the door open, I heard Hickey's voice inside saying, "What's this?"
I forced a window next to the door open and swung myself inside. The room was thick with cigar smoke, but I recognised Hickey at once. His blackened teeth were bared in a smile that was more akin to a grimace.
"Ain't supposed to be none of your kind left," he drawled, his eyes sliding slowly from Connor to me. "Suppose I'd best be rectifying that, then."
He was faster than he looked; in one movement, he stood and flipped the table before him, and coins went scattering across the room. Two men sitting at the table fell from their chairs, but Hickey was already halfway out the back door.
"Get him," he spat, and eyes me with a slow, lecherous smile. "And keep the girl for me."
Connor darted after him, quick and agile as a deer, and left me to deal with the two winded men on the floor. The first was dealt with easily: I kicked his head and he was knocked unconscious. The second was more of a problem, because he hauled himself to his feet and made to grab me.
I ducked under his reaching arm and seized it with both hands. He hissed and tried to yank me towards him, but I slammed his arm into the hard edge of the overturned table, and felt the arm bend.
He howled and staggered back, and I bolted out the door after Connor. Though I could not see him, for this door opened onto the street, I followed the sound of disrupted traffic to find him forcing Hickey against a wall, driving the Templar hard enough to make him wheeze.
"Be still," snapped Connor, who had not yet seen me. "You will do no more harm."
Hickey sneered, even when Connor's grip tightened. "You're a right fool, meddling in affairs you know nuffin' about."
The pounding in my head was so strong, so blinding, that I leaned against a wall, trying to take deep breaths for fear of passing out. I could see a sheen of sweat on Connor's forehead. When this was over, I fancied we would both collapse where we stood.
"Washington is the only thing keeping the Continental Army together," Connor was saying. "You kill him, and you end all hope for freedom."
Hickey, who was decidedly not hungover, gave a sardonic laugh. It was taking all of Connor's breath just to speak, and Hickey could see that. "Wrong, boyo. With him gone, they'd have no choice but to promote Lee, and then–"
Connor suddenly hissed in pain, as a soldier I hadn't seen approaching dragged him away from Hickey and snapped at them, "You're both under arrest."
Horror filled me, from the depths of my heart up my throat like climbing vines. I was supposed to protect Connor. I had neglected to look out for him because of my stupid choices and my stupid hangover and now–
"Ah, we was just having a scrap, officer," Hickey bleated as a second soldier seized him, and a third pushed the muzzle of a rifle in his face. "Ain't nuffin' wrong with two men settling their differences the old-fashioned way. Can't we come to–"
"Quiet," snapped Connor, then addressed the soldier. "What are the charges?"
The soldier gave him a look of particular disgust that I knew was related to the colour of Connor's skin. "Counterfeiting."
"I had nothing to do with that," insisted my friend.
The soldier arched an eyebrow. "Of course not."
I had never heard Connor sound as desperate as he did then. "Listen, there are more important things at stake here. This man is planning to–"
The third soldier slammed the butt of the rifle into the back of Connor's head, and when my friend fell, he did not get back up.
They were taking my friend away. I had to do something.
But I would be of no use to him if I were taken away, too. For his own sake, I had to stay out.
I could only watch, helpless and frightened, as the three soldiers dragged Connor and Hickey into the back of a wooden wagon. Two of the soldiers got into the back with them, and the last took up the driver's seat. As they drove past me, I saw the sign painted on dry wood and nailed to the wagon. Bridewell Prison.
I knew where I had to go.
Chapter Text
Bridewell Prison was built in 1768 after New York's existing prison, New Gaol, grew so large that another prison was needed. After the war broke out, the British occupying New York took over Bridewell and used it to contain American prisoners of war. What was first a forced labour institution soon became a holding prison.
In spite of the building's youth, it looked bleak and hopeless from where I stood outside the iron gates. The prison yard was dry and dusty, baked by the June sun, and the sand whispered across the ground, whirling away the faint traces of footsteps stamped into the dust.
It had been almost three full days since the guards had dragged Connor through these gates, and still I was helpless. I pressed my cold hands into my skirt, tangled my fingers in the grubby apron around my waist. I did not think I had ever been so frightened; I did not know what would happen to him in there - at best a sound beating, at worst I could not fathom - but I had to be strong for him. I had to be brave.
These days, he was all I thought about. I prayed that he would be all right. I wondered if he was thinking of me as much or as desperately as I was him. Tallmadge had seen my worry and had made weak attempts to ease my mind, and though his efforts were futile, I appreciated them nonetheless.
The previous day, I had intercepted one of the prison guards on his way to burn the belongings of the new prisoners, and I had spent almost every penny I had in order to get Connor's possessions back. I stored them in our attic space, but I could not look at them, because every glance was a reminder.
It was my fault that Connor was in Bridewell. It was my fault that something in our friendship had cracked the moment we kissed. But I was selfish - I was so, so selfish, because all I wanted was to hold his hand and kiss him again.
The stone wall that surrounded the penitentiary was high - too high and flat for me to climb without some sort of leverage. My only way in was through the gate.
Tallmadge and I had been meeting urgently over the past few days, putting our heads together to think of an escape plan for Connor. All was hopeless and in vain. Tallmadge pleaded on Connor's behalf to the prison warden, insisted on my friend's innocence, but his words fell on deaf ears.
Prisoners in Bridewell usually faced a sentence of more than three years, and with an alleged counterfeiting offense, Connor could face up to ten years. Ten years locked behind iron bars, far from the sun, far from the trees, far from his people. His bright spark would flicker out until there was nothing left of my friend whom I loved.
A few people had clustered at the front gate today, so I joined the edge of the crowd. At midday, the gate would be opened, and visitors could enter for an hour - and it looked like only a precious few prisoners would be getting visitors today. I heard an old woman say she was visiting her son, who was in for twenty years, and the pain in her voice made me close my eyes, tune their voices out.
As the church clock behind me struck twelve, two guards crossed the empty courtyard, their footprints already fading in the sand, and opened the gate. One at a time, we were allowed to enter.
Somewhere above me, I heard the harsh screech of a crow, and when I looked up, I saw the dark spread of wings. I wondered how many men had died in this prison, how many had not seen the sun since the day they were locked in.
There was another guard at the door, taking notes of the prisoners to receive visitors, and searching every person they stopped for weapons or food or items of clothing.
The guard who stopped me was young - I would place him in his mid-thirties, with crooked teeth and a wispy moustache - and his voice sounded as bored as though he had been made recite a children's rhyme for the twentieth time. "Name?"
"Cassandra Glade," I said.
He hardly looked up at me. "Who're you seeing?"
"Connor." I took a chance, but he gave me a confused look, one that told me I needed to be more specific. Though it started an ache in my heart, I said the words I did not want to say. "The Indian."
His face cleared, and he began to nod. "Down the hall, on the left. Second to last cell." Now, he eyed me with a little more interest. "I didn't expect the savage to get such a pretty visitor," he said, with the sort of tone that implied that he thought Connor had paid money for my company.
I did not expect a prison guard to be so boring, and yet here he was. I passed him by without another word, without a backwards glance - even when he turned his head to watch me leave, I did not look back.
The prison was split into three levels, though the floors themselves stretched only along the perimeter of the building and were connected by bridges and stairways. The centre was a wide, open space, where one could look down into the common area and see the prisoners convene.
Connor was not in the common area. I walked past rows of dark, damp cells, and the men inside gave me increasingly hostile looks. One stuck an arm through the bars and made to swipe at me, to touch my hair, but I ducked away from him.
At the end of the hall, a guard stood peering into the second to last cell, rattling the bars with his blunt baton like there was an animal inside that interested him, a monkey or a tiger or a hippopotamus.
I had always known that Connor was, and would continue to be, treated differently because of the way he looked - but I had never seen such a harsh display of that racial discrimination until now, and a surge of hate lit my blood on fire.
When the guard saw me, he straightened up somewhat sheepishly, and tucked the baton into his belt. "There's an Indian in there," he said. He was young, and had never seen one before.
I was in no mood for negotiating with him, and stalked past him to the barred door, ignoring the stench of body odour that came from the guard's direction.
The bars were icy when I lay my hand on them. "Connor," I said.
His cell was small and dim, furnished only with a grubby mattress and a dented bucket in the corner. One dingy window stood solitary in the back wall, and below this, sitting silent and pensive on the stone floor, was Connor. When he saw me, he was on his feet and at the door in a single movement, reaching out to touch my hand.
He murmured my name, or a variation of it, but I hardly heard him. The knuckles of both his hands were horribly split, and there was a cut on his eyebrow that would not stop bleeding; the trail of blood snaking down his cheek and neck was drying, and I reached out to, very gently, touch his cheek.
He flinched away. Before I could ask what had happened, he said, "It seems our friend Thomas has some friends of his own in here. They paid me a welcoming visit."
It took a moment for me to realise he was referring to Hickey, and not to our friend Thomas Carter. By the look of him, he had put up a good fight - but he had not won.
I touched his cheek again, and this time, he did not flinch. He reached up, traced his fingers along my wrist. His hand was shaking a little - not from fear, but exertion, tension, pain. I wanted to cry.
His eyes flicked furtively over to the guard, who was walking up the hall, his back to us in a weak offer of privacy. Once the man was far enough, Connor said quietly, urgently, "They are here. Lee and Kenway. They plan to pardon Hickey and have him released."
If Hickey was to be released, the Templars would ensure that Connor never saw daylight again - or, if he were to see it, it would be at his own execution. My hand tightened on the bar. This was not fair. It was my fault that he was locked in here.
I started to shake my head. "You don't deserve this. You don't deserve to be here."
In spite of the blood on his face, his eyes were sharp. "Do not tell me what I do and do not deserve."
His tone was so strong, so determined, that it did little to ease my mind: his insistence upon resilience only made me sad. The mask of strength he wore did not waver.
"How will we get you out of here?" I whispered to him instead, and he told me that he had become acquainted with a fellow prisoner, Parson Mason Locke Weems, who had spent three months carving a skeleton key from a piece of metal in order to escape.
Weems had given him the key - he showed me, discreetly, that he had stashed it in the pocket of the torn breeches he had been made wear (the guards had taken his clothes and given him a simple shirt and breeches, and he was barefoot) - and he told me that his next task was one he was not looking forward to.
"You have to start a fight?" I echoed. "Why?"
"To get myself placed in the pit." His sharp face was taut with disdain: he disliked this plan as much as I did, if not more. "It is the high-security area of the prison, overseen by the warden himself. If I can switch my key for his one, I can let myself out and find Hickey tonight."
It would be too risky for him to go prowling about the prison alone like that. "I'll find him for you," I said. "We can meet up and I'll show you the way."
He nodded slowly, but every so often his eyes flicked up again, looked past me - the guard was coming back. "That could work."
I could see the guard from the corner of my eye, so I leaned closer to the bars. Our faces were so close that I could feel his light breaths on my cheeks. To the guard, it would look like we were sharing a soft, final kiss.
"Tonight," I breathed.
He nodded slowly, his eyes already shutting down: what little emotion he had shown me was shoved into a knapsack and locked away. "Tonight," he echoed, equally as quiet.
We could say no more to one another, because once the guard returned, he told me to leave and snapped at Connor to get back in his cage. I looked over my shoulder just before I left, and caught Connor's eye, no more than a gleam in the darkness of his cell.
Tonight.
*
When the night was fully dark and the streets were still, I crept onto the roof of one of the buildings neighbouring Bridewell Prison, and leaped from the roof onto the high wall surrounding the prison. The patrolling guards did not see me climb down and slip into a shadowy doorway.
The door led into a dark passageway, with moisture dripping down its stone walls. I stepped carefully over patches of slippery moss, keeping one hand on the wall to guide my way without light.
Freedom was so close. He would escape this prison, and I would. . . I would. . .
I shook my head. It was ridiculous, letting my thoughts get the better of me like this. His life was in danger, and here I was, remembering how it felt to have his mouth on mine. I should not think of him like this, and yet I wanted to. I wanted and I wanted and I wanted.
He was gentle, and he was kind, and he was strong and capable, and he made me feel strong and capable. His heart was so full of love, but he had nowhere to put it. Put it on me, I wanted to beg. Love me.
I wondered if he still would have kissed me had we been sober that night. I wanted, desperately, almost maddeningly, to touch his skin, to feel his hand on my neck like I had that night.
But more than that, I wanted to make him smile. I wanted to bring him flowers from the meadow. I wanted to take his hands and dance with him. To see his dark eyes shine with joy, and to hold him - oh, how I longed to hold him, and to be held by him. He was my partner in crime, my fellow Half-Templar Bastard, and the most infuriating person I had ever met - but above all of that, he was my best friend.
I wiped a tear from my cheek. Getting emotional was stupid.
The narrow passageway ended abruptly at a heavy wooden door. A timid push told me the door was locked; I knelt on the floor, ignoring the damp that soaked through the knees of my breeches, and carefully took my picks from within my shirt.
Picking the lock took time, for it was tedious work - keeping it silent, particularly, was the hardest part. When I pushed the door open, slowly, the hinges let out a loud, grating screech, and I froze, heart hammering in my ears, and waited.
No footsteps came. No alarm sounded. I crept into the next room: a dark cellar, lined with shelves of musty clothes - those belonging to the prisoners, ready to be taken away and burned.
I passed through here, making my way by touch rather than by sight, and the only sounds were my heartbeat in my ears and the slow, steady drip of water from a cracked wall.
Another door faced me at the end of this room, damp and chipped with age and termites. This one did not have a lock, and swung open when I pushed it with my fingertips.
Facing me now were rows of cells, lit by sparsely-placed torches on the walls between the bars. Silence echoed off the cold stone, silence so loud it was all-consuming. I was acutely aware of every breath I drew, every step I took.
I clung to the shadows as I passed the cells. Some were empty, but most contained at least one man, many of whom were sleeping, sprawled on their flea-infested mattresses.
Somewhere far away, a man was screaming. The sound chilled me deeper than my bones - the noise came from somewhere far, somewhere deep, where the stone swallowed up all sound until there was only icy air to fill his lungs.
None of the men in these cells were Hickey. I passed on. A night guard rounded a corner ahead of me, walking away from me, and I followed him until he paused to overlook the common area I had noted earlier: nothing stirred the stillness of the prison this night. I ducked into an empty cell as he turned and retraced his steps, holding my breath both to remain quiet and to block out the stink of the cell.
When I stepped out again, I found I could walk no further without crossing the bridge over the empty space. I ducked low and went very slowly. My legs began to ache from the angle at which I walked, but I gritted my teeth, commanding my legs to move, and crossed the bridge, though it was a relief to straighten again - only in the cover of the shadows.
Connor's cell was on this side, but it was empty now. He was in the pit, or - I hoped, I prayed - out of it by now.
There was a door at the end of this corridor, left unlocked by the last patrolling guard, who would return any moment. I slipped inside, and the only sound was the faint scuff of the door against the uneven floor.
The cells were bigger in this sector than in the rest of the prison: spacious cells meant that the prisoners here were of higher priority, of more importance. If the Templars had moved Hickey, he would be here.
There were not as many cells here, either - and there were far less guards patrolling these halls. It was easier, therefore, for me to creep past the rows and rows of empty cells - until I reached one that was not empty.
Inside lay a man, curled on his side on his mattress. His back faced me, but it had to be Hickey - it had to be. Still, I waited, and watched him intently, waiting for any movement that might cause me to see him better.
The shadows flickered as a cloud crossed over the moon, and I held my breath. An age crawled by, an age in which I waited, and waited, and waited. In the absence of my own breaths, I heard him breathing instead: quiet, steady breaths, even and unhindered.
The man in the cell shifted, and I saw the profile of his face, and I knew it was Hickey - I saw his snubbed nose, saw the dirty scruff along his jaw, saw the blackened teeth inside his half-open mouth.
There were no bars on Hickey's window: this, I thought, was how Connor and I would escape.
I crept back down the halls, past the cells of prisoners awaiting death, awaiting a resurrection that would never come, and found Connor outside the pit.
He looked worse than when I had left him - a dark bruise was spreading under his right eye, and his lower lip was split, the blood from which was smeared across his chin, like he had, in aggravation, tried to wipe it off.
In spite of it all, he smiled when he saw me. He smiled and it was for me. I licked my thumb and wiped the blood from his chin, thinking of how it felt to kiss him, how gentle his mouth had been.
If he was thinking the same thing, he made no indication. He reached out again, brushed his thumb over my wrist. There was a gentleness in him that I had seen only rarely, only for me. "Tell me where he is."
I told him, in hushed tones, where Hickey's cell was. I could easily have killed Hickey myself - and, admittedly, I probably should have - but had I done so, that would still have left the question of Connor, and how he would get out. If we were to climb out Hickey's window, both of us needed to be there.
As I led him through the winding halls to Hickey's cell, I was highly aware of his proximity to me, silent as he was, and I was once more filled with the desire to reach back, to touch his hand.
I was a fool. Tenderness could not be found in a place like this, a place where men came to die.
Once I brought Connor to the cell, I realised that something was wrong. I could not hear Hickey's breaths. That quiet sound was gone, and was replaced by an emptiness so wide that I could hear my own heart beating, straining against the confines of my chest like it was about to tear my ribs apart.
I hissed something to Connor, but he did not hear me, and had already stepped into the cell, his face cold with quiet anger.
He reached out to Hickey, but something was wrong. In the dim light, I could see Connor's face grow severe with his frown, and he rolled Hickey to the floor to see what would happen.
It was not Hickey.
It was the warden. And he was dead.
This was a trap. I opened my mouth to warn Connor–
A cold, sweaty hand clapped over my mouth from behind, pulling me close to a stinking person.
"Not what you was expecting, am I right?" purred the real Thomas Hickey in my ear.
Another dark figure stepped around him, and Connor watched with wide eyes as he was faced with his greatest enemy, the object of his hate, his rage.
Charles Lee looked down his hooked nose on us and crooned, "What have we here? I thought we'd finished off your kind."
Hickey leaned his head closer to me; I heard him smell my hair. If it were any other person holding me like this, I would have bitten his finger - but I could not bite Hickey, as I feared I would catch a disease from him. So I remained still, and silent, trying to think of the best way I could fight myself out of this.
Connor's voice was sharp as he said to Lee, "You would like that, wouldn't you? To rid the world of all who do not share your views?"
When Lee laughed, it was without emotion or joy - rather, it was a sound of scorn, of venom. "Guilty as charged. Your meddling in the revolution has caused us no small measure of grief. It cannot continue. Our work is too important. But, what would you know beyond all the lies Achilles feeds you, and the tales you tell yourself?"
Though he didn't look at me, I knew Connor's focus was on me. "I know that the people wish to be free, and that men like Washington fight to make it so."
"Please," scoffed Lee. "The man is weak. He stumbles and stammers through each engagement, making it all up as he goes along. His pedigree is pathetic; his military record even more so. I could go on and on but we would be here for days, so manifold are his faults, so deficient are his merits. He must be dealt with. You as well." His cold eyes turned on me as he said this, and he said to the room, "I will abide no more flies in the ointment."
"Here's how it's gonna work," said Hickey, and his grip on me did not loosen. My arms were pinned to my sides, preventing me from driving an elbow into his ribs.
"First," he continued, "we bind ya and bring ya to your cell. Then, tomorrow, you go before the court, accused of plotting to kill good 'ol Georgie. Maybe we could pin the murder of the warden on you, too. And who wouldn't take the word of Charlie over here?" His voice turned dark. "And once that's all squared away, well, then. . ." He took his hand from my mouth to mime a rope around his neck.
With Hickey momentarily distracted, I hooked my foot around his leg and pulled. It impaired his balance only slightly, but in his surprise, his grip on me loosened, and I wiggled one arm free to elbow him square in the chest as hard as I could.
He wheezed, all breath driven from his lungs, and then I was falling forward, pain was blooming across my head. My cheek was crushed into the floor as a weight - Hickey - settled on my back, pinning my arms so I could not move.
At the moment when Hickey brought me down, Connor lunged for him, but Lee pushed my friend up against the wall. There was a fire burning in Connor's eyes such that I had never seen before: a rage that blazed on and on and on.
Lee must have seen the same flames in his eyes, because he tilted his head slowly, contemplatively. "All those years ago," he said, "that child in the forest was you."
"I said I would find you," Connor spat, but Lee only laughed, saying, "And so you have! But not quite as you had expected, am I right?"
Connor surged forward again, vicious as an animal, but Lee forced him back with an arm against his throat. "You know," said Lee, "all of this might have been avoided had you only done what I asked. But. . . what's done is done."
The weight disappeared from my shoulders, and Hickey seized my arms and pulled me roughly upright. Connor struggled again to reach me, but Lee pressed him harder into the wall, his arm against Connor's throat forcing all breath from him.
As I was dragged from the cell, I could not see nor hear what Lee did to Connor; I knew only that there came a sudden silence, an emptiness, a void. I wanted to scream. I wanted to tear Hickey's bones apart and run back to Connor. But I was being held too tightly: one hand gripped my hair and pulled hard, jerking my head back at an angle that nearly blinded me. I felt Hickey lean closer again, felt his breath on my neck as he said, "Come on, sweetheart. Let's go pay Haytham a visit."
Chapter Text
Lee smelled worse than Hickey, which was something I found very surprising. While the latter stank of old beer and body odour, the stench that clung to Lee was a more potent stink of dog piss, both new and old.
We escaped Bridewell through the door I had entered earlier that night. I wondered at their leaving the warden's body in Hickey's cell - surely he would be found in the morning and a prison-wide lockdown would commence?
Unless, of course, Hickey and Lee had already found a replacement: someone who was sympathetic to their cause, someone who knew of the warden's death and did not care.
Connor stood no chance, if that was the case.
Panic would get me nowhere, not as a side gate was opened - and Lee slipped the guard a coin for his silence - and I was bundled into the street. Hickey's grip on my arms was tight, preventing me from even thinking of struggling. I was completely at the mercy of the Templars.
I didn't even know what Lee had done to Connor. When he had rejoined us, he was quiet and cold as ever - but there had been no blood on him. I held onto that fact: that, whatever had happened, Connor was still breathing. They wanted him alive so he could be hanged; he was alive now.
Anxiety was a curse with which I was familiar, and it burrowed into my skin like a tick, sucking the marrow from my bones. It was a smoke that filled my lungs and I could not cough it out; a black mass that surrounded me so I could not see.
It was Lee who led us through the dark, silent street - not one soul peeped from their window; no noise stirred the night save for the occasional hiss from a cat. As Bridewell disappeared into the night behind us, so, too, did my hope.
Hickey whispered furiously with Lee, and his voice was too low and gruff for me to understand him, though I thought I heard the words France and one of their recruits, and I managed to piece together what they were saying. Hickey feared that we would enlist the help of the French, given the heritage of a certain recruit, Chapheau.
After the siege of Boston ended in March - due to Washington's seizure of Dorchester Heights outside the city, the claiming of British artillery by Henry Knox, and the subsequent retreat of the British under the command of General William Howe - after all of this, France began to express interest in the war.
Hickey's apprehension continued until we reached an inconspicuous door hidden beneath vines of sweet honeysuckle. He opened it and pushed me through with a grunt. The hallway that stretched before me was long and dark, and I hesitated. What awaited me at the end of this corridor? Certainly there were only two manners in which I may leave this place: dead, or barely alive.
My moment's hesitation caused Hickey to shove me again, and I stumbled forward, gritting my teeth to prevent myself from rounding on him and clawing his eyes out. I was doing this for Connor, and no one else.
When Lee closed the door behind us, Hickey made me walk forward. The air in this corridor was close and warm, and I felt like I couldn't breathe deeply enough.
A sharp prod to my shoulder blades and a gruff, "In here," was Hickey's indication for me to turn, so I pushed open the door on my left.
The room that unfolded before me was small and dark. Heavy curtains drawn over the single window inhibited the entrance of moonlight, which darkened the room so that the only source of light came from one solitary candle on the desk at the far end of the room.
My heart began to hammer in my chest when a dark figure behind the desk moved, but thoughts of Connor kept me rooted in place. My Ratonhnhaké:ton, locked in the dark. If this would help me get him out of there, I would do it thrice over.
My conviction wavered when Grandmaster Haytham Kenway moved into the light.
Save for the portrait in our basement, I had rarely seen Kenway in person, and now that he stood before me, I saw that, while the painting had captured his physical features, it had failed to render the coldness of his disposition - like the only warm thing in him had been cauterised out. He was crafted from glaciers and his blood was mercury.
The flicker of his pale eyes to Lee and Hickey behind me was the only indication that this meeting was unprecedented and unplanned.
"We found her trying to help that Assassin out of prison," Hickey explained, jabbing a dirty finger my way. "We showed him what's good for him."
"Thank you." Kenway's voice was icy. I saw, at that moment, something of Connor in his face - something harsh, something brutal, that was rare in Connor and familiar to his father. Kenway had the same clever eyes, the same hard set to his jaw; but Connor had a warmth, a spark, that had died long ago in Kenway.
He carried himself like every last drop of kindness had been drained from him, but I truly hoped to be wrong - both for Connor's sake and my own. If we were to make it out of this alive, I would need to prey on any shred of mercy I could find. But Kenway was a man carved from ice, and I knew before I spoke that I would never be able to crack that exterior.
"I would like an audience with you," I said, firm in spite of the fear that gripped me.
He considered me for what felt like an aeon, his face a mask of cold impassivity. I felt, for one horrifying moment that he was, with his eyes, peeling my skin away, prying my ribs apart, to peer into my chest - not to destroy, but simply to see what was there.
Though Kenway was the leader of our enemies, the face behind the schemes, the blade behind the blood, and possibly the most terrifying man I had ever met, a private audience with him was still preferable to me than one with Hickey, whom I could sense leering next to me.
When the Grandmaster said, "Very well," his tone was dismissive and slightly bored; I wondered if it was fake, if he was feigning disinterest. I did not look behind me, but a beat passed, a beat in which Lee and Hickey hesitated, sharing a look between them, before taking their leave.
With the full attention of Haytham Kenway now on me, I felt smaller than a mouse. Though he did not wear his uniform, his authority was still evident in his stance, in the way he held himself.
"It seems we meet under unfortunate circumstances, Cassandra Glade," he said, with the sort of condescending tone one might use on a child.
It was a careful attack - to target my youth, to try to twist it against me. I imagined he was the nine-headed Lernaean Hydra, and I was a small boat, slamming every window and hatch shut against its poison.
I took him in: dressed in simple clothes, deadly in spite of his lack of visible weapons (but if he was anything like Connor, which I suspected he was, the majority of his weapon arsenal was kept out of sight on his person). His silver Templar ring was a dark stain on his finger, one that I avoided looking at.
"Indeed," I said. "I regret that we could not meet under better conditions. We might even have had tea."
I knew full well that I would rather cut off my big toe than sit down to tea with Kenway, and he would likely agree. In fact, he would probably watch.
His eyes narrowed a little, like Connor's did when he was amused and did not want to show it. But Kenway was, in all likelihood, planning how best to murder me without getting blood on his shirt.
Instead of replying wit for wit, he sat on the chair at his desk. He did not extend an invitation for me to sit, leaving me standing, vulnerable, in the middle of the room. This was a power move, a way of showing me that he was in total control. He was the king to my pawn; I was staring into the face of a tiger.
"Tell me, Cassandra–" he used my name again, and I got the distinct impression that he knew far more about me than I did him– "why did you request an audience with me?"
I thought of Connor in that prison. I did not know what Lee had done to him, but it was enough. "I want you to stop this execution."
He regarded me with a look of piteous contempt, and a single, harsh laugh escaped him. It was a chilling sound, like a vulture closing in on its prey. "And why would I do that?" he said.
He looked at me like I was stupid. "Because he's your son."
He didn't even blink at my admission; this was something he already knew, I realised. In the dim light, the shadows on his pale face deepened, lengthening until his countenance was ghoul-like. "Appealing to my sense of morality will not work," he said slowly.
I knew that. It was not his morality that I was appealing to. "He's Ziio's son," I said quietly. "Doesn't that matter to you?"
Kenway's eyes flashed. "Do not speak of things you know nothing about."
There was a new edge to his voice. A kink in his armour. "He could be the only chance for peace."
In the half-light, Kenway gave me a dark look. "There is no peace. There is only surrender."
My window of opportunity was steadily closing; I felt trapped in this dark room with him. "So you would let him hang," I snapped. "Your own son."
"I do not care who he is," said Kenway, his tone cool. "I care what he is." He flexed his fingers, and that silver ring glinted in the light, and each time I saw that cross, I thought of my Lord crucified; I thought of my Connor swinging from the gallows.
My hope was steadily disintegrating, leaving behind a hard determination, as water evaporates from salt. If Kenway would not help me (indeed, he had no reason to), then I would do it myself.
He was watching me with those sharp, clever eyes. "So now you see where we are at," he drawled. "That begs the following question: what am I to do with you?"
He was expecting me to blanch at the implication of my death; I did not. "Killing us will make us martyrs," I said. "Do you want that?"
Kenway's gaze was level and stony. "Frankly, I don't care." Without taking his eyes from me, he called for Lee, who appeared at the door within a second. Against my will, my pounding heart roared in my ears, so that I almost didn't hear Kenway say, "Let her go. But teach her a lesson."
Lee took me roughly by the arm and wheeled me from the room. I looked over my shoulder as the door was closing behind us, and the last thing I saw of Kenway were his pale eyes, like ice, before the door was shut and we were in the dark corridor again.
There was no light, but Lee knew the way. This did not comfort me, however; my inability to see only made me more frightened.
"You know," Lee hissed to me, leaning close enough for me to gag on the stench of his clothes, "I should just let Hickey have his way with you, for all the trouble you and that Indian cause us. But I shan't." He sounded smug, and I longed to punch his teeth in, until his moustache was coated with blood. "His verdict will be the same whether he is tried or not. Either way, he will hang."
His words sickened me. In my mind's eye, I watched the trial play out: Connor pleading his innocence, and the jury declaring him guilty. I watched as he was taken away to the gallows.
I could not let that happen - not when we had so much more to talk about.
As Lee pushed open the door under the honeysuckle, I felt, more than heard, Hickey step closer. The silhouettes of the Templars were long and horrifying in the darkness outside.
I let them land the first hit - a sharp punch to my ribs - but after that, I fought like an animal, using even my teeth and nails. I felt the soft flesh of a forearm under my hand and dug my nails deep, and heard Hickey cry out.
His grip loosened, and I used that moment to drive my elbow into Lee's face, feeling his nose crunch. I shook free of them and ran.
*
I gathered myself in the safety of our makeshift home in Tallmadge's aunt's attic. Every small sound, every creak in the wood, had me tensing up. I did not sleep that night, and thought carefully through my plans while watching the sun rise over Manhattan and nursing my bruised ribs.
I did not know when, exactly, Connor's trial would be, but I knew that the Templars would rather have it as soon as possible. But when would be the logical time? Kenway did not strike me as one to operate on emotion; he used cold logic and strategy, and if I were to think one step ahead of him, I would first need to put myself into his boots.
So, if I were to plot the death of my adversary, I would want it at the earliest convenience. The sooner the better, really. With that in mind, I began to think objectively of Connor. When could I arrange a trial for a man arrested less than a week ago?
Arranging a trial took months. After the Boston Massacre, which took place in March 1770, the accused soldiers were not tried until November of that same year. The Templars, I gathered, would not wish to wait that long.
I sifted through my earlier conversations with the Templars, tried to remember something, anything, that might be a clue.
And then it hit me. Something Lee had said stood out like an oak tree in a desert.
His verdict will be the same whether he is tried or not.
If the Templars could get out of the arduous process of a trial, if given the chance, they surely would. Why bother arranging the trial of a man who would be found guilty either way?
There would be no trial. Horror - pure, unfiltered horror - filled me; my soul was being attacked by something with claws and wings.
There would be no chance for justice, only death. It was late June already, and I knew the Continental Congress were planning to hold a vote at the beginning of July in regard to America's independence. Knowing the role that Connor played among the Continental Congress and Army, getting rid of him would be an excellent way to obstruct their plans and hinder Washington's progress.
Of course, I would not want his execution to happen on the day of the vote; news might not reach the Congress in time, and affairs would continue as normal. To choose the day before was to cut it a little close.
Which left only four days. I looked out the window, watched the dawn rising over the city. People were beginning to wake up; women were drawing back curtains and opening windows. A man far below was whistling a merry shanty while he collected eggs from the chicken coop at his back door.
I watched the city come to life, and all the while I thought, Connor will die in four days.
Chapter Text
I knew better than to try to visit Connor in Bridewell. With so little time between now and his execution date, the Templars would surely prohibit any visitation, and knowing their influence over the prison, I thought it best to steer clear.
Thus, I spent my few days exchanging desperate letters with Achilles, who arrived at our attic in Manhattan the night before the dreaded day. Every recruit who could be spared had been called to us: Dobby Carter, Clipper Wilkinson, Jacob Zenger.
That night was spent planning. We knew we were powerless to stop the execution from going ahead - but we could prevent Connor's death. Our plan was simple: cut the rope as the platform released. Connor would fall, yes - but only to the ground below.
Throughout our meeting, Dobby kept shooting me particular looks, and I got the impression that she saw right through my veiled desperation; she saw how I felt for Connor underneath it all. I wished desperately that she would not look at me, for behind her eyes, I saw pity.
When the meeting was dismissed and the others went to bed, Dobby, seeing that I was in no state to sleep, stayed up with me. I couldn't stay still, couldn't stop the anxiety gnawing away at my bones, bit by bit by bit until I was crumbling.
Dobby and I washed the tea cups in silence (for fear of disturbing the others, who were just behind the partition screen Connor and I had set up so long ago) and when we were drying the cups, we began to talk.
I had never gotten the chance to get to know Dobby on a level deeper than a professional one. Tonight, however, I discovered that her nickname had come from her childhood on the streets, when she took a disguise as a boy. Her real name, Deborah, became obsolete.
I was grateful for the distraction our conversation brought, because the night grew as dark as my thoughts. I envisioned anxiety as a small, grey-furred demon that sat on my back, twisting its neck to sink its needle teeth into my jugular - and our idle chatter shooed it away.
As we put the cups away, I grew quiet. Whispers had been circulating Manhattan for the past few days as rumours of the execution of a traitor on the 28th - tomorrow - began to arise.
Dobby nudged my side and brought me back to the present. "It'll work, you know," she said. Her accent softened her vowels and clipped her consonants; Irish people were naturally fast speakers, and Dobby was no exception.
Weakness was not something I could afford to display - not to our recruits, not to anyone. I raised my chin and said, "I know."
As the sun began to cast its first pale rays over the rooftops, I tried to sleep but found I could not. All I could think of was him.
Why were we chosen for this life? Why did the Lord see fit to give us this burden to carry? We wanted to be loved, but were forced to become warriors. To calm my racing heart, I shut my eyes and took slow breaths. We glory in tribulations also: knowing that tribulation worketh patience; and hope maketh not ashamed; because the love of God is shed abroad in our hearts by the Holy Ghost which is given unto us.
I was calmer when the morning came. Every anxiety was quieted, leaving behind something cold and hard; glittering black obsidian.
As I strapped my knives to my body beneath my shirt and breeches, I envisioned the sneering face of Charles Lee, the malicious snarl of Thomas Hickey, and thought of the satisfaction the sight of their blood on my blade would bring me. My gauntlets were heavy on my wrists: both a reminder and a promise.
Everyone in the town knew where the gallows were set up. I followed the sound of voices, the rambunctious rabble of the people waiting in anticipation for this week's entertainment. It was a grey, drizzly day in June, and I wore a cloak with its hood pulled over my hair. Dobby, Clipper, and Jacob spread themselves into the crowd that was gathering before the gallows, placing themselves evenly between the platform and the escape routes.
At the very front, waiting to step onto the platform, was Charles Lee. He was examining the ring on his finger in a very bored fashion. I wondered how he would like it if I were to cut that finger off.
"I will admit," I heard a man say around the thick cigar in his mouth, "I enjoy a good hanging. I think it spoils it when they tie the feet together. I like to see them kick." Smoke puffed out of his mouth, and he twisted the end of his grey moustache. "And at the very end," he added, "the tongue sticking out - bright blue. That's the bit that always gets me."
I was disgusted by that man and fought the urge to retch into my glove. Instead, I fixed my eyes on the wooden frame of the gallows, atop which a crow had alighted and begun its harsh death knell. How long until that noose was around Connor's neck?
Around the square, people who could not find a place to stand had remained in their homes, sticking their heads out of their windows.
This was humanity. This was pure and utter depravity, that such a crowd of people would gather to watch a man die - and enjoy it.
Next to me, Achilles tilted his head under the wide brim of his hat. "They're here," he said softly.
My chest seized. Beneath the excited chatter of the square came the sound of wheels rolling over the cobbles, the sound of horses trotting to a halt. I slipped out of the crowd, stepped around puddles, until I reached the metal gate that opened the square to the street.
It was there that I saw the prison wagon, damp from the rain. One of the prison officers opened the door and reached into the darkness, yanked Connor out by his bound hands.
My darling friend. My Connor. The bruise under his eye had deepened into a dark purple, and his wrists were red beneath the coarse ropes. His split lip had reopened, but he was never one to let pain stop him - not as Hickey stepped off the front of the wagon to greet him.
"'Ello, Connor," said Hickey, and his tone was full of mockery. "Didn't think I'd miss your going-away party, did ya?" He leaned closer to Connor to speak in a conspiratorially low voice. "I hear Washington himself will be in attendance. Hope nuffin' bad happens to him."
My friend stiffened. "You said there would be a trial."
Hickey actually laughed - it was a sound that made me sick. "Ah, no trials for traitors, I'm afraid. Lee and Haytham saw to that. It's straight to the gallows for you."
Though I had expected nothing less from Kenway, hearing Hickey confirm it made me back away with disgust. Connor's dark eyes flicked up for half a moment - and fixed on me.
Just as quickly, he looked back to Hickey. "I will not die today," he said. "The same cannot be said for you."
I ducked my head and hurried back to my place in the crowd, elbowing my way over to Achilles. Behind us, standing apart from the crowd, were George Washington and Israel Putnam, looking on with disappointment in their eyes.
As the prison guards pushed Connor to the gallows, the crowd's voices turned to harsh cries of contempt. A criminal was bad enough, but a native American? People spat on Connor as he passed them by. One woman managed to step out of the crowd, rage creasing her face into that of a wicked hag, and she swung her fist at Connor.
She hit him with surprising force, and he staggered. Fury was a flame burning into my stomach; as the woman spat on him, I shoved her roughly aside, allowing a small glimmer of satisfaction as she fell into a puddle.
I steadied Connor before he could stagger again, and he felt cold to me. "Forget about me," he said, voice rough. "You need to stop Hickey. He's–"
The officer at his back shoved him again, and he stumbled forward another step before he could finish. I knew what he was getting at.
Of course Hickey was planning Washington's death for today. He could kill two birds with one stone: eliminating two of his greatest threats, while also ensuring the vote would not go ahead next week. He was predictable.
Once Connor was forced onto the platform (after Hickey crooned something at him that seemed none too pleasant), Lee took centre stage and began to speak.
"Brothers, sisters, fellow patriots," he addressed the crowd, who fell silent at his words. "Several days ago, we learned of a scheme so vile, so dastardly, that even repeating it now disturbs my being." He threw out one arm and gestured to Connor, who stood, bruised and bound, under the noose. "The man before you plotted to murder our much-beloved General Washington."
The crowd began to scream again, hurling abuse at Connor in several languages. "I knew it would be an Indian," muttered the man with the cigar. "All those savages are the same. Cold-blooded murderers, all."
Lee quieted the shouts with a hand. "Indeed," he continued. "What darkness or madness moved him, none can say. And he himself offers no defense - shows no remorse - and though we have begged and pleaded with him to share what he knows, he maintains a deadly silence."
Connor's eyes found mine again, and I offered him the barest hint of a smile. Often, people mistook his silence for an absence of emotion, of empathy, but they were wrong. The eye of the storm was quiet.
"If the man will not explain himself–" Lee's pale eyes followed Connor's until he found me, and a sneer curled his lips– "if he will not confess and atone, what other option do we have but this? He sought to send us into the arms of the enemy - and thus, we are compelled, by justice, to send him from this world."
Lee nodded to the hangman - a burly man whose face was covered by a black mask - who stepped forward and shoved a hessian sack over Connor's head, and tightened the noose around his neck.
I could sense my recruits in their positions without looking their way. Lee's dark voice cut through my mind like a butcher's blade. "May God have mercy on your soul."
That was the hangman's cue. My heart leapt into my throat.
Just as the man pulled the lever, Dobby threw a knife.
Or, it was supposed to be Dobby. It came from the same direction as hers would have, but it was not her blade. The rope severed in one clean cut, and Connor fell, very much alive, to the ground below the platform.
As expected, chaos broke out among the crowd, and they began to shove one another in their desperate attempts to escape the square. I heard the man with the cigar call over his shoulder, "I knew it! He's escaping so he can kill us all."
As Jacob and Clipper ran to Connor, Hickey began to flee the scene. I saw Dobby give chase after a man in a dark cloak, but my sights were on the Templar whose vector pointed straight to Washington.
I am still unsure if it was fury or hate that fuelled my steps, but I was suddenly flying over the slippery cobblestones, pulling two daggers from beneath my cloak. One shoulder rammed into the man with the cigar, and he toppled over with all the grace of a walrus.
Washington's officials were ushering the general away. Hickey pushed through the thinning crowd, splashing through muddy puddles, sights fixed solely on the general.
He did not see me come at him from the side, but he surely felt my blade between his ribs. I pulled my dagger back, and deep, dark red followed it, dripping onto the ground, mixing with the water at my feet. Hickey swayed for a moment, pressing a hand to the sticky blood on his side, looking at his fingers as they came away red.
All he could say was a weak, if not surprised, "Damnit," before losing his balance and falling to his knees.
I steadied his shoulder with a hand, so he was forced to look into my face. In spite of it all, Hickey still managed to grin. "I thought I'd at least live to see another day. Shame."
My hand was sticky with his blood. "I want answers," I said, coldly. "What purpose could Washington's murder accomplish? Why does your Order support the British?"
The Templar lifted his shoulder in a half-hearted shrug, then hissed between his teeth as fresh blood leaked down his side. "How should I know?" he said. "The Templars; Lee; the big man, Haytham - they has the money. They has the power. That's the reason I threw in with 'em - that's the only reason."
His eyes darted over my shoulder: Connor was on his way over. I didn't look back, and gave Hickey such a sour look that he huffed.
"Sure," he said, "they have some sort of vision for the future, too. I don't give a damn about any of that. They can sing their songs about mankind and its troubles; they can make their plans and spring their traps - don't bother me none. They paid me, so I said yes. Didn't bother to ask who or how or why. Didn't care."
The air beside me stirred a heartbeat before Connor's hard voice, laced with disgust, spoke. "You chose to side with men who would rob us of our humanity simply because it was more profitable?"
Hickey faced his withering look with a defiant glare, even as his face paled and his lips became bloodless. "What else is there? I'm not some blind fool who'd give up all I've got on principle. What is principle, anyway? Can you bring it to the bank?" He rolled his eyes, but his movements were sluggish. "Don't look at me like that. We're different, you and I. You're just a pair of blind fools, always chasing butterflies - whereas I'm the type of guy who likes to have a beer in one hand, and a titty in the other." He held out his hands to demonstrate.
I felt my lip curl. "You're despicable."
Hickey's breaths rattled in his throat. "Thing is, I can have what I seek. Had it, even. But you?" He was sagging heavily into my hand on his shoulder, and his eyes were drooping. "Your hands will always be empty."
Then he sank lower, and when I removed my hand, he fell into the puddle of his blood, breathless and motionless.
I hardly had time to stand before a voice snapped at us, "Don't move."
We were surrounded by Continental soldiers, likely tasked with protecting the commander in chief, and now their muskets were trained on us. Connor and I did not look at one another, but I felt him tense.
That is, until General Putnam jogged over, cigar hanging from his mouth, and called to the soldiers, "At ease, men. At ease!" Some of the men hesitated (they were justified, given the circumstances and their perspectives), and Putnam snapped, "I said, lower your goddamn guns. This is a pair of heroes."
The soldiers began to back warily away, and once he was close enough, Putnam rolled his eyes. "The general can be so stubborn sometimes," he said to us. "Piffle, he said when we warned him something like this would happen. Piffle!" Looking down, he nudged the motionless body of Thomas Hickey distastefully with his boot.
"Stop." Connor sounded so weary.
Putnam gave him a horrified look. "He wanted to kill the commander. Nearly killed you, as well. He was a scoundrel."
"But still a man."
"Where is Washington?" I said, eager to change the subject. "We need to speak with him."
Putnam took a puff from his cigar before he spoke. "Bundled off as soon as the execution went sideways. He's likely on his way back to Philadelphia by now."
"Then so are we," said Connor.
The general glanced between us, equal parts puzzled and concerned. "Something wrong?"
"He is still in danger." Thunder rolled overhead, puncturing Connor's words with darkness. "Hickey did not act alone."
"I'll say," muttered Putnam darkly, and turned away to direct his soldiers.
Then Connor and I looked at each other - really looked. I could see the adrenaline fade from him, and his broad shoulders began to slump. He managed to breathe, "Sassy," just before he sagged into me. I caught him; he was cold and wet and starting to shiver.
I clasped him tightly to me, and an ache began to build in my throat. My Connor was so exhausted that he had literally collapsed into me.
I brought him home to our attic. There were so many things I wanted to say, so many things unsaid, conversations left open like the bottle of wine we had shared on our last night here together.
Achilles and I had made plans for each possible outcome today: the one in which we got to Connor in time, and the one in which we did not. Now, Achilles was gathering the recruits to him while I took care of Connor. They would return to us when they were ready.
Rain came sheeting down against the glass outside, and I helped Connor out of his wet prison clothes (I was shocked by the new bruises on his body, but he paid them no heed, or pretended to) and into something warm and dry before I set about lighting a fire.
By the time I was finished, Connor was tucked into bed, watching me through half-opened eyes. These eyes tracked me as I came around to sit on the bed next to him, leaning my back against the wall.
I smoothed his hair back from his forehead as he murmured, "You came for me."
"Of course I did, darling." Our voices were so soft that the rain almost took our words away. He did not reply - he had fallen asleep. I kept stroking his hair, and leaned over to kiss his forehead. As I did, I whispered again, "Of course I did."
*
I woke up at some point to the sound of the rain drumming on the roof above our heads. The sky outside was darkening, and I was warm and comfortable, tucked under the covers beside Connor.
He was silent next to me. I discovered that he slept curled on his side like an Arctic fox, his spine poking out in little points that were soft to touch - but only gently, because he was finally resting.
He was here. He was here. I did not have to spend another sleepless night worrying, because he was warm beside me, and his presence was the greatest comfort to me; I was so full of quiet joy I felt I could dissolve into stars.
I pressed myself closer to him, lightly kissed his shoulder, and went back to sleep.
Chapter Text
I made Connor take a few days to rest, but he never stayed down for long. When Achilles left for Philadelphia to watch the vote take place, he left us with stern orders to rest (appropriately) and to report any Templar activities to him - not that there would be any. After Hickey's death, we knew they would lie low for a while; to gather, to think, to mourn.
Three days after the failed execution, and a day after our recruits had left for their respective posts, Connor and I discussed our next move over cups of bitter coffee. We sat on a bench facing the harbour, and the sea was beginning to turn golden as the sun turned its axis westward.
The swelling under Connor's eye had fully subsided, but in its place was a dark purple-and-red splotch that reached halfway down his cheek - and I knew it hurt him, but he didn't mention it. If I could, I would have taken all of his hurts onto myself, because I would rather it was myself hurting than him (never him).
In our quiet moments, like this, I could disappear into my thoughts. If I were to judge Connor by his neutral expression, I would say he was in a similar situation as I was, but it was hard to tell with him. He could have been planning a triple homicide and still looked calm.
I thought of something he had said, the morning after the execution. I hadn't wanted to ask him too much about it, but I voiced my one question. Were you afraid?
And he had responded, No, because I knew you were there.
Now, our plan pulled us apart once more. I would go down to Philadelphia and meet Achilles to bear witness to the signing of the proposed Declaration of Independence, while Connor would set sail in pursuit of Biddle. Now, my question was, What if we are afraid?
Faulkner was bringing the ship down from Boston, and Connor would embark on his journey this evening. These hours I had with him were precious and few. Time was slipping out of our grasp and into the hazy sunset. Our bodies were young but our hearts were old.
Without taking his eyes from the horizon, Connor said, "You know, prison has taught me three vital lessons."
I turned to him, somewhat warily. "Care to share?"
He counted on his fingers. "Never cry in public."
"Naturally."
"Always carry a weapon."
"As one should."
Silence followed my words, permeated only by the cries of the gulls wheeling over the shore. I wanted to ask him what the third lesson was - but a muscle in his jaw twitched, and I followed his gaze across the harbour, where the Aquila was coming into view.
We watched as the deckhands threw out the ship's lines, and a couple of dockworkers secured the ship to the cleats on the dock. By this time, the sun had almost disappeared below the hills to the west. Faulkner was a dark silhouette descending from the deck.
Only when he stepped off the gangplank did we stand up, and I knew that ours was an indefinite good-bye. Connor's eyes were fixed on Faulkner; my eyes were fixed on him. There were so many things I had wanted to say before we said good-bye, but we got lost in the soft, quiet moments, and time had slipped away.
I don't know which of us moved first, but we gripped each other in a hug - the sort of hug that pressed and moulded my bones together in a new, Connor-shaped form; a hug I had not felt from him in a long time. He smelled like home. I felt him lean down and press his mouth to the top of my head.
Our world slowed down, narrowed to the point of a pin. I mumbled into his chest, "What was the third lesson?"
His breath was warm on my hair, and his voice was very soft. "It taught me to miss the people I love."
When we eventually parted, my heart was roaring in my ears. With a final squeeze of my hand, Connor turned away and crossed the street to meet Faulkner, who aimed a wave at both of us in greeting. As the two men boarded the Aquila, I walked to the very edge of the dock; one slip and I would fall into the swirling, dark water below.
I watched the ship sail away, and I fancied that I could still see Connor at the wheel - maybe he was looking at me, too. Once the ship was out of sight, I was alone. The voices in the street seemed louder than before, but inside my hollow chest echoed one question. What if we are afraid?
*
According to Achilles, I was on temporary leave, so I took the time to pay my family a visit. Meredith, now eleven years old, had grown taller since I had last seen her, and now her brow reached almost to my nose.
She was quieter than she had ever been before, and her brown eyes hid many secrets. She squirmed away when I hugged her, which I found rather strange, as she had never reacted that way before.
I confronted her alone in the kitchen after the mandatory greeting of Lydia and Gabriel. "No hugs for me?" I said to her.
My sister gave me a blank look. "No."
A little part of my heart, a leaf on a flower, shrivelled and withered. "Preparing for a life of isolation already, are you?"
She turned her nose up. "I don't want to be a nun. That was a ridiculous idea."
"Oh?" This was new. Nothing could move her once she made up her mind about something. "May I know what your new goal is?"
The look she gave me was wary and distrustful, and for a long, terrifying moment, I thought she wasn't going to tell me. Finally, she said, "I want to act."
So that's what was different. She had seen Doctor Faustus and come home spellbound; she had seen the stars and wanted to grasp them for herself. But, like stars, this dream was far away: slipping out of one's reach no matter how fast they run towards it.
Judging by the volume of her voice, she had not yet told Lydia and Gabriel of this dream. "You do know that the theatre is illegal."
Meredith scowled. "So is murder, and yet here you are."
My blood froze in my veins. "What do you mean?"
"Don't act stupid," she snapped. "I've heard the rumours about Washington."
That confused - and terrified - me. "What rumours?"
"The rumours that state you had a hand in plotting his death." Her tone was venomous. "So don't you dare tell me I can't do something when you stand before me as a hypocrite."
I had never seen this burning anger in her before; it was a dark demon with horns and fiery teeth. What had I done to her to warrant such fury? Her eyes were bright with it, her face taut.
I realised that these circulating rumours were only half of the truth - that my association with the accused Connor painted me with guilt as dark as his - but in order to justify myself in my sister's eyes, I would have to tell her the entire truth about myself; about Achilles; about Connor. But to open that to her would only endanger her; it was bad enough that I had told Lydia and Gabriel. I couldn't afford another person knowing - even if that person was my sister.
"Stop being so bitter," I told her.
"I'm not bitter," she said, bitterly. "You're just too much of a coward to admit the truth."
I tried to speak, but no words came. Her words sparked anger in me, like flint against flint. But when I looked into her face, I only saw the little girl who got scared when her parents got angry, and all the fire in me was drowned in cold water.
When I felt anger, I held it in my hands: it was a tingling in my fingers, a longing to burn, to destroy. Meredith felt it in her chest; I could almost see it in her ribs, rising and falling like breaths.
My head was under water, and my words were drowned. I had taken too long to respond; Meredith scowled and stormed up the stairs. Her echoing footsteps faded as she reached her bedroom, and, distantly, her door slammed shut.
I was left alone once more, looking at the space where my sister had been standing - or the girl I thought was my sister - and asking myself the same question, over and over. What if we are afraid?
Chapter Text
"It's quite impressive, what you've accomplished." Achilles' tone was at once proud and begrudging. We stood in the hallway of the Pennsylvania State House, waiting for the men in the main hall to finish their meeting so we might witness the signing of the Declaration.
The State House was a bright building, with high ceilings that arched over us and made way for the tall windows that spilled light onto the red carpet on the floor. We were not the only people waiting; there were other men standing in small clusters, and their voices were no more than muffled rustlings.
I gave him a sideways look. "Is that a compliment?"
He smacked my shins with his cane. "Don't misconstrue. I'm sure the whole endeavour will end tragically. But to have come this far. . ." He shook himself slightly, and his soft voice became harder. "Well, it's more than I ever expected."
For a moment, I put myself into his shoes and looked at the Brotherhood through his eyes: I watched the Assassins crumble at the hands of a traitor, and then watched it be entrusted to a pair of teenagers who knew nothing. The entire legacy of the Assassins - in the care of two people barely out of childhood, whose depths of wretchedness could break the Brotherhood apart.
We were not gods. We did not have Heracles or Yue Fei or Fionn Mac Cumhaill. We had Connor, and we had Cassandra - and that would have to be enough.
The American colonists were birds in cages, and Connor and I had the keys. "The people yearned for freedom, but feared to take hold of it," I said. "That fear is gone now."
Achilles turned his lined face to me. "Thanks to the pair of you."
I began to shake my head, thinking of Connor and his people, thinking of that axe buried in the pillar outside the front door. For what and for whom did we fight? "We do what is right. No more, no less."
I knew why Connor fought: the hatred burning in him spurred him on, pushed him to fiercely protect his people. His people, I thought, were homo sacer: outlawed, hunted like wolves, killed like rats. This sometimes gave Connor tunnel vision, however, and I often felt that there was nothing but death in his dreams.
It was a heavy burden to bear. Many times I wanted to ask him, Why do you carry all of that? but I could almost hear his response, a whispered tête-à-tête inside my mind: Where can I put it down?
I was pulled from my thoughts by the opening of the door to the meeting hall. This was our cue to enter, that we might bear witness to this declaration, this moment of history.
We slipped through the door and stood with our backs to the wall - watching, silently, as four men leaned over the paper, passing a quill between them as they, one by one, placed their signature on the declaration. I recognised the men, though only passively: John Hancock, the president of the Continental Congress; Thomas Jefferson; Benjamin Franklin; Samuel Adams.
Hancock's signature was the largest by far, I observed. I glanced up when he addressed me directly. "You are, once more, our saviour."
I thought of the battle at Lexington, so long ago now; I thought of every battle waged in this war, all the blood that had been shed. How could we be saviours if we couldn't defend the innocent? "I need to speak with the general," I said.
Adams spoke up. "He's gone to try and hold New York - the British intend to take it. I fear we'll need to recall our men from Québec as well. . ." He glanced at the men next to him. "It's one thing to declare our independence. Now, we must make it so."
*
"You cannot tell Washington," Achilles hissed once we had left the room.
"I have to. Otherwise, he will never be safe." By declaring America an independent nation, Washington, as leader of the revolution, was painted with the biggest target of them all. He deserved to know.
"He is safer not knowing," insisted Achilles, and I heard the cold anger in his voice. "By planting the seeds of doubt, you threaten to topple his entire endeavour. If Washington is paralysed, the Templars will strike. You'll cause the very thing you aim to prevent." He stopped me with a hand on my arm, and his tone softened. "Hunt the Templars, as is your duty. But do not drag these men into it."
I wanted to tell him that they were already a part of it, whether they knew it or not. Signing the Declaration of Independence was the ultimate act of defiance against the king: no longer was America a colony, but free. And the Templars did not want that.
I contemplated this as I made my way back to New York; this, and my own place in this newly-forming nation. I was too English to be American, but too western to be English. Which demographic did that place me in? Or was I, too, like the homo sacer - a werewolf trapped between worlds: too wild to be civilised, too human to be monstrous?
My business in New York did not take me long (a mere gathering of information from our spies), and afterwards, I found myself walking to Thomas' house. I had not seen him since before the execution, and though he had surely heard of the events in the papers, I wanted to talk to him myself.
*
I stayed with Thomas for two months while I conducted my work in the city. He was glad of the company, and to be honest, so was I.
Our schedules aligned somewhat: by day, I crept through the city and Thomas worked in a master carpenter's studio, and by night, we returned home for late cups of tea and slightly-burnt crumpets.
It was September, now, and the nights were getting colder - the sort of nights in which one does not want to be alone; the sort of nights when the darkness creeps in. I curled up in Thomas' bed, trying not to get crumbs under the sheets. He sat facing me, holding my feet in his lap, smacking my shin if he saw a crumb fall.
"I'm sorry," I insisted.
"No, you're not." He slapped my leg. "If you loved me, you wouldn't insist on eating your midnight snacks in my bed."
"If you loved me, you'd let me eat my snacks," I grumbled, trying not to think of how many nights he had spent with his lover (whom I knew had now left service and was working in a bakery) in this very bed. It was almost enough to make me want to get out.
How different we were from the children who had come to America so many years ago, seasick on a ship. Where were those children gone? Perhaps there was a tall, domed chamber, glittering with jewels, where soft memories were kept. That was where those children played: a boy and a girl and a fat little dog.
How we had changed. Like he was thinking the same thing, Thomas tilted his head and said, "You've lost your baby face."
I touched my face, self-consciously. "Have I?"
He nodded. "You're not baby Cassie anymore. Your bones are sharper." He sighed slowly, patting my leg like he didn't know what to do with his hands. "Everything's changed," he said helplessly.
I knew he meant more than just physical appearances. "We're adults now," I murmured, "living adult lives. You have your love, and I have. . ." What did I have?
Leaning forward on his elbows, he said, "Finish that thought."
"I don't know how."
He watched my face for a few long moments. "It's Connor, isn't it?"
The mere mention of his name had my feelings bubbling up inside my chest, aching to be let out. "I know we're not perfect," I began, and then the words tumbled out; "and I know it shouldn't work - but the truth is, I have thought of him every single day."
Thomas cut me off, gently. "Stop thinking so much. You're breaking your own heart."
I bit down on the words trying to surface. He was right - thinking in circles would only drive me mad. But, whether or not Connor thought of me as softly as I did him, one fact still remained.
"I really like him," I said, and with those words came a cold fear. Saying the words made it true, made it real - and now there was no turning back. It was out there, and time ticked onwards, a steady march that sounded like the dull, faraway clang of a bell.
"I know." He rubbed my knee in a comforting manner. Though Nadia knew of my thoughts, I felt as though Thomas was the only person I could trust with this. He knew what it felt like to love someone he shouldn't. "What are you going to do about it, then?"
I stared at him, dumbfounded. "What? Nothing."
"Nonsense," he scoffed. "Don't be an idiot. Chances like this rarely come around twice."
That ringing sound echoed in my head again, louder this time. I shook my head. "I can't risk my friendship with him. What if something goes wrong? What if we hurt each other? What if–"
"Hush," groaned Thomas. "Stop overthinking it. You need to stop being afraid, because fear will get you nowhere. Just talk to him."
"I can't," I said. "He's gone far away."
"So?"
What are you going to do about it? He had his love, and I had mine. I was so, so lost. I was stumbling blind through a labyrinth, and I had lost my spool of thread. And all the while, behind me thundered Asterion, his bull's nostrils blowing hot steam at my back, the breaths of the Minotaur getting louder, clanging like a bell.
I realised that I was hearing a bell ringing; the sound was coming from the street outside, and it was growing closer. Louder still were the cries that followed: "Fire! Fire!"
We exchanged a look, but that was all we needed before we scrambled off the bed, crumbs forgotten. We raced outside, buffeted by the wind, and what we saw made us freeze.
New York was on fire. The flames burned orange against the night sky, eating homes and shops, spurred by the wind and the dry weather. People ran, panicking, after the young man with the bell. Thomas and I were frozen, watching the flames lick up the sides of the house across the street. The wooden beams turned black and collapsed before us, sending up a cloud of dust.
The fires had spread all the way down the street. The entire west side of Manhattan was burning. Heat blasted my face, carried on a dry wind, and I coughed out the smoke that followed.
Thomas' eyes were bright - too bright. Terrified. He breathed something, a name, and took off running down the street, against the flow of soot-blackened people.
I called his name but he did not turn, so I ran after him. The very streets were rippling with heat, glowing orange with the flames that burned higher until they reached the sky.
Ahead of me, I saw Thomas stop when he reached a house that was almost totally engulfed in flames. A cry ripped itself from his throat. "Francis!" he screamed. "Francis!"
Then I understood. His love's name was Francis, and Francis was inside that house. I grabbed Thomas' arm and pulled him back. "Tom–"
He tore himself free and, screaming his love's name again, ran through the gap where the front door should have been.
I didn't think. I followed him, narrowly dodging the door frame as it collapsed, and ran into the heart of the fire.
The smoke was so thick I could have gotten lost in it. It choked me. It scratched my throat and burned my lungs, I was burning from the inside out. I heard a muffled, "Francis, where are you?" and fumbled through the hallway. I could see the varnished wood of the floor blistering and turning black.
The heat was like a wall. Somewhere beside me, glass shattered. I couldn't hear my heart, but I could feel it beating my skull like a caged animal as darkness began to swarm.
Waves of black smoke engulfed me. I coughed and coughed but no one could hear me. I was drowning.
I didn't find Thomas so much as run into him; he was halfway up the stairs, clinging to the blistering rail, and my hands found his shirt. "Tom," I rasped, and every breath burned. Stars that I couldn't blink away whirled in my vision.
I gripped him and hauled him to his feet; he was limp but still mumbling. The beams over our heads creaked, and sparks danced in the air a heartbeat before the wood collapsed.
I managed to pull Thomas away from it, but pain grew suddenly from nothing and shot down my arm. My heart was labouring, a flabby beat like a broken drum, and every cough ripped deeper into my lungs. My mouth was clogged and tasted of soot. And all the while, my arm was burning, burning, burning.
I sagged against a wall, gripping Thomas close. Colours swam in a fog of grey that burned my eyes; the black clouds threatened to dissolve me. I was breathing acid.
I fell. For ever. I crashed. Time flipped: I landed; I fell again. Pain lifted me up like a tide. But pain was good, I told myself. Pain meant I was alive.
I opened my mouth, and the smoke rushed in, and tears streamed down my face. I thought I knew what I was afraid of - being abandoned, perhaps. But could I have thought that that was the worst thing? Now, in the blinding heat and the fumes, as the fire roared and pain bloomed across my head, it was as if something inside me - some last protective barrier - collapsed.
I fought for breath. My head was spinning. We were on the floor; down here, there was more space between the veils of smoke. There was another sudden crash of wood behind us - the house was collapsing around us.
Ahead, shrouded in smoke, was the doorway. Flames crackled at the threshold. I reached out and pulled myself along the floor, dragging Thomas with me. My arm throbbed with the ferocity of a thousand fangs, and I knew I was burned - but I did not know how badly.
Inch by inch I crawled, past the roaring flames, through the thickening smoke - and just as I dragged us over the threshold, the ceiling caved in behind us.
Once clear of the burning wreck, I lay limp and numb on the cobbles. I heard people around us, but only faintly. My ribs ached from coughing, and now that we were out of the fire, I could feel that my arm was sticky with blood. The pain took over my thoughts, clouded my eyes, until it was everything.
I was still holding Thomas; he was shaking, and his voice was hoarse. Still he whispered, "Francis. . ." but I knew it was too late. Behind us, the house crashed down and burned.
Chapter Text
Though the city was burning, Thomas' home remained untouched. My ears were ringing, and my throat burned - but worse than that was the pain in my arm, like nothing I had ever felt. I knew that I was burned, but I was too scared to look at it; I felt the blood dribbling down to my hand, felt my sleeve sticking to the ravaged flesh, and the smell alone made my stomach clench.
Beside me, Thomas lay shivering; his eyes were rolling, and he moaned his lover's name again. I pushed myself up with my good arm, and the cobblestones were hot under my palm. I tried to speak but all that came out was a weak gasp, which was quickly succeeded by a fit of coughing that tore my lungs apart.
"Thomas," I wheezed. "Tom, we have to go."
He sat up slowly, gazed at the flames that burned higher and higher into the night sky. A brief moment of lucidity, a spark of thought, came over him, and he tried to bolt once more towards the house - but I grabbed him by the ankle and pulled him down again, and he landed hard on his knees. I pulled him, savagely, towards me, away from the flames that ate the stars.
"Let me go." His voice was strangled with emotion: rage and grief and desperation.
"You can't go back there." I raised my voice so I would not be drowned out by the roaring flames. "You'll die."
"Then let me!"
Oh, the sheer desperation in his voice threatened to cast me into darkness. I coaxed him back to me, even though he was shaking. Once we were on our feet, I don't know who leaned on who as we staggered off the street. Perhaps we supported one another.
I stumbled to the door of a doctor, and once inside, the full weight of the night crashed into me such that I wanted to sob from terror and from pain.
As the doctor cut the remains of my sleeve away, I risked a look at my arm, and retched at what I saw.
What was once smooth, pale skin was now an angry, mottled red; blood oozed from sores that stretched from my wrist to my elbow, the edges of which had been charred black. The smell of burnt flesh hit me, then, and I threw up into a bucket. My hand was crusted with blood, and the burns on the side of my hand, though minor compared to the wreckage that was my arm, caused enough pain that I could barely move it.
The doctor did his best. He told me that if I could keep infection at bay, I might be able to keep the arm. After treating the deep burns, he wrapped my arm tightly, and secured it to a sling on my neck.
I knew I would never fully heal. There would be extensive scars, and I knew the pain was far from over.
I looked at Thomas. He had sustained less injuries than I had - smoke inhalation was the worst of it - and he had watched the doctor's procedure with wide, panicked eyes.
Through all of this, I found that I could not be angry with him. After all, to love someone enough to run into the heart of a fire after them was love indeed. I questioned if I would do the same for Connor, and knew in my heart the immediate answer. A thousand times. More. How could I, therefore, condemn Thomas for something I knew I would have done in his place?
He began to sob, then: deep, wretched sobs that shook his whole body, curled him into himself until there was nothing left.
Something changed in Thomas that night. Something broke, and became irreparable. His mind shattered; he was a husk.
I brought him back to the homestead with me. There were too many memories in New York for him to stay there. He came with me numbly.
I told Achilles, very softly, about the fires, and the old man was sympathetic. He looked at my arm with pity, and quietly commented that he would be here should I need any help.
I brought Thomas upstairs to my bedroom and he collapsed into the bed without a word. He had not spoken since we were lying crumpled in the street.
I reached out to touch his shoulder, and he jerked away from me.
Heart pounding in my ears, I retreated downstairs. He just needs time, I told myself.
Achilles watched me from the study. "I had a letter from Connor, by the way."
"And you're only telling me now?" I tried to joke, but my throat felt like acid.
"I didn't want to tell you in the presence of your friend." He held out the papers to me, and even before I took them I recognised Connor's hand. "It's just a status report, nothing too exciting. There's one for you, too," he added.
I looked up sharply. "All right, that, you could have told me sooner."
His weathered face creased into the beginnings of a smile. "Ah, but where is the fun in that?"
He handed me the unopened letter, and it took everything in me not to tear it open. I tucked it into the pocket of my apron. "Thank you."
Achilles was watching my face carefully. After a drawn-out silence, he said, "You have feelings for him."
I panicked. "Do I?"
"I can see it in your face, Cassandra." He shook his head slowly. "Just be careful, that's all I'm saying. When I first took you in, I didn't do it because you were the granddaughter of Ryan Glade. I did it because you had a spark. Just be sure not to lose that spark by attaching yourself to someone else."
I thought of Thomas upstairs. He had always burned brightly, but now. . . "I won't."
"Good," he huffed, moving past me into the hallway.
We went separate ways: Achilles walked into the homestead town, and I went upstairs to seek a quiet place to read Connor's letter. I couldn't go to my room - not with Thomas there. I did not want to rub salt into his wounds.
My feet brought me to Connor's room, quiet and untouched since before his imprisonment. Each of his possessions told a story: the lacrosse stick above the mantle, the hand-stitched blanket strewn across the bed, his mother’s necklace on the desk. Everything in this room was so him that it brought an ache to my chest.
I sat on the edge of his bed and took the letter from my pocket. With my heart in my throat, I broke the seal and, with my good hand, removed the letter from the envelope. It was dated two weeks ago.
There was no writing on the paper, not on the front nor on the back. What it did contain, however, was a scribbled sketch of a frog. Connor knew that I liked frogs - one summer, he had taken me into the forest to teach me the differences between the species of frog, and how to differentiate between frogs and toads.
Still, I couldn’t help the prickle of annoyance that came over me. Two months, and not even a word for me?
In frustration, I flopped back onto Connor’s bed, holding the paper up for another look at the frog. Upon finding nothing of interest, I let my hand fall, and instead stared at the ceiling.
This, I realised, was the same ceiling Connor looked at when he lay in bed. I wondered what he thought of when he was alone. Were his thoughts full of darkness? Or was there a spark of light, of joy, there?
*
Two weeks passed by, and Thomas remained with us in the manor. I let him stay in my room, and I, afraid to leave him alone, set up camp on my bedroom floor. Some nights, we laughed and joked like old times, but on most nights, there was a deep, yawning silence.
Early October was bitterly cold, and flurries of snow were already starting to blow in from the mountains. The evenings drew in cold and dark, and brought ice overnight.
The sun had scarcely set when I was outside bringing feed to the horses , and when I looked out over the cliff, all I saw was the fog rolling in from the sea.
Carrying the bucket with only one hand was hard work. I had to stop frequently to flex my fingers and curse the throbbing burns on my arm. I stood in a shaft of warm, golden light shining through the kitchen window, and with a hiss of breath, lifted the bucket once more.
Soft footsteps had me looking up, and there beside me stood Connor, tired and cold. He had been about to enter through the back door, but seeing me, had paused.
For a moment, neither of us spoke - and then he stepped forward and took the bucket from my aching hand. I stared at him, scarcely able to believe he was here. But when I reached out, he was warm and solid, so I wrapped my arm tightly around him. I could feel all of the weapons concealed beneath his clothes.
“Ratonhnhaké:ton,” I said into his chest, and I felt his breath shudder at the use of his name. “I missed you.”
I felt him nod against me, heard a murmur of, “Me too,” and I stepped back.
His eyes were instantly drawn to my burned arm, and his voice was soft - too soft - as he said, “What happened?”
“I’ll tell you in a minute,” I said, shivering with the cold. “Help me feed the horses.”
He finished the work I had started, after casting an eye once again over my injured arm. Once the bucket was empty, I took it back and replaced it on its hook by the door.
“You must be freezing,” I said. “Come, let’s go inside. Everyone would love to see you.”
“Not yet.” He reached out and took my wrist to stop me from opening the door. “Walk with me for a moment.”
I looked at his hand for a moment - how I longed to press my palm to his. “Okay.”
He led me away from the door, away from the light, until we were walking in the dark, guided by the silver glow of the moon. I knew the path down the hill without having to see it, and the stones under our feet rattled with each step.
After a while, he said, “You mentioned that everyone would love to see me. Who is everyone?”
“Achilles and Thomas.” I stepped over a tree root - he was leading me into the forest.
“Thomas?” I couldn’t see his face, but he kept pace with me - a warm presence by my side.
“He’ll be staying with us for a while.”
“How come?”
I watched my feet while I gathered my words. “There was a fire,” I said. “It burned through the entire west side of New York.”
He stopped walking, and I stopped too. He reached out, then, and I felt his fingers brush mine, slung as they were at my neck. “Is that what happened to your arm?”
I looked down at his hand. “Thomas lost someone he loved in the fire,” I said. “He ran into the house, but he couldn’t save him. I ran after him and got him out.”
Connor did not bat an eye at Thomas’ sodomy. “You ran into the fire?”
I heard the beginnings of fear in his voice. I knew his history with fire. “I know I shouldn’t have,” I said, softly. “But he’s my friend. And if it was you in that fire, I’d have run after you, too. Always.”
I felt his breaths against my cheeks, and I watched his silhouette look away into the trees - I longed to touch that face, to reassure him. After a few heartbeats, he said, “Come with me.”
He led me by the hand through the trees, following a path only he knew, guided by the light of the moon. We tripped on tree roots and laughed quietly; we slipped on patches of icy moss and held each other up so we would not fall.
When he stopped walking, I realised he had brought me back to the pool where he had taught me to swim, so many years ago. We were older now, wiser - but perhaps more broken than when we had started.
The stars shone on the surface of the pool like diamonds. My heart was hammering in my chest, like it would claw its way out any moment. Connor was so, so beautiful in the moonlight.
I tightened my grip on his hand, and he looked down at me. Our breaths turned to mist in the cold air, but warmth was spreading in my chest.
“Connor,” I said softly. “I need to talk to you about something.”
The weight of his eyes on me rooted me to the spot; there was nowhere I could run to escape his gaze.
“I feel like this has been slowly brewing for a while now.” I stared at my feet, unable to look at him. “And there are things I really want to say, but. . .” What if we are afraid?
His thumb was, very gently, stroking the back of my hand, and I couldn’t think straight. “I thought of you,” he said, “every day while I was at sea. Every day. So when I got home and saw you there. . .” He shook his head slowly. “You have no idea what you do to me.”
I stepped closer, seeking his face - he was watching me with such softness that I could cry. “I really like you,” I said, knees almost buckling when he tenderly tucked my hair behind my ear. His fingertips lingered on my jaw.
He gently cupped my cheek in his palm. In turn, I reached out with my burned hand, brushed my fingers against his wrist.
He held my face in both hands - I looked up at him, seeing only him, only ever him. I don’t know which of us was first, but he leaned down to me and I leaned up to him, and when we kissed, it was sober, and it was real.
And it was all I ever wanted.
His hands were trembling with reverence when we parted. Butterflies erupted in my veins - I was jittery with pure feeling.
I heard, more than saw, his smile. “Well, this changes things.”
“Things have been changing for a while now,” I said. “We will deal with it.”
“We?” he teased.
Yes, my heart murmured to his. I touched his wrist again. “Why?” I teased back. “You don’t want that?”
The look he gave me told me enough. More than anything. He rolled his eyes. “Ótkon,” he said, fondly.
I smiled. “Prick,” I muttered, and pulled him down to kiss me again.
Chapter 35
Notes:
Sorry this chapter is so short - there are... um... things happening in the next chapter that I couldn't include in this one bc... um... plot.
I also tried to apply a structuralist reading to this chapter as I was writing it and I think I started driving myself insane so there's that
Stay tuned for my deconstructionist reading of the next oneAnyway idk how to end this note so um happy Thanksgiving (in advance) I guess (idk I'm not American what am I doing)
xoxo Panda
Chapter Text
How long we stood there by the pool! How the moon bathed his face in silver light, painted his smile with pure beauty! I felt as though my chest were filled with overripe fruit, leaking sweetness into my blood.
I did not know a word to place on this new thing between us - I only knew that it was tender and warm. A great fear filled me, then - fear for this thing, for what it might do to us. It would consume us.
I looked up and found him watching me. Half of his face was shadowed, while the other was silver. Both were equally as lovely.
"Why didn't you write?" I asked him.
Connor studied the stars for a few moments. "At first, I just didn't want to," he admitted. "I kept thinking of what had happened before my arrest, and every time I thought to take up a pen, I was reminded of that night. I did not know what to make of it."
I might have gotten angry with him had I not understood what he meant. "I was so scared that I had ruined everything," I said. "When we didn't talk the next day."
"That was my fault." He looked down and scuffed one foot in the dirt. The full gravity of the situation hit me, then: Connor was not a person to let fear control him - and he never had been - but this scared him.
"For the last three months," he continued, "I have been staring at nothing but the empty horizon. Biddle escaped us. I was thinking too much. A few weeks ago, when Faulkner and I decided to turn back, I wrote to Achilles to tell of our lack of progress. It would have been unfair not to send you something, though there was nothing I wished to write, as I wanted to speak with you face-to-face. Hence the frog."
It was coming together now. I thought of that scribbled drawing and began to smile. "You still could have written something."
"What could I have written that I could not say directly?"
His words were soft, but I saw the downward turn of his mouth. I wanted to brush my thumb against that mouth until the frown disappeared. "I think," I said, "we both need to apologise, and start over."
He tilted his head, curiously. "Start over?"
"Yes." I could feel something spreading its wings in my heart, something that felt dangerously like hope. "I'm sorry that I didn't try to sort all of this out earlier. I'm sorry for causing you to endure three months of loneliness."
He murmured my words back to me, and added, "Ultimately, I am sorry that I did not kiss you sooner."
I smiled at the man who had become my best friend. There was none in my life so dear as him. "I'm Cassandra," I said. "It's a pleasure to meet you."
He stooped to brush a kiss over my knuckles. "I am Ratonhnhaké:ton, and the pleasure is mine."
I felt my cheeks heat up, and I glanced away as butterflies surged within me. He turned my face back to his with a gentle kiss. The others had been harder, like there was a point to be proven; the simplicity of this one sent my world spinning.
He drew back a little. "Let me court you," he breathed.
They were words I had never let myself imagine hearing - certainly not from him. But I couldn't stop the smile from taking over my face. "Okay. But," I added before he could get too joyful, "we cannot tell people."
He stepped away from me and tilted his head, puzzled. "Why?"
I searched carefully for my words before speaking. "I don't want Achilles to believe we are hindering our work. We both know what he would say if he knew. And I don't want Thomas to know - not yet."
His eyes narrowed slightly. "Why?"
The fog that tumbled off the mountains was getting closer, creeping through the forest, snaking between the trees. Perhaps that was what prompted me to reach for his hand.
"Thomas has just lost his love," I told him. "I don't want to rub salt into the wound by telling him about this."
He studied me for a few long moments, and I could not miss his look of scepticism. I did not want to keep this secret for my own gain - for indeed, I wanted to sing of my pride for him, of the tenderness I saved for him. What made him hesitate? Was it a mutual feeling?
In the distance, a wolf howled, and its song was mournful and wavering - an aria of fear incarnate. I pictured the wolves in my mind's eye: eyes shining like candles, the only part of these forest assassins one may glimpse before they clustered like shadows, wraith-like.
I had seen them before, roaming the mountain pass, lean and famished, with so little flesh that I could have counted their starving ribs. Slavering jaws, lolling tongues. Grey as famine and unkind as plague. Was there something of them in us, I wondered, a lack of humanity, a darkness that grew with every drop of blood we spilled?
But standing here with him, close enough to feel the warmth coming from him, I knew that the life in our veins was stronger than the darkness around us. We were everything that was not dead.
"Fine," he said eventually, as another wolf took up the howl. "But I do this for your sake, not for his." His voice took on a low note of warning. "And I will not hold my tongue for ever."
That seemed fair to me. Upon our agreement, we turned back and headed for home. The air grew impossibly colder, and as the lights of the manor glowed at the top of the hill, we quickened our pace.
Before we could cross the threshold of the manor's boundary, Connor held back. I looked at him - there was such wistfulness in his beautiful face. I asked him what was wrong.
He pulled me back by the hand and kissed me, one final time. "I may not get to do this again for a while. I want to treasure it while I can."
When we crossed through the front door, rosy-cheeked with the cold, and into the golden lamplight, Achilles rose from his chair to greet Connor. I stepped back to let them talk, and sought Thomas out.
I did not have to look far: I found him sitting, dejectedly, on the piano stool, tracing a finger through the dust on the keys. I wrapped an arm around his shoulders and kissed the top of his head in a greeting that was not returned.
Squeezing myself onto the stool next to him, I said, "Connor is home."
Thomas nodded. "I know."
His leg was tapping restlessly, though his face betrayed nothing. Where was the bright, vivacious friend I had known for so long? Lost, buried under ash. I reached out, placed a hand on his knee to cease the tapping.
"I was thinking of visiting my family this week," I told him. "Do you want to come with me?"
"Sure," he said flatly.
I placed my head on his shoulder - he did not respond. His leg resumed its restless tapping. Feeling something in my spirit sink low, I straightened and said, "Come now, I think I might play something." I touched the piano keys. "What should I play?"
He was quiet for a few long moments. "Something sad."
Though my heart was not sad, I poured myself into that sad medley. Every note was a chord played within my heart, pain never spoken of. Connor and Achilles went quiet so they might listen; Thomas, sitting next to me, watched my hands; but I paid them no heed. There was me, and there was the piano - and there was the place in between where we merged.
Around us, the wolves howled into the night
Chapter 36
Summary:
TW: suicide
Chapter Text
I visited Dr. White every two weeks so he could examine my arm. The burns were not as deep as I had feared - he told me that because I could still feel pain in my arm, the nerves had not been damaged too badly. I would recover in a few months, though the scars would remain. I didn't mind about the scars: they were a reminder of everything I was, and could never be again.
The heavy snows hit soon after that, and for weeks the roads were blocked with it. It was a hard winter. The British occupation of New York was a topic that was never far from our lips - as were the refugees from the fire.
Thomas did not return to New York. I brought him with me to speak with Terry and Godfrey about the possibility of a home built for him when the snows cleared. The two Scots promised that they would start building when the wood was dry.
On a day when the snow had stopped sheeting down, I walked down to the homestead village, cheeks and nose pink with the cold. Christmas had come and gone, and my hands were wrapped in a fur muff sent by my mother, along with a letter stating that my family would visit next week. There was much to be done in preparation for that visit.
Frost crunched under my shoes, and I watched my breaths turn to mist. Silence was my company. I had invited Thomas to join me, but he had declined, preferring to spend his time in solitude. I walked alone, but I did not mind: the pale blue sky above me conjured thoughts of the Heavenly throne, and I was content to let my thoughts wash over me.
I was on my way to visit Prudence, who was now a few months pregnant, to return a shawl I had mended for her. We all knew how she and Warren had longed for a baby. The couple had been unable to conceive, run off their land, and attacked by bears - they deserved this glimmer of joy.
I crossed the wooden bridge over the river and waved at Diana, who was hanging clothes on a line outside her house. Her two sons went racing by, fighting each other with sticks, and were followed swiftly by Catherine's sons, slightly older, with rosy cheeks and tumbling red curls. After so many months of hardship and lack, it was good to hear laughter again, and I couldn't help my smile as I stepped aside to clear the path for them. The bare trees creaked above me and echoed the children's laughter back to the frozen ground.
I found Prudence at her farm, leaning against the wooden perimeter fence and hardly suppressing her laughter at the sight before her. I could not see what she was laughing at until I was almost by her side, by which time she turned to me, and she could not keep the smile from her cheeks.
The object of her laughter was Connor: he was on the other side of the fence, trying desperately to herd Prudence's pigs into their pigpen. His hood was up and his back was facing me, but I didn't need to be able to see his face to envision his comical distress, evidently the source of Prudence's amusement. Every so often, I saw a puff of his breath as he muttered in Kanien'kéha with exasperation.
I couldn't help myself. "Hurry up," I called to him.
"Let him work," said Prudence, though her voice was shaking with unreleased laughter.
"Yes. Let me work." Connor did not look at me, but he stuck his middle finger in my direction, all the while desperately trying to guide a pig with his foot. "No no no no–"
The sow scurried past his leg, keen to continue nosing through the cold muck. My friend glared at her and finally glanced over his shoulder at me. "They are faster than they look."
"That sounds like an excuse to me," I said smugly. "Maybe you're just slow."
He opened his mouth to snap back at me and was almost immediately distracted by the sow's return, and this time he managed to guide her into the pen and close the gate after her.
I stopped watching him, for fear that I would never look away from him, and smiled at Prudence. "How are you?"
She gave me a smile I felt I could never fully know. "I do not feel real.”
I tried to imagine that feeling and felt as though I might spiral down, down, down past literature and philosophy, into a cavern unexplored. I knew I existed, as surely as I knew the sun and the moon and the Lord existed - to try to ignore what I knew to be true and examine another manner of thought would surely drive me mad. "Is there anything more I can do for you?"
"No," she said, "Connor is already doing it." In the silence between our voices, I could hear Connor grumbling at the pigs. Prudence continued, "It is good to see that your arm is healing. How is your friend doing?"
"Thomas is. . ." What was he? Perhaps that was the wrong question - what had he been, and what was he now? There was a narrow space in between, like a crack between two glaciers, and Thomas Carter was trapped in there, his bones slowly freezing together. Would his breaths melt the ice? Or would the cold take over until there was nothing left, until in Thomas' place lay an ice-crusted skeleton?
Prudence filled my silence. "I will stop by tomorrow with some soup."
A creak from the gate alerted me that Connor had finished herding the pigs. I glanced up to see him triumphantly closing the latch on the gate, behind which Prudence's four pigs snuffled with irritation. His eyes were bright beneath his hood.
"Thank you, Connor," said Prudence. "I could never have managed that."
In spite of his grumblings, he said, "It was my pleasure. Are you well?"
She beamed at him. "I am. Warren and I couldn't be happier." She did not have to say the words for us to see that it was true: her joy shone, radiant, from her face. She bent down and picked up the basket I had placed at her feet. "Thank you, Cass. I am in debt to the pair of you. How can I ever repay such kindness?"
"Name the baby after us," I teased, and she only laughed.
After we had seen her inside and bid her farewell, Connor and I began to walk back towards the homestead village. We had no more errands to run for the day, so we turned to quiet conversation to fill the time. The river ran smooth and quiet under the bridge, and I stopped so I might look over the edge into the water.
Connor tucked his hands beneath his arms to stay warm, so I offered him my fur muff. He shook his head. "You keep it."
"Share it with me," I said.
He agreed to that, and slipped his hands in next to mine. He grimaced. "Your hands are cold."
"Yours are warm." I tangled my fingers with his.
He looked down at our joined hands, brow furrowed. "How are we supposed to walk like this?"
"Let's not walk," I said. "Let's stand for a while."
Silence followed after that. Connor looked up to the sky, bathing his face in icy light. I watched him for a moment, and then turned my eyes to the bare trees arcing over us, waving brittle branches that rattled like dry bones.
A crow alighted on one of the branches overhead - it ruffled its feathers, and a harsh cry escaped its wicked beak. I was at once fascinated and unnerved by the way it turned its beady eye towards us, like it was watching us, studying us. The bird caught Connor's eye, too, and for a while, we stood and watched: two wolves studying one bird.
Eventually, Connor removed his hands from the muff (the absence of his hands left an aching cold at my fingertips) and for a moment, his gaze lingered on my neck. The beginnings of a flush began to creep into my cheeks, but he reached out and pulled my shawl tighter against my neck so I would not grow cold.
"Your family will be here in a few days," he said; his tone was light, but I knew there was something beneath it.
"Yes," I replied, "though Ryan will not be joining us. He is quite happy in his school, so I am told."
He murmured something that might have been an agreement. "What are we to tell them?"
"Must we tell them anything?"
I knew that we ought to tell Lydia and Gabriel something of our courtship so they might know what to expect, but, in truth, I did not want them to know just yet. It was our little flame that we fed in secret, and I did not want it to be blown out by them. The world was harsh, the war made everything cold and cruel - what we had was soft.
Connor had not answered me. "In truth," I said, "I don't want them to know because I don't want them to ruin it."
Beneath his hood, he looked puzzled. "How could they ruin it?"
"They'll find a way."
He faced me fully, and his tone became firm. "You need to stop worrying about what might be and what could be. Focus on what is present and what is."
He had every right to be frustrated with me, but I found myself growing defensive nevertheless. "What would you have me do?" I demanded.
For a moment, he looked as if he was about to say something harsh - and then he let out a breath. "I just want you to admit it," he said finally. "So we can move forward without the need for secrecy."
His implication was clear. No more hiding in the shadows. I knew that among his people, expression of emotion was frowned upon, especially during courtship - what had he said before? One does not show one's heart until the axe reveals it. He would not ask this of me unless it was something he really wanted.
I wanted it, too. He was all I had wanted for so long - and now here he was, standing before me, full of quiet determination. I knew, then, that this would be the end of me: spiralling down into the black depths of his eyes.
I started to nod, and to see the smile curling the corners of his mouth. “I’ll find a way to tell Thomas,” I said. “And we will tell my family when they are here.”
Why should I be afraid of them? Was I not worthy of love too? I pushed Connor’s hood back: he was smiling at me. We turned and faced the river, standing shoulder to shoulder, and by our sides, my hand found his.
“It’s all so complicated,” I said, watching the clear water flow over the stones below. “If we do this, we endanger the Brotherhood and put each other at risk. The Templars will never stop until we are both dead. But if we don’t do this. . . If we stay apart, we will never know what it is to feel like this. I’d let the whole Brotherhood burn if it meant I could hold your hand.”
Connor did not respond. I looked up at him and saw that he wasn’t listening - he had gone still, staring at the river.
I shaded my eyes with my hand, but couldn’t see much for the glare. Only a beaver on the far bank, and a log in midstream, sliding downriver.
Someone began to scream - a tearing sound that rose above the rapids and chilled my blood.
People came running from the village. Diana was screaming, her clothes line forgotten.
That wasn’t a log floating downriver.
It was Thomas.
Chapter 37
Summary:
It's a short one again, guys - sorry! This will be my last update of 2022!
I hope you all have a wonderful Christmas. And if you don't celebrate Christmas, then enjoy some time off.
I'll see you guys in the new year. <3Love,
Panda xoxo
Chapter Text
The world stopped.
A single breath escaped me and I screamed but no sound came out. Thomas floated downriver, and a trail of blood followed him.
I didn't think before I started running to him - I only knew I needed to reach him. I heard Connor say something but his words were lost in the wind. I was lost. Everything around me faded, sounds became noise, as every fibre of my being told me only one thing: get to Thomas.
Godfrey and Terry, drawn by Diana's scream, reached the river before I did - Terry leaped into the water and pulled Thomas out. I stumbled over gnarled tree roots but I did not stop until the path ended and my feet touched grass.
Thomas lay limp on the riverbank - he was so, so still. Terry was kneeling over him, dripping water onto my friend, supporting his head with one hand and tapping his cheek with the other.
I heard Terry's voice as if through a wall. "Open your eyes, Thomas."
Thomas was so pale - too pale. I did not register falling to my knees until I was there, and the wet grass was soaking through my skirts. Connor was just behind me, but I ignored him. His hand was on my arm, but his warmth felt strangely cold.
I watched Terry dig his knuckles into Thomas' bony chest. "Come on, Tom. Open your eyes."
I reached out and touched the side of Thomas' face. "Tom?" He didn't move. I tried again.
When Terry moved his hand from the back of Thomas' head, it came away wet and red. All breath fled from me: my lungs became voids, empty, black, endless.
My eyes began to blur. "Tom," I said, hearing the desperation in my voice, the panic. "Tom, wake up. Please wake up."
Connor said something behind me, but I felt as though I had stepped outside of my body and was watching from a distance: Terry pulling back, face grim; the boy lying in the grass, so pale and still; the girl whose dark hair fell around her face, masking the tears that would not stop. Her shoulders were shaking. I watched the beautiful man behind her gently pull her back, watched her fight against him.
I was becoming a part of the wind: one breath, a puff of air, like a child with a dandelion, would send me scattered with the clouds. The cold breeze carried something that sounded like Thomas' voice, and I turned my face to it, seeking him, but he was not there.
I watched as the trees showed me my life with him: Zacchaeus and London and the ship to the colonies and the fire. The little boy and the little girl who used to be us, laughing until their stomachs hurt in the drawing room of the girl's house. Swearing to marry one another should no other opportunities arise. Keeping each other's secrets.
Now I looked down to the girl, kneeling in the grass, crying over the dead boy.
*
At some point, I made it back to the manor. Everything was grey - all colour had been drawn out with a needle. The silence threatened to cave in on me. I wished it would. The roar would be better than the echoes, the absence of sound that rattled in my chest.
Connor was absent, though where he was, I did not know. I vaguely remembered Terry and Godfrey bringing me home - they were probably downstairs with Achilles. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Thomas.
It wasn't fair. Dogs had breath. Birds had breath. Even rats had breath - and Thomas had no breath at all. My eyes were dry, for I had cried and could cry no more. Numbness took the place of pain, but I knew that pain would be back to haunt me tomorrow, a dark shadow that lurked over my shoulder. The anxious gremlin that sat on my back dug its claws deeper into my muscles, holding tightly while it grew wings and morphed from one beast to another.
I could not return to my own room. The floor, the walls, the mirror - everything reminded me of him, carried his essence like traces of perfume in a drawing room. Instead, my feet had brought me to Connor's room - a place where Thomas had not touched, a place that did not change.
I was sitting on the wooden floor with my back against the bed. My wet skirt was sticking to my legs, but I didn't care about the cold. Maybe I deserved to be cold.
A purposely misplaced footstep on a creaky floorboard made me look up. Connor entered cautiously, his steps softened by his lack of shoes. He padded into the room and eased himself onto the floor next to me.
We sat in silence for a long time. When I couldn't bear to look out the window anymore, I watched the slow rise and fall of Connor's chest. He had breath, and I had breath, but Thomas did not.
I found myself leaning into him, and he placed a gentle arm over my shoulders. My breaths began to shake, but I could not cry.
There was a smudge of dirt on Connor's fingertips: he had been outside tracking something. I picked up his hand, and when I spoke, my voice did not sound like my own. "What did you find?"
He said nothing at first - and he slowly took his hand back. "Nothing."
He did not meet my eyes. I pressed again, and my voice hardened. "Tell me what you found." I could see the conflict in his face. "No secrets, Connor."
A muscle in his jaw moved. "I found tracks," he said carefully. "They were hard to find, but they came from the manor. I followed them."
I waited for him to say more. When he didn't, my eyes narrowed. "What?"
Finally, his eyes met mine, and they were desperately sad. "I saw only the prints of his toes and the balls of his feet. He was running as fast as he could."
A lump rose in my throat. I forced it down.
"I followed the tracks up the rocks to the cliff above the rapids," he went on. "There were dislodged pebbles and moss. He was running, and he did not stop."
Thomas had taken no chances, I thought. He had crept down the stairs, slipped out of the manor, and climbed to the cliff. Then he had thrown himself off.
The fall had probably killed him - or, at least, I hoped it had. I thought of him being alive when he hit the rapids, and a tiny whimper escaped me before my throat closed up and I began to crumble.
Connor pulled me against his side and held me. Though I did not cry (I couldn't), I felt something leaving me - like a bubble that has been popped and the water droplets scatter everywhere, and you are left wondering, Where has that bright and vibrant bubble gone?
Thomas was dead. Thomas was gone, and I was left with the pieces of an unfinished story, a song whose chorus had yet to play.
Chapter 38
Summary:
“And so I try to be kind to everything I see, and in everything I see, I see him.”
-Hanya Yanagihara, A Little Life
Chapter Text
His funeral was a few days after that. The entire homestead village attended, but I hardly saw them. Thomas' family had been told, and his mother wept by the grave, comforted by her husband. Rowan's wife sniffed and wiped her eyes, and Rowan patted her hand, but his stern eyes were on me, hard and cold.
I watched as Thomas' box was placed in the ground, I watched as dirt was piled over him. Connor was beside me, but I barely felt him there - numbness invaded every feeling, made me silent and pensive. Guilt pecked away at my soul, like the eagle that pecked Prometheus' liver.
I should have been there for him. I should have saved him.
He was buried holding a chain in his hands, and on that chain was a ring. Only I knew what that ring meant to him - only I knew that it was a symbol of the love he had shared with Francis.
It rained after that, such unceasing, relentless rain that I curled myself into an armchair in the living room and watched it through the window. I could hear Connor somewhere behind me, sitting alone in the kitchen while he mended a torn shirt. I knew he was watching me, but I paid him no heed.
Someone passed by the window, and I sat up straight. At first I dismissed it as one of the sailors, perhaps, or one of the much-beloved villagers, but in the rain I saw the flattened dark hair, the hands in his pockets. He was thin, and I couldn't see his face, but I was certain that it was Thomas. I shoved on a pair of shoes and bolted outside.
He was here. . . he was here, and I could save him. . .
As I ran out the door, Connor called to me, but I ignored him. The rain was beating down around me. "Hey!" I yelled after the figure.
But when he turned around, it wasn't Thomas.
He walked away, and I stared after him, looking at the trees and forest paths that surrounded this accursed manor. I saw flashes of Thomas. The bare trees were the same colour as his hair. He used to smile at the grey squirrels that fled from his approaching footsteps. I remembered all of the times we had walked around trees like these ones, and my throat closed up.
The rain got heavier; it felt like it was tearing through my insides, slicing me in two. I sank to my knees in the grass and pressed my hands over my face, and the rain seeped into my skirts. The cold bled into my bones. I stayed there and rocked in the rain, with tears falling down my face. I couldn't stop crying.
Why Thomas? Why Thomas, when he was so young, and he was so bright, and he had so much to live for. . .
I felt someone behind me and then the weight of a coat around my shoulders. Connor leaned down and helped me up. My legs were weak and my chest ached and Thomas wasn't there. I held on to Connor as he led me back towards the manor.
"It's okay, Cassandra," he murmured. "It's going to be okay."
We got back inside and Connor sat me down at the kitchen bench, then wrapped his arms around me. He stroked my hair, which was dripping wet, and I leaned into him like I was a child. Before Thomas died; before I joined the Brotherhood; before. Before all of this. . . this mess.
"Why did he have to leave me?" I wept.
Connor's grip did not loosen, but his voice was soft - a breeze whispering over grass. "I don't know."
I gave a voice to the poison inside my head. "It's my fault," I mumbled. "I should have saved him."
Connor's hands moved to my shoulders and pushed me back so he could look me in the eye. "He did it," he said, "not you. His choice was not your fault."
In my mind, I saved him countless times. I leapt into the water and pulled him out. I stayed back at the manor and stopped him from leaving. In my mind, I held him and cried with him and told him that things would be okay. And I made him soup, and he ate it.
But none of these actually happened. I left him alone, and I had not saved him.
Achilles had taught us that our bones were the only things breakable about us. Enforced it. If that was the case, then the place in my heart where I loved Thomas was as integral to me as my ribs, and it, like a bone, had shattered.
Connor's fingers dug into my shoulder blades, and I met his gaze. There was no pity there - only sadness. A small line between his brows betrayed his anxiety. I leaned forward into his chest once more, and he supported me there. It reminded me that our relationship wasn't a rescue mission after all, but an extension of our friendship, in which Connor had saved me and, just as often, I had saved him.
*
When my family came to visit, my self-appointed ten days of mourning were nearing an end. I was sure that Lydia and Gabriel were expecting joy at their arrival, but I could find no joy in my heart. Connor stood with me to greet them, and neither of us missed the furtive looks passed between Lydia and Gabriel. I had written to them of the fire in New York, but had not contacted them since their invitation to the manor. They did not know about Thomas, and I did not have the words to tell them.
Lunch was a tense affair. I wanted to speak but couldn't, and so remained silent. Connor and Achilles tried to make polite conversation with my parents, but all I could see was Meredith scowling into her plate and fiddling restlessly with her fork. Her golden curls were pulled back from her face, showing her delicate bones, her cream-pale skin, her dark eyes.
Achilles held up his cup: a silent request for Connor to fill it for him. Obediently, Connor picked up the jug and poured, eyes flicking up to the old man to watch for the signal that told him to stop.
"The weather has been miserable as of late," commented Achilles.
Gabriel nodded. "Yes. The rain hasn't cleared in three days."
Their small talk bored me. I set my knife and fork lightly down, careful not to scrape them against the plate. The unfinished food taunted me, and I could feel what little I had eaten taunting me from within, asking me, Why are you alive when he is dead?
Under the table, Connor placed a gentle hand on my leg; when I laid my fingers against his, he was warm against my cold hand. His thumb brushed the burn scars on the side of my hand.
Lydia reached over the table and placed a soft hand on my other, and beseeched me with wide blue eyes. "Cassie, darling, are you all right? You don't seem yourself."
Meredith threw down her fork - it clattered onto the plate, deafeningly loud, and all of us looked to her in surprise. Her face was dark with anger. "Oh, shut up."
Lydia frowned. "Merry, what's wrong?"
"Don't Merry, what's wrong? me," my sister snapped, voice full of venom. "I'm so sick of you treating her like she's something special. Poor Cassandra this and dear Cassandra that. It's like I'm invisible to you - because all you care about is her."
"Don't be silly," chided Gabriel.
She rounded on him. "I'm not being silly. When was the last time either of you inquired as to my life? When was the last time either of you bothered to care?" Her dark eyes burned when she glared at me. "You're so conceited that you don't even notice."
"Meredith," warned Gabriel; it was the first time I had ever heard him sound anything but gentle.
If she heard him, she didn't show it. "The world is yours, isn't it?" she spat at me. "We're nothing but pawns to you - Connor and Thomas, too. Did you ever actually care? Or are you just using Connor to warm your bed, and Thomas to fill the emptiness in your chest?"
Next to me, Connor stiffened, and I saw his eyes flicker as that familiar mask of coldness shut his face down. The barest rise of his chest betrayed the words he was about to say - I squeezed his hand under the table, and gave him the slightest warning glance. Don't.
Meredith was not finished. "Where is Tom, anyway? Did you get bored of him too?"
When I found my voice, it was cold. "He died."
The room went still. For a moment, Meredith looked stunned; her mouth opened, but no sound came. I couldn't even feel satisfied at having shut her down, because it was true. Thomas was dead. My sister's cheeks paled as it dawned on her that I was not being sarcastic, that I was serious. From the corner of my eye, I saw Connor and Achilles exchange a sad look; I saw my mother press her hands to her mouth.
I stood and threw my napkin down. "Excuse me," I said.
They watched me leave the room, but I didn't look back at them - not even at Connor. The plates taunted me and my sister's accusing eyes turned my blood to lead. When I reached my room upstairs, I released a long, slow breath. "Oh, Tom," I murmured. "I need you here."
I knew that I had to move on - I had to stop letting grief control my days. The only time when I did not think of him was that split second after waking, when I knew only peace and did not yet remember my own name; but that moment always ended too soon, and the grief came crashing back over me in stormy waves. Every day, I remembered him, for there was something in every day that reminded me of him.
I knew Lydia followed me upstairs before she even opened my door: I had listened to her soft footsteps on the stairs. She sat next to me on my bed; she smelled like perfume, and that comforted me. "My darling," she murmured, and wrapped me into a hug. "Why didn't you tell me sooner?"
I had wept for Thomas and could weep no more. I leaned into my mother and stared at the wall behind her. "I didn't know how." I knew how: Thomas is dead because I didn't save him.
She rubbed my back and kissed my temple. "It's okay, Sassy. You're allowed to feel sad. Don't mind what Merry said."
Three days from now would mark the tenth day since Thomas' death, and after that, I would mourn no more - I did not adhere to ten days because of the belief that prolonged grief would prevent the soul's passing to the afterlife, as was Connor's belief; rather, I gave myself these days so that I would not be the puppet of grief for the rest of my life, and endanger the Brotherhood in my weakness. I sighed slowly.
I would not be a puppet. I was stronger than that.
When I pulled back from her, I made a decision. "I'm so grateful for all of the time I got to spend with him," I mused. "It's been a blessing."
Lydia smiled with her eyes more than her mouth. "Tell me all about those times."
I did.
Chapter Text
Winter began its slow ascension into spring. A cold wind blew flurries of dead, dry leaves through the wisps of grass. I felt as though the wind could blow through my ribs, whistle between the bones, and I would float away with the leaves - hollow, empty. I had mourned Thomas and told myself to move on, but that did not mean I was not sad.
I found a dry place to sit on the cliffs that overlooked the bay with my diary open on my lap; I was reading through my entries from the last year and marvelling at all that had happened - the good and the bad. Connor's name was one of the most prominent on these pages. I reviewed all that we had been through, together and apart, and was glad.
The grey sky stretching before me threatened rain, but I did not mind. I liked the rain - all ideas about it seemed fascinating and romantic to me. Besides, I rationalised, I could do with cooling down - we had completed a long and difficult run before our duties, and I was unusually warm. Rain might be nice. It would take my mind off my own sadness, and the temporary relief that that would bring was greatly anticipated.
I tucked the diary into my pocket and stood, brushing bits of moss from my breeches. I had hardly seen Connor these days - work and duties separated us more than I enjoyed. And when I was with him, there was, at times, an odd tension between us, like we were both avoiding a grenade at our feet. I knew why, too.
After Meredith's fuss during my family's visit, I thought it best to keep our courtship under wraps for a while longer, at least until I found out what was wrong with my sister - so we had not told them. Nor had we told Achilles, and Connor did not like this. I did not enjoy the secrecy either, but felt it was our best approach at the moment. Connor's displeasure, I suspected, was the reason for this tension between us.
To the unknowing eye, there was nothing wrong between us - but I spent almost every waking moment with him; I would know him in darkness, by the pattern of his breaths, by touch alone. I knew him well enough to know that he was bothered and trying not to take it out on me. It was my fault, I knew that (everything was my fault: Thomas, Meredith, Connor. . .), but the more I tried to help, the more I withdrew because everything was wrong, wrong, wrong.
I isolated because Connor was displeased, and he was displeased because I was isolating, and thus we turned, chasing one another in a circle, reaching out but never quite touching. We did not know how to be angry with each other, so we were sad.
I tipped my head back and watched the clouds shifting above me, heavy with unshed rain. A storm was brewing over the mountains. Perhaps the rain would wash away my thoughts, like a hand on a window full of condensation.
Inspiration struck, then, and I took my diary from my pocket so I might record these musings. I was turning my sadness to poetry, word by word by word; the story of my life enclosed in gilded rhyme.
As I walked away from the cliffs, the wind whispered through the rattling trees and reached my ears to tell tales on one another. What might trees gossip about? What trivialities might irk them? The trees had stood in this forest for longer than I had been alive; they had some stories to tell. They were the silent eyes that watched as I grew alongside them: when I met Achilles, when I was accepted into the Brotherhood, when Connor and I kissed, and Thomas. . .
Oh, Thomas.
Sometimes, when men came home from war, they still had bullets inside them. They did not speak of them, and looked as well as any other man - but every change in the weather, however slight, brought back the old agony as sharp as they had ever felt it on the battlefield. I had my wound, and I carried the bullet with me still - I would carry it to my grave.
A twig in the forest snapped, and I watched a squirrel scamper up a tree. I tucked my diary into my pocket once more and smoothed my breeches, picked bits of moss from the backs of my legs.
A flash of movement in the corner of my eye made me look up - a second too late. Rough hands pulled me behind a tree, out of the view of the manor; the cold end of a flintlock dug into my ribs. I belatedly recognised the voice that hissed in my ear, "Don't move."
I could feel him trembling against me, could hear his barely controlled breaths. "Rowan," I said slowly, "what are–"
"Why did you do it?" The gun pressed harder into my ribs.
I was stunned. "What did I do?"
He pushed me away, like he could not bear to look at me. Rowan's sandy hair was awry, and his face, usually pale, was the white of sleepless nights. His bloodshot eyes burned through me. "You told everyone about Thomas and that's why he's dead. You're a snitch."
I flinched at his harsh words. He had always been so kind to me - where was that man now? His words weren't quite true; Connor was the only person I had told about Thomas, and even then, it was only out of necessity. For years I had held on to this secret of his, a rotting apple in my hands, and now it was finally in the light, and I was in trouble for the mould on my fingers.
"I told nobody," I said, hardly daring to take my eyes from the gun in his tremulous hand.
Spittle flew from Rowan's mouth as he snapped, "I know what you did. It's your fault that he's dead."
For months, these words had hunted me down; for months, I felt like I was running from something, but when I looked over my shoulder, there was nothing - and just as the words were beginning to fade, here was Rowan speaking them into existence again.
I felt something in me snap, and then my hand was drawn back, poised to slap him.
He caught my wrist before I could make contact, and pulled me closer. I tried to pull away, but his grip was unforgiving. There was nothing kind in his eyes, nothing of the boy I used to know. The cold metal of his ring pressed into my skin, and there, on that ring, was the insignia of his damnation, ugly as the mark of the beast.
On some level, I had already known - and I had known for a while, now - but the confirmation was like a rock in my stomach; the knowledge that Rowan was a Templar, one of them, drowned out the sounds of the world until all I heard was my heart beating rapidly in my ears.
I tried again to yank my hand free, but his fingers tightened over my wrist as he looked into my face with undisguised hate. "You killed him." His voice was soft - the beginnings of a tiger's growl. "You killed my brother."
I heard the words he did not say, a whisper on the breeze. We are coming for you. Anger turned my blood to fire, and the flames lent me the strength to pull my arm from his grip and smack him across the face.
Red bloomed across the pale cheek. As he turned his face slowly back to me, I felt, for a horrifying moment, that I was in the sights of a lion. He was going to eat me alive.
But all Rowan said, in that quiet voice, was, "This is not the end, Cassandra. I'm going to gut you and feed you to the dogs."
Those hazel eyes burned through me as he took a backwards step away from me - and another - and another. His face was cruel: the hard line of his mouth, the eyes glittering with hate. He spat at my feet and stalked away into the forest, still gripping the flintlock so tightly that his knuckles went white. He did not look back at me. This was a warning, I realised. The calm before the storm.
The next thing I knew was that I was in my room in the manor, with no recollection as to how I got there. I was sitting against the closed door, breathing slowly to alleviate some of the mounting pain in my chest.
The first heavy drops of rain were beginning to patter against the glass of my window, and I closed my eyes so I could listen to them - something, anything to drown out the sound of Rowan's words ringing in my head like a death knell.
I pictured strength as a wall fortified with iron and stone: tall and wide; I could see no end to it. But his words were a pickaxe against the mortar, and the wall was starting to crumble. This would never end, never, and I could feel that strength in me getting smaller, smaller, smaller, and soon it would be nothing and I would be nothing and I could see them standing in front of me - Rowan and Tobias and Kenway and Lee, and behind them stood Thomas with blood dribbling down his head–
I could feel it building in my chest - that pressure, that panic - and just about managed to stand, unsteadily, and stumbled across the floor to my bed. The darkening sky flashed with lightning as I, in desperation, picked up a pillow and screamed into it - anything to let this pressure out of my chest, anything so I could breathe again.
My eyes were wet. I crumbled into myself, curled on my side on the bed - and I knew, at least on some level, that Rowan was right. It was my fault, and now the Templars were coming for us - for me.
*
I couldn't sleep that night. The rain roared on the roof; it sounded like a beast about to open its mouth. Every time I closed my eyes, they were waiting.
The house was in darkness when I stepped out of my room, using the moonlight as my guide. I paused at the threshold of my door, curling my bare toes against the cold floorboards, and listened to the rain - and beyond that, the silence.
I realised, then, that I had not felt such silence in a long time: my thoughts had been loudly crowing their malicious victory in my ears since Thomas' death. But there was one person with whom I found silence, found the peace I craved.
I blinked, and I was at Connor's closed door. The room behind it was quiet - not the quiet of absence; rather, that of stillness. I could do with some of his tranquility.
The door did not creak when I opened it, just enough so that I could slip inside. For a moment, I was disoriented in the darkness, but then lightning turned the room silver, and there he was, curled up small in his bed, eyes gleaming in the dark. Neither of us spoke, but he watched me as I climbed into the bed next to him; he shuffled over to make more room for me, and under the blanket, his hand found mine. He was so warm, so safe, and he made me feel warm and safe.
It struck me, then. Love and war were not synonymous, as my grandmother had said - love was not a battle, full of danger and bloodstained hands. Love was safety. He was love. My love.
I felt him nuzzle into my shoulder. "What is wrong?" he asked, and his voice was soft - not like Rowan's, whose was more akin to the building roar of thunder; Connor's was like honey.
I turned on my side so I could look into his face, though in the dark, all I could see was the reflection of light on his eyes. When the room lit up again, there was such gentle patience in his expression. All tension between us evaporated with that look.
I found my voice. "I feel like I shouldn't be sad anymore. Thomas is gone, I know that, but. . . I'm so sad. And nothing I do can stop it. Does that make me weak?"
His fingers tightened on mine. "Grief is not weakness. Grief is love, just in different clothes. I still miss my mother - you think I have not cried myself to sleep?"
He surprised me, though I didn't know why - he was always so strong, so level. "You have?"
He gave me a look. "I am human, Sassy. Do you really think that I am just a walking lump with no feelings?"
There was tentative humour in his voice, and in spite of the darkness, I smiled a little. "A walking muscle with no feelings, maybe."
His laugh was quiet, but infectious. "Is that why you came in to my room?" he teased. "To insult me?"
I knew how that sounded, objectively - that I had come to a man's room in the middle of the night and crawled into his bed - but there was no judgement in his voice. "I wanted you," I said simply. "You're comforting, and I need that right now."
I felt his thumb brush over my knuckles. "What happened?"
I told him about Rowan, and he listened in pensive silence. I did not want advice, I did not want to be consoled - I just wanted to be heard. And he heard me.
"They will come for me," I said. "Rowan has painted another target on my back, and he intends to strike a bullseye."
"A target on your back is a target on mine," murmured Connor. "We will handle it together."
What had I done to deserve such a friend as him? I kissed the top of his head. "I'm sorry for laying all of this on you in the middle of the night. It seems more like something that ought to be shared over strong whiskey."
He laughed again, that soft laugh; it was like music to me. When he sat upright, the lightning illuminated the lines of his bare torso, and he brought my hand to his lips to kiss my knuckles. "Come with me," he said, getting out of the bed.
I made no move to follow as he put a shirt on. "Where?"
"Outside."
"But it's pouring rain."
"And?"
"And I'm only wearing my shift," I protested, but I knew my argument was a weak one.
He was smiling as he held out his hand to me. "Trust me."
He led me by the hand down the stairs (silently so as not to rouse Achilles) and out the front door. Once we were outside, the rain pelted down on us, but we were free. Wet grass squelched under our bare feet as Connor led me away from the looming darkness of the manor, using the moon as his guide. We did not get far, only reaching the edge of the trees before he stopped and took both of my hands in his. Rain streamed from his hair into his face, and his shirt clung to his body.
"Dance with me," he said.
It was clumsy and awkward (as we both narrowly avoided stepping on twigs), but we were laughing together, closer than we had been in a long time. Why had I avoided him for so long? He looked down at me with such tenderness, and for a moment, I saw myself the way he did, looking down at this dark-haired whirlwind, an indomitable spirit, unable to be broken or tamed.
What a sight we must have been: the pair of us dancing with only the rain as our music, soaked to the skin, grinning like idiots.
He leaned down, bringing his mouth to my ear. "Tomorrow, you and I are going to go for a walk into the homestead village." The brush of a kiss against the corner of my mouth. "And I am going to hold your hand." His forehead pressed against mine. "And we will show them that we are a team. You and me. Me and you."
I found myself nodding. "Yes," I murmured. "Let's do that. I want to do that."
We both knew that that would also mean breaking the news to Achilles - and neither of us knew how he would react. Would he be angry? Disappointed? In that moment, I didn't care; I kissed him in the rain anyway.
Chapter 40
Summary:
it was my initial intent to fill this chapter with equal parts fluff and angst, but i got caught up in the fluff this time. enjoy!
it won't last for ever.
Chapter Text
Dewdrops glistened on the grass, as diamonds under the sun, when my darling and I stepped outside the next day. In the post-storm clarity, the world was glowing with fresh vibrancy - I couldn't breathe the sharp air deeply enough. Everything was new.
I paused on the doorstep and tipped my head back, bathing my face in the sunlight. A blue-winged magpie hopped left and right on a branch above me, and it tilted its head to watch me through one gleaming eye. Deeming me uninteresting, the bird ruffled its feathers with its beak.
When I turned away, I found Connor watching me, standing halfway down the path, and there was such tenderness in his expression that I smiled. "What?"
His mouth curved into a gentle smile. "You are so beautiful."
If I was beautiful, how much more lovely was he? What could be more beautiful than him? I took his reaching hand and he pulled me to his side, and his skin was warm in the sun. Looking at him required me to tilt my head back, and I gladly did so, for he was more beautiful than the moon. I took him in: the slope of his forehead, the curve of his nose, his sharp cheekbones, his watchful eyes.
He was looking at me, too, and when our eyes met, we started to laugh. Maybe it was the fresh air and the water sparkling on the grass, or maybe it was nerves; something made us fold into one another with merry affection. After so many months, we were finally doing this. We were stepping out, presenting ourselves not as Connor and as Cassandra, but as Connor and Cassandra.
It was as it was meant to be, I felt. In our lives together, there had been no other option but love, no other way to live.
I thought, then, of Adam and Eve - created for the other, did that make them soulmates of a sort? I reflected on that - the Lord God caused a deep sleep to fall upon Adam, and he slept: and He took one of his ribs, and closed up the flesh instead thereof; and the rib, which the Lord God had taken from man, made He a woman, and brought her unto the man - and Connor laughed softly when I told him this, and asked if I was implying that I was one of his ribs.
Our hands did not separate as we walked down the dirt path into the homestead village. I pointed at the bright clusters of daffodils that speckled the grass. His thumb brushed gentle circles over the scars on the side of my hand. We crossed over the sun-dappled bridge, and the river running under it was clear and fresh; was this really the same river that Thomas had floated down?
How the village had grown in the years since Connor and I had saved Lance! We had a church pastored by Father Timothy, and the Mile's End inn courtesy of Oliver and Corinne. The forge was owned by the blacksmith David Walston, who we suspected had his eye on Ellen, the tailor. And, of course, there was Lyle White, Warren and Prudence, Terry and Godfrey, Robert Faulkner, Myriam, Norris - and then there were the children. . .
As we walked now through this homestead, we did not set a destination: we were satisfied to merely walk together, palm to palm, with the sun on our shoulders and a gentle breeze at our backs. I stopped by the grassy bank beside the dirt path and bent, still holding darling Connor's hand, and picked one of the bright buttercups.
I held it up for him to see, and felt myself smiling widely. "Do you remember what I told you about these?"
His eyes were soft, and he took the flower with delicate fingers. "How could I forget?" he murmured, holding the flower under my chin. I went still as he tucked the flower behind my ear, as he brushed the tenderest kiss against my cheek. My cheeks heated up and I looked away bashfully.
From the corner of my eye, I saw Warren pacing restlessly outside Lyle White's door, fretting with the straw hat he used to shade his bald head. I frowned, and when I moved towards him, Connor did too.
"Warren?" I said. "Is everything all right?"
Warren was breathless. "It's Prudence," he said, and a spike of fear went through me. "She went into labour in the early hours," he continued, voice taut with the barely-restrained panic of a first-time parent. "I don't know how long she will be. I don't know if she is okay."
My hand detached from Connor's, and though Warren's eyes were drawn to the movement, he was too stressed to comment. I placed a soothing hand on his shoulder.
"Let me talk to Lyle," I said.
Warren's nod was minute, and as I approached the door, his lips became bloodless. "I can't look," he groaned, and, pressing a hand over his eyes, proceeded to stagger backwards away from the door, the object of his acute horror. Connor guided him away from the door when I opened it.
Lyle's surgery was usually a peaceful place; I had grown accustomed, thanks to my visits, to the various herbs and powders lining the shelves: purple roughbark and foxglove and mandrake and wolfsbane and hellebore; various green leaves: sassafras, thorn apple, wormwood, haselwort; jars of opium and fragrant incense. Dark, glossy berries drooped on the thin twigs of a plant absorbing the light in the window - deadly nightshade.
Prudence herself was on the bed, her breaths laboured. Yellow flowers - lady's bedstraw, I noted - were scattered on the floor next to her: they had been stuffed into the mattress. Lyle was stirring a steaming cup, peering through the spectacles on the end of his nose. He looked up when he heard the door open, and his eyes were very large through the lenses.
"Cass," he said, still mixing fervently. "It's not really a good time."
My voice was soft. "Is there anything I can do to help?"
He looked stressed: Prudence wasn't due for another two weeks. After a moment of deliberation, Lyle thrust the steaming cup at me. "You can mix this."
The cup was warm, and there were various leaves and other bits floating in the water, and the steam wafting up smelled pungent and bitter. I frowned. "What's in this?"
He didn't respond for a few moments while he checked on Prudence. "Oak bark. Lady's bedstraw. Roughbark. Camphor. Elfdock. Castor oil. A little bit of nightshade. False hellebore. Some honey to reduce the bitterness."
Mostly sedatives to treat the pain. I used my elbow to open the door, afraid to stop stirring. Time was precious, and we did not have a lot of it.
Immediately, Warren's anxious face turned towards me, and in that instant, his dark eyes were as wide and terrified as a sheep. Connor had remained with him, watching over the older man with gentle concern. Warren reached a hand out to me, and, seeing the cup in my hands, began to tremble. "Is she okay?" he asked in a choked voice.
"She's fine," I soothed him. "This is to help the pain."
The tense panic fled from his body. "Oh, thank God," he breathed. "I can't stand to think of her in pain."
There came a low groan from Prudence behind me, and Lyle called to me in a tight voice. I saw Warren's face go pale, and I could do nothing but give him a reassuring smile before I shut the door and was once more ensconced in Lyle's surgery.
Lyle was folding towels and placing them beside the bed. "Did I see Connor out there with Warren?"
"Yes." I gave the cup to Prudence and she drank from it, and pulled a face at it. "We took a walk today because the sun is so lovely," I continued. The next words both excited and terrified me. "We wished to announce our courtship."
The doctor flashed me wide smile. "Congratulations. I am delighted for the pair of you."
Prudence started to say something that turned to a sharp groan as she gripped her round belly. I looked to Lyle for assurance, and he said calmly to me, "Have you any experience with childbirth?" When I shook my head, he smiled. "Would you like to learn?"
His tone implied that this was not an offer, but a request for help: he needed an extra pair of hands. Though the idea of being present and helping Lyle during the birth terrified me, I was sure it would be useful to me in the future. I thought of the day Ryan was born, and how neither Nadia nor I knew what to do.
I nodded. "Okay. Tell me what to do."
*
The air in Lyle's surgery was close and warm, and I opened the window to allow the cooling air in. Finally, the room was silent - as Lyle cleaned the area around the bed, I smiled at Prudence, who was gazing at the baby in her arms, gazing with such love that I was struck with a pang of sadness. It was a baby boy. His first cries had brought Prudence to tears.
Lyle sent me outside to fetch Warren; the man rose instantly to his feet (for he had been sitting against the wall next to Connor) when I opened the door. His eyes were wide, for he had heard through the walls the entire process. Before he could say anything, give a voice to the worry inside him, I smiled. "Come in," I said, and opened the door wider. "It's a boy."
The first time Warren set eyes on his son, he was silent with awe, brushing a reverent finger against the little cheeks. Connor hung back in the doorway; I joined him there, unwilling to break the reverie of the scene before us - two people meeting their son for the first time. Neither Connor nor I had had a moment like this in our lives: both of our parents were apart by the time both of us were born. I saw a certain wistfulness in Connor's dark eyes, a sadness that could not be explained.
Shielded by our bodies, I laced my fingers with his. "It's so beautiful," I murmured, "watching a family come together. This is all they've wanted for so long."
"How did it go?" he asked me, careful not to disturb the hushed room.
I thought for a moment. "It was difficult," I said. "My respect for Lyle has really increased. I don't want to go through that myself any time soon."
Connor chuckled softly. At that moment, both Warren and Prudence, who had been talking quietly, looked our way. Warren beckoned us closer, now unable to contain his smile. His straw hat lay forgotten at the foot of the bed. "Come."
Neither Connor nor I had met a baby since Ryan was small, and seeing their son now brought back all of my memories of my brother. I wondered, then, how he was doing in his boarding school.
"Does he have a name yet?" I asked.
Prudence and Warren looked at one another, and Warren beckoned Prudence to speak with a gentle nod of his head. "Cass," she said. "Do you remember when you advised me to name the baby after you and Connor?"
Oh heavens. I had meant that as a joke. When I nodded, she continued. "We did actually take that somewhat seriously. You both have nice names, but we thought naming him Connor might be a bit too on-the-nose. So. . . we named him Hunter."
I watched the realisation settle into Connor's beautiful face, watched his eyes widen as the full magnitude of the name sank in. No words formed - what words were good enough? - and I found this to be one of the rare times when I couldn't fully decipher the emotions in his face. There was joy, but there was also sadness - and both of these combined like butter and sugar, creating something wholly new and wistful.
"I am honoured," he said, looking first at Prudence, and then Warren. His voice did not betray his emotion, but his fidgeting hands did. "Thank you."
"Thank you." Warren was earnest. "Were it not for you, Prudence and I would not be here. Little Hunter would not be here." The man looked at his baby, and the gentleness that overtook his lined face made my heart ache.
I began to back away, and bowed my head in farewell. "We will leave you to enjoy this peace."
The couple bid us a heartfelt (and tearful) good-bye, and when we stepped outside, I took a deep breath of the open air; I had not realised just how close the air in the surgery had become until I left it.
It had been morning when we set out earlier today, and now the sun was high in the sky. I gave Connor a sheepish look. "I'm sorry for taking up our walking time."
"Nonsense." He pulled my wrist to stop me from walking ahead. "You did a beautiful thing, and I am so proud of you." His hands cupped my jaw as he leaned down to kiss me.
How funny it was that I had to stretch up on my toes and he had to lean down just so we could kiss - but we made it work, and there was something so comforting about the way he towered over me, like I was protected in his shadow. What an odd couple we made: the tall native American and the small English girl. Everything about us was a contrast - but maybe that was why we worked.
I found myself smiling against him when I pictured how we must look to others, and he pulled back, curious. "What?"
His eyes saw everything lovely, and everything wretched, in me - and he did not look away. "I think it's so wonderful that we can do this so openly. This homestead is our little haven where love is free to grow."
He, too, began to smile. "It is as it should be." When we stepped away from one another, a line formed between his brows - the only frown that would mark his face today. "Your buttercup is gone."
I touched my hair and found it to be true. With a falsely-annoyed tsk, Connor turned and searched the vibrant grassy banks, and returned moments later with two of the yellow flowers. "Now we can match," he said, and I heard the quiet joy in his voice as he placed one of the flowers in my hair. I took the second from him and stretched up on my toes so I could return the favour.
Now that we were both pretty princesses, we joined hands once more and began a meandering walk, finding that the destination was not as important as the adventure we partook in. Neither of us spoke, for we were both content to simply absorb the other's company and listen to the birds overhead.
Our adventure brought us to the fields surrounding Warren's farm, wide and green and speckled with sheep. I gasped at the lambs that bounded through the grass, and giggled at their flopping pink ears.
I let go of Connor's hand so I could climb over the fence, and as soon as I was in the field, a lamb came running over to me, bleating loudly, and tried to bite my fingers. I laughed and scratched its little head, and its tail began to wag as it sucked on my finger, thinking it to be food. Another lamb followed the first, and this one headbutted my arm in a rather violent search for food, which made me laugh more.
I heard a strangled yelp behind me, and turned just in time to see Connor flip Norris over his shoulder; the miner landed heavily on his back and groaned. Evidently, he had come up behind Connor and touched him, and Connor had reacted instinctively.
This did not, however, diminish Norris' good spirits. "My friend!" he wheezed.
Upon recognising Norris, Connor's expression became irritated. "Norris, what are you doing?"
"She said yes!" Norris beamed up at Connor, his joy quite unlike any I had seen before.
Connor's face cleared. "Myriam?"
As Norris accepted Connor's hand up, he cried, "We are getting married!"
I didn't know whether to laugh or dance about. The two lambs butted my hands again, and I picked one up, and it squirmed desperately in my arms until I let it go. I heard a laugh, and Myriam emerged from the trees, a smile splitting her pale face. Norris had run here and she had walked, I assumed.
She joined Norris at his side and chided him lightly. "I told you not to touch him."
Connor was smiling as he placed a hand on Norris' arm, and said, in joyous disbelief, "Is it true?"
Myriam laughed again, a sound not unlike a chiming bell. "Yes!"
I climbed back over the fence so I could join the trio and make it a quartet. "Congratulations." I beamed.
Myriam turned to me with equal felicity. "I believe the same can be said for you - we have heard tell of your courtship." She eyed the buttercups in our hair with mischief.
I sighed, though I was not annoyed. "Word travels fast."
"We heard it from Terry, who saw you leaving Dr. White's," she said, and we both laughed - of everyone on the homestead, Terry was the biggest gossip.
Even Connor rolled his eyes, but there was no misgiving behind the gesture. "Of course he would tell everybody."
That made all of us laugh. When I looked up, I saw Father Timothy approach - evidently, he had followed after Norris and Myriam - and he joined in the good-natured laughter. "So," he said when there came a gap in the conversation, "now that you've been told, might I have a word? We have much work to do."
I had rarely seen Connor shining so brightly. "Of course. What would you have us do?"
Timothy adjusted the black rimmed hat that covered his thinning hair. "Accompany me to the inn - I have business there."
Thus, with a final farewell to Norris and Myriam, Connor and I followed Timothy up the dirt path that wound through the forest, and, after a few moments, the pastor got straight down to business. "Norris is a stickler when it comes to tradition. Myriam knows not where her father is - and they were hopeful that you–" this he addressed to Connor– "might act his part in the ceremony."
Connor was silent, though he met my eyes. "I am not familiar with colonial wedding customs."
I clarified for him: "It means you'll walk with Myriam during the ceremony, and give her to Norris as her father would."
I watched his face become soft - twice, now, in one day, the people of this homestead had pierced his heart and injected it with love. "I would be honoured," he said.
Timothy nodded enthusiastically. "Wonderful! Right, on to other business: our weddings are complex beasts, and require many hands working together to execute them. We'll need Warren and Prudence to provide food - taking into account, of course, the birth of their son this morning - Ellen to make them appropriate clothes, and Big Dave to smith wedding bands, and me to conduct the service, and Oliver and Corinne to host a banquet. . ."
Connor's eyes were wide. "That is a lot."
Giving Connor's arm a hearty clap, Timothy held open the Mile's End door for us. "We'll start here."
There were many tables inside the cosy inn, some of which were occupied by sailors from the port, or weary travellers on their way to the hinterland. Corinne was cleaning a glass behind the bar, and looked up as the three of us entered. "Well, if it isn't the talk of the town!" She came out from behind the counter to wrap me in a hearty hug. "Congratulations, my dear. We were all wondering when it would happen. Connor's such a quiet lad, so private, and you're so bright - it was only a matter of time!"
Timothy tipped his hat to her. "We come bearing even more good news - a wedding approaches."
She gasped loudly, and beheld Connor and me with more delight than I thought possible. "Engaged already? Oh, this is so exciting. Congratula–"
Connor winced. "I apologise, Corinne, but it is Norris and Myriam who are getting married."
It took a moment to sink in, but then the older woman nodded sagely. "Yes, I suppose that makes more sense. Well, I am thrilled for them! My, two happy couples in one day - it's a wonder any of us can breathe through all of this love in the air!"
Timothy took her aside so he could speak to her about the wedding; I understood that our work - that is, mine and Connor's - was finished here. With that in mind, I smiled up at him. "It's official."
His voice was soft and dreamlike. "Yes, it is."
I would be fooling myself if I thought nothing could spoil this day, however - for we still had another large problem to deal with. "What will we say to Achilles?"
Connor grimaced. "I do not know. I suppose it is best if we tell him now."
I agreed, though I did not want to. Like tearing off a bandage, it was best done swiftly. We bid farewell to Timothy and Corinne, who waved us cheerfully off, and we set out for the manor. The old man would be angry, that much I knew - after all, almost everything made him angry these days - and I could not help the nerves that squirmed in my stomach. Neither of us spoke; each of us were, in our own ways, trying to muster the courage to break the news to Achilles.
Chapter 41
Summary:
author-chan really said “let’s be happy today” so uh here you go :)
Chapter Text
"Announce your what?"Achilles demanded.
Connor and I had entered his study somewhat sheepishly, and as Connor told him, I found myself staring at the taxidermy eagle next to the window, at the shadow its wings cast on the floor. America was declared a free country last year - so surely we were free now.
Neither Connor nor I spoke, and in the absence of our voices, the old man sighed heavily and rubbed his forehead. "This is exactly what I wanted to avoid," he grumbled. "I saw it coming long ago, and yet I still hoped that it might be avoided. How foolish of me."
As though following my eyes, Achilles looked at the wide-winged eagle on its stand behind him, and shook his head slowly, disapprovingly. "It isn't like this is the first time this has happened to my students," he muttered. "But I had enough of that with Hope Jensen and Shay Cormac. I do not need this now, with the pair of you."
I was reminded, then, of something Nadia had told me when I first confided in her. There is never a wrong time or wrong place for love. It just happens. Was that true for Jensen and Cormac? Perhaps their spark had not yet been ignited to a flame, but that did not mean that it was not there.
Our silence seemed to irk Achilles, who continued his complaint. "You have no idea how this jeopardises all that we stand for. There is danger enough in your working as a team, but romantic attachment? You become the other's weak point - something I specifically taught you not to have. No weak nerve, no fear. Only your bones may break. By commencing with this courtship, you make a liability of yourselves."
Connor's eyes never left the old man. "That is a risk we are willing to take."
"Really?" the old man snapped. "You would throw away your life's work - and mine - for this? You would let the Templars win for this? Because I assure you, boy, there is no pity for lovers. Blood runs red no matter whose it is."
We were all-too aware of the risks - it had taken us a long time to discuss it in secret so Achilles would not catch on to us. But if love was a war, as my grandmother had said, then surely it was a war worth fighting.
"We know," I said.
Achilles held his steady gaze for a drawn-out breath, and then rolled his eyes with an annoyed sigh. "I know I can't change your minds," he said. "You're both too stubborn. It's ridiculous. But I know it isn't my place to come between this. So I have only two requests for you - no, not requests. Orders.
"You must put the needs of the Brotherhood before your own," he continued, "as you swore to do. You made an oath long ago, and it is your duty now, as Assassins, to uphold it at all costs. You have pledged your lives first and foremost to the Brotherhood, and so you will remain until you are incapable of doing so. And–" he counted his requests on his fingers– "no children. I do not want my house filled with screaming toddlers, thank you."
That seemed reasonable - until the old man turned and pointed to the wooden cabinet in the hall and said lightly, jokingly, "A letter for you, Mrs. Kenway."
Connor bristled - he hated any association with his father's name, which he did not share nor wish to share, and the fact that Achilles had applied it to me, however mocking it may have been, stirred the anger within him.
I ignored the comment and slipped the letter into my pocket. Connor, however, was not so adept at brushing off his annoyance. "Do not call her that."
"What?" huffed Achilles, incredulously. "I'm only teasing."
I listened to them with half an ear while I went to the kitchen: it was my turn to make dinner. After setting a pot of water over the hearth to boil, I set to work peeling potatoes.
The men behind me were not finished. "Teasing?" snapped Connor. "Are you sure you are not just taunting?"
"I don't know what you mean."
"Yes, you do."
Achilles' voice took a lower note. "Can you blame me for wanting to see how far your newfound sympathy for the Templars extends?"
"What sympathy?"
"Don't play the fool with me, boy," hissed the old man. "I have heard you express your regret following their deaths."
"Because their words make sense."
"Because the Templars are masters at manipulation, boy - have I taught you nothing?"
Arguments such as this had been increasingly common in the manor as of late - Connor and Achilles continually clashed over a difference of beliefs: Achilles believed the Templars should die at all costs, while Connor pondered the merit of their words and felt pity. My own stance, I supposed, was somewhere between the two: I lamented the loss of life called for by the Brotherhood, but I also understood that if the Templars were not stopped, they would paint the streets red with blood.
Already we had received word from the French Brotherhood that a powerful Assassin, Charles Dorian, had been killed at the hands of Shay Cormac, who had seized the Precursor box that our Orders fought for. In spite of this, however, the Assassins were on the offensive, and the Templars on the defensive, thanks to our endeavours in America.
After a while, the pair stormed away from one another, as all their fights concluded as of late. Connor drifted into the kitchen on silent feet and peeked into the pot of boiling water, in which the potato chunks and chopped vegetables now floated.
He wandered the kitchen aimlessly for a few moments, looked over my shoulder at the cabbage I was shredding. "What did the letter say?" he asked in a sullen monotone.
I realised I had not yet read it. "Here," I said, "wash your hands and take over from me while I read it."
He stepped easily into my place, and used his hands to tear the cabbage while I sat on the bench and sliced the seal open. The letter was from my mother. I read it in silence - horror, horror of horrors, weighed upon my heart with every word written in my mother's elegant hand. There was a slant to her writing, a jaggedness that was not normally there, and it betrayed her panic.
Connor politely gave me a few minutes to read it before asking me, "What does it say?"
I placed the letter flat on the table with numb fingers, and when I spoke, my voice did not sound like my own. "Meredith has run away."
*
I could not settle for all of that day, so Connor and I set out for Boston early the following afternoon, taking two of our best horses. The day was overcast, quite unlike the blistering sun of the previous day, and my mood sank low.
I set a hard pace, and after an hour, I could feel my horse flagging - still I pushed on, gritting my teeth against the anxiety that gnawed me. Never, in all of my strangest dreams, did I imagine Meredith doing this. I didn't know why she would do this, and because I didn't know, I couldn't fix it, and because I couldn't fix it, I worried.
Connor urged his horse closer to my side, close enough to reach out and touch my elbow. "Sassy."
"Why would she do this?" I said, and I could feel my voice rising. "How could she do this?"
He did not know - how could he? So I let my words hang in the air between us, and the silence that followed was thick. The yawning dread hung over me like a mouth waiting to clamp down, dripping from its teeth onto my head.
I felt the horror burrowing into me, and knew, with a sudden jolt of realisation, that this was my mother's curse. Every person I loved in my life only ended up leaving. I held them too tightly, I loved them too much, and when the inevitable came, I was the one with the bleeding hands. From my birth, I had been snake-bitten: everywhere I turned, people left.
Soon my parents' house came into view as we crossed the winding roads; it was eerily quiet as we hitched the horses to the fence. No birds sang on this grey morning - all life was sucked from their bones.
What would have been a day of joy - the announcement of our courtship to my parents - was one of sorrow. I knocked on the door, and my hand was feeble.
It was Nadia who answered. Nadia, who had moved out after her happy marriage to Finch, whose shining kindness was held tenderly in my heart. Her gentle eyes were sad as she beheld us on the doorstep.
Lydia and Gabriel were in the drawing room, side by side on the sofa, and Lydia was holding a piece of paper in her shaking hands. They both looked up when Connor and I stepped inside, and Lydia rushed over to hug me tightly. I could feel her trembling.
"Merry's gone." Her voice was high with desperation. "She's gone!"
"Why?" was all I could ask.
My mother gestured to Gabriel, who was frowning at the piece of paper in his hand. "She left a note."
Mother, Father, Cassandra, Ryan,
By the time you read this, I will be halfway to the Carolinas. My absence will probably go unnoticed by you, so I do not expect that you will reach me.
I am finished with living the life that you want me to live. I am beginning to live the life that I want to live.
Do not try to follow me. You will be unable.
My sister's anger bled through every word. I folded the paper carefully and returned it to the silent Gabriel. It was useless to ask what had caused this - we had. I had.
"When did she do this?" I asked, quietly.
It was Gabriel who responded. "Three days ago."
"She's gone!" wailed Lydia.
Three days. Connor had tracked older prey than that - surely he could do it again. But when I met his eyes, his face did not change, and the shake of his head was so minute I almost didn't see it. That was odd. Why wouldn't he try to find my sister?
"Why would she do this?" my mother wept. "She's only twelve."
Suddenly I knew. I patted her back to comfort her. "Merry told me before that she wanted to act. My guess is that she found a travelling theatre troupe and joined them."
"Acting?" Lydia wrinkled her nose. "Why would she choose such an undignified dream to chase?"
"Because," I said, "undignified as it may be, it was a dream nevertheless."
Lydia's face fell, and she gave Gabriel a long, sad look. "So she left because she didn't think we would support her?" I heard the words she didn't say. Did we fail her?
My sister left, I knew, because she felt unloved. In the beginning, she was an only child, the darling of her parents. Then I came along, the half-grown sister, eight years her senior, who immediately took the attention of her parents. Lydia spent so long trying to make things up with me that she neglected to love with the same measure her second daughter. While outwardly Meredith was subdued, dreams began to soar in her heart - and running away was the act of creating her wings and flying as Icarus.
Lydia and Gabriel looked so heartbroken, so fragile - perhaps some positive words would cheer them up. "I have good news," I said. "Connor and I wish to announce our courtship."
I received a mix of delight (from the quiet Gabriel) and disappointment from (from Lydia). My eyes found Nadia standing in the doorway, and she was smiling widely at me. She was the first person I had told about my feelings for Connor, and here she was now, witnessing it. Beside me, Connor was silent and still.
"Oh," my mother said.
My heart froze. "Excuse me?"
My mother sighed and sat heavily next to her husband and rubbed a hand across her forehead, ruffling her golden hair - hair that was just like Meredith's. "If you marry–" she sounded tense– "you will marry below your class. You will have nothing."
"I don't care." Class was of no importance to me. Money was not a concern. We would get by, as we always did - that was the beauty of the homestead community.
I shifted my gaze from Lydia to Gabriel, who was watching me with dark, steady eyes. A small smile had formed at the corners of his mouth. But it was Lydia whose head drooped, who said, "I wanted more for you."
What more could I want but love? Connor was tense beside me, listening and not responding with an impassive expression. One would think I had told her that we were pregnant, and not merely in courtship. I did not tell her, therefore, that we had been holding this secret for months.
Lydia abandoned me as a baby - she left me when I needed her most. Thus, she had no authority over my life or how I lived it.
As though she knew this, Lydia rose and pulled Connor and me into a hug. I was smaller than Lydia was, and Connor was taller, so it was an awkward angle, and Connor did not fully reciprocate the affection.
"My dear ones," she murmured. "Forgive my temperament. I'm a mother: I want what's best for my children." She tenderly kissed the top of my head. "And you're my stubborn daughter, and you burn so brightly. If this is what you want, then this is what is best for you."
When we parted, Lydia's eyes were teary anew. "Now, you must tell me everything. Stay for dinner."
*
Lydia also insisted that we stay the night, so after dinner, I showed Connor to Nadia's old room upstairs, for Nadia herself had to return home to her husband. The room was small and plain, with a simple bed and locker. My Connor deserved better, I decided, and brought him to my old room.
It still looked as it had before I moved out, though empty of the possessions that made it quintessentially mine. The room was dark, and while I lit the lamps, Connor stood in the centre of the room and looked around.
"So this is it," he said. "This was your home."
As the small flame flickered to life, I looked at Connor. "My home was where you were."
His eyes were soft as he watched me light the final lamp, watched me return to him and drop my head against his chest. He patted my back gently.
After a while, I opened my eyes and looked up at him. "Earlier, when we were talking about Merry, why didn't you say you could track her? We both know that you can."
"Because what your sister did is, in essence, what I, too, did when I left my people to come to Achilles." The orange lamplight flickered in his eyes. "Meredith only gets one life, and she must carve out her own path in it."
"When did you become so wise?" I teased.
He rolled his eyes and pushed me playfully away. I ducked behind the screen in the room so I could change out of my dress, and Connor sat on the edge of the bed.
"In spite of everything," I found myself saying, "I'm glad we told them. I feel better now."
"Good. Now we are free."
The irony of his words almost made me smile as I unlaced my corset and hung it over the top of the screen. To find freedom in this time of war was a strange idea indeed.
When I emerged at last, wearing my comfortable chemise, I sat next to him on the bed and asked, "What should we do regarding your people?"
He saw through my careful words. "I am unsure if we should tell them as we did your parents. My people emphasise control of emotion, especially during courtship. To go to them with such an announcement would plant seeds in their mind that the white man has poisoned me." Seeing my disappointment, he continued, "My people's celebration of the summer approaches. I would like you to come with me."
Other than Kanen'tó:kon, I had never met Connor's people - and the prospect both thrilled and terrified me. "I'd like that."
His smile was slight. "Good," he said again. "I am glad."
I lay back on my old bed in the room that had once been mine. I used to sit at the desk and write letters to Connor and Achilles and Thomas. The bookshelves, once piled high with books, were now bare. I had become who I was in this room, and as I glanced at Connor, who was also looking around, I thought that this was his little glimpse into Cassandra's world, a chance to see through my eyes.
As I climbed under the covers, Connor stood. "I am sure your parents would not like to find me here at this hour. I bid you good-night."
"Wait," I said before he could turn his back. "I don't care what they think. Stay here for a while."
He gave me a long look before saying, "Fine." I grinned and moved over to make room for him, knowing that if he had actually wanted to leave, he would have put up more of a fight to have his way.
As he settled next to me, I pondered. This was only the second time I had slept in the same bed as him, and I was paranoid. Would I wake him if moved? Would I take all the blankets and leave him cold?
But when I looked at him, my fears melted like candle wax. He was my best friend - so what if we woke each other up with kicking? We would probably deserve it.
He looked back at me, and his eyes were bright in the lamplight. "I have told you about my people," he said. "Our customs and our ways. You have heard about my childhood - but I have not heard yours. So, tell me your story."
"What do you want to know?"
"Tell me about your childhood. Tell me about why you are a Christian. Tell me about England and your journey to America."
I did.
*
We set out for Kanatahséton upon leaving the house in Boston. Connor gave me a brief explanation of the summer initiation festival: it took place over five days and was believed to be the awakening of Mother Earth following her winter sleep. On the first day, the women and children would gather foods, like fruits and nuts, to be used in the planting ritual the next day - a mark of respect for the earth and hope that the summer would bring a fruitful harvest. The third day was silent, as the soil was allowed to rest, at peace. The fourth day - today - was the celebration, and the next day was a continuation of that.
He did not explain what the celebration entailed, and as he led me through forests I had never seen before, I soon began to hear laughing children and chattering voices. I followed his lead and dismounted when he did, and we approached the wooden lattice walls on foot.
Once we were inside the walls, Connor took the horses away, leaving me to stand and marvel at the village before me. There were six longhouses next to the glistening waters of a lake, and I could see a group of teenagers hauling canoes onto the water. Various growing patches were made visible by the dark, freshly-planted earth.
Some women sat in the sun, chattering and weaving wampum together, while others gathered by the cooking fires, preparing the food for the celebration. Ballrooms and glittering chandeliers did not shine a light on the beauty of this place.
Connor returned just in time for a familiar voice to call, "Ratonhnhaké:ton!" and Kanen'tó:kon broke away from a crowd of men to greet his friend with a joyful hug. "Tekwanonwerá:tons. Ohnisonhatie?" (Welcome. How are you?)
Connor smiled widely as they embraced. "Ioianerákie, ontiatén:ro. Tiohrhén:sa satá:ti?" He gestured to me. (I am well, my friend. Can you speak in English?)
Kanen'tó:kon noticed me and smiled. "Little pale one," he greeted me, "it is good to see you again."
"You too." I could see the familial resemblance between him and Connor (though in my eyes, Connor was the most beautiful of the pair, beautiful beyond compare, beautiful beyond reason).
Sunlight dappled the ground with drops of gold as I followed Connor and Kanen'tó:kon deeper into the village, past a group of young men fastening beads to carved wooden masks. Some of them recognised Connor and waved to him in greeting.
Kanen'tó:kon brought us to one of the longhouses, out of which the scents of incense and tobacco drifted. "Then Clan Mother would speak with you, Ratonhnhaké:ton," he said, and then addressed me: "Cassandra, wait here."
Once Connor had ducked inside, I saw it: for a split second, Kanen'tó:kon's expression fractured, and a darkness took the place of joy on his face. Then it was gone, and he turned sharply and walked away, and I was left wondering if I had ever seen it at all.
As I stood alone in the sunshine, I tried to see the world through Kanen'tó:kon's eyes, to try to understand the look I had just seen. From childhood, he and Connor had been inseparable - and then his best friend was lured by a higher calling, pulled into a mission to save their people, and left Kanen'tó:kon alone. He went from doing everything with his best friend to doing everything by himself.
Kanen'tó:kon was jealous of Connor, I realised. And jealousy was always a dark omen.
By the time I came to this conclusion, Connor stepped out of the longhouse, shading his eyes against the sun. "Oiá:ner would like to speak with you," he told me.
Nerves seized my throat in a chokehold as my feet led me into the cool shade of the longhouse. There were open doorways at each end, allowing light to reach the sleeping mats that clustered by the walls in family units. A fire burned quietly in the centre, releasing smoke through an opening in the roof, and sitting cross-legged beside this fire was an old woman.
I had never seen anyone like her. She was small and stooped, with a deeply lined face and papery hands gnarled from a lifetime of labour. Her grey hair was twisted into two braids that reached her waist, which was encircled by a wide belt of red and white beads. She wore a porcupine quill necklace that rattled as she turned her head towards me.
"Sit," she said in a voice like the ancient trees, and gestured to the place across from her.
I sat on the floor and crossed my legs as she did. Her dark eyes watched me with the keenness of an owl. I tried to find traces of Connor in her face - perhaps the bone structure, or the eye shape.
"What is your name?" she asked me.
"Cassandra."
"Hm." The old woman's chin raised slightly. "You are English." When I nodded, she said, "My people favour the English in this war: something that Ratonhnhaké:ton cannot understand. What of you?"
"I stand for freedom," I said.
Oiá:ner regarded me with a look I could not read, and clasped her hands in her lap. "A dreamer," she mused. "Like Ratonhnhaké:ton."
The fire popped, and little sparks were scattered into the air. I recalled Connor's stories of his mother's death in a fire - she would have been Oiá:ner's only daughter, whom she was hoping would become the next Clan Mother.
"My grandson tells me," she continued, "that you are in courtship with one another. Will you marry?" When I didn't respond, she said, "In our tradition, it is a man who moves village to join his wife's clan. What can you offer Ratonhnhaké:ton?"
My heart was in my throat. "I love him. That's all I can give."
Those owl eyes were bright and thoughtful. "But is it enough?"
She turned her face to the fire, and her copper skin turned orange, deepening the lines on her face until she was as cracked and seamed as the bark of a tree. I understood that this was my dismissal, and left on silent feet, afraid to break her focus.
Connor was waiting for me by the doorway, watching a small group of children chase each other with sticks. He knew I was there without looking. "How did it go?"
"She scares me." I shuddered, which made him laugh.
As the day wore on, Connor introduced me to the rest of his family; they bore names I could not dream to pronounce, so I remembered their faces instead. Food was served as the shadows began to lengthen, making the trees that surrounded the village seem taller, darker. We sat with Kanen'tó:kon as Oiá:ner stood and blessed the food, thanking the plants and the animals for giving their lives for us, thanking the spirits for keeping the people safe for another year.
I let the words wash over my head like water, for I did not believe in this paganism, and found myself instead looking at Connor. He listened intently, eyes sharp and focused as a wolf. I was fascinated by the way the sunlight touched his skin, and thought, for a moment, how difficult it might be to capture in paint.
The food was good. Wild turkey and rabbit and squash and corn, to celebrate the starting harvest. And once the food was cleared away and the fire towered high, the dancing began.
Young men wearing carved wooden masks began to dance around the fire, beating water drums and turtle-shell rattles and singing something I couldn't understand. I was fixated on the masks, how terrifying they were, taller than men, with gaping mouths and black, sightless eyes. The false faces, Connor told me.
The villagers began to dance in a wide circle around them as darkness fell - I was told that the circle was to represent the circle of life, and the drums mimicked the heartbeat of the earth.
Connor and I stood apart from the circle and watched, though it was without any bad feeling. I watched from a distance so that I might learn by observing, and Connor chose to stand with me.
He tilted his head and looked at me. "I heard what you told my grandmother."
I looked up at him and acted shocked. "You were eavesdropping?"
He shrugged his broad shoulders. "I could not help but overhear." His tone became soft, and his eyes gleamed in the firelight. "You love me?"
I scuffed one shoe in the dirt. "Yes."
"Say it to me."
I had told him before, but that was when we were just friends - not like this. My heart was in my hands, and I was offering it to him, warm and still bleeding, and I knew that he would keep it safe.
So I smiled. "I love you."
I had rarely seen such tender joy on his face, and when he did choose to show it, it was a beautiful, beautiful thing. His smile at this moment could have outshone the stars. "And I love you." He took my hand and began to pull me towards the circle. "Come, let us dance."
We found an opening in the circle and squeezed ourselves in. The air was thick and warm, and sparks from the fire floated up into the night sky to join with the stars there. The heartbeat of the earth echoed in our heads as we danced through the night.
Chapter 42
Summary:
Since this chapter was released on the 7th of July 2023, the same day Taylor Swift released Speak Now (Taylor’s Version), this chapter now belongs to her.
Chapter 42 (Taylor’s Version).
Chapter Text
Conditions began to worsen as the war began to turn in favour of the British. Following the American victory at the Battle of Princeton, America gained her flag on the 14th of June - thirteen alternating red and white stripes, and a blue field with thirteen white stars, the first symbol of our true unity and freedom. But in September, the British marched on Philadelphia and took over the city, forcing the Congress to flee. Following the Battle of Germantown, Washington and his troops were forced to make their way to Valley Forge in Pennsylvania, where they were making camp for the winter.
The winter of 1777 was desperately cold, and brought snow drifts almost taller than my head. We had spent a day clearing the road down the hill so that the wagon could get through (Connor also stuffed snow down my neck until I screamed).
Baby Hunter grew with each passing month, and I found it my joy to walk to Warren's farm to babysit. The child reminded me of my brother, whose letters home were becoming increasingly infrequent.
But for all the joy I found that winter, there was hardship, too. Food was running low, and we made do with dried and preserved foods from the store room. Morale was low as news of the terrible conditions in Valley Forge spread: almost a thousand American soldiers had died from disease and starvation. The Prussian military officer, Baron Friedrich von Steuben, and the French officer, Marquis de Lafayette (when Clipper told me his full name was Marie-Joseph Paul Yves Roch Gilbert du Motier de Lafayette, I almost spat out my tea), had joined Washington in the encampment to help train the soldiers, and indeed, their input was vital to the Continental Army, but it did not stop the men from freezing to death for their lack of adequate clothing.
Tensions were rising in the Davenport manor, too, as Connor and Achilles clashed more and more often. Connor remained convinced that we should warn Washington of the Templars' plot against him and reveal to him our true identities as Assassins, but Achilles was adamant that we keep quiet.
He and Connor argued every day, and these disputes usually ended with one of the other storming off, a walking black cloud.
So, one day in December, Connor and I rose before dawn and packed our bags. We mucked out the stables, fed the horses, and when we had completed our chores, we walked out of the manor, sleeping mats under our arms, into the snow.
Achilles stomped after us, cane hitting the ground after every angry step. "Don't do this!"
Connor whirled on him then, the hidden anger of the past few months suddenly raising its head. "Then what do you propose we do? Sit and watch while the Templars take control? We are sworn to stop them - or have you forgotten?"
"Assassins are meant to be quiet," snapped Achilles. "Precise. We do not go announcing conspiracies from the rooftops to all who pass by–"
"Who are you to lecture anyone?" I had seen this seething anger in Connor only rarely: the glinting eyes, the bared teeth. "You locked yourself away in this crumbling heap–" a disdainful gesture at the red-brick manor– "and gave up on the Brotherhood entirely. Since the day we arrived, you have done nothing but discourage us - and on the rare occasions you've chosen to help, you have done so little, you may as well have done nothing at all."
For a few moments there was silence as Connor's harsh words hung between us, caught in the frozen air. Connor was stiff as a wolf; one sudden move and he would snap.
Achilles' weathered face hardened. "How dare you."
Connor took one menacing step towards him, his voice low and dangerous. "Then tell me: on whose watch did the Brotherhood falter? Whose inaction allowed the Templar Order to grow so large that it now controls an entire nation?"
The old man looked like he was about to snap something equally as cruel, but stopped himself and took a deep breath. "If I sought to dissuade you," he said slowly, "it was because you knew nothing. If I was reluctant to contribute, it was because it was because you were naïve. A thousand times you could have died, and taken God knows how many with you!" He matched Connor's step forward with one of his own, glaring into his dark eyes. "Let me tell you something, Connor: life is not a fairytale, and there are no happy endings."
Resentment was written across Connor's face as he regarded Achilles with a look I had never seen - a look of utter contempt. "No," he said coldly. "Not when men like you are left in charge."
He turned, then, and fastened his bags to his horse, and waited for me to do the same before mounting. Achilles hobbled down the steps and reached out, holding the reins before Connor could pull away.
"In your haste to save the world, boy," he said softly, "take care you don't destroy it."
The men held eye contact for a few drawn-out moments, and I almost thought that Connor seemed to nod, just once, before jerking away and kicking his horse into action. I looked over my shoulder as we rode away, looked at the old man standing on the steps of the lonely manor, a dark figure against the snow.
We rode the horses long and hard, past breaking point, barely stopping for food or rest. For almost four days we kept this up before we were forced to stop, if only for a night.
The wind howled through the empty trees as we made a poor excuse for a camp. We huddled around a small, smokeless fire, trying desperately to rub some warmth into our hands. After a gruelling ride and a miserable meal, neither of us were in the mood to talk much.
Above us, the branches spiked the stars - they would catch the morning sun in their pointed fingers. I rested my chin on my knees and watched the sky grow dark as snow-filled clouds began to gather.
Connor was watching the clouds, too. "It will snow tomorrow," he said. "This will be a cold night."
There were bigger things on our minds than the snow, however. I pulled my blanket tighter across my shoulders and glanced at him. "What will we tell Washington?"
He met my level gaze. "The truth."
I knew the web of his thoughts did not end there. Though he did not speak it, I knew the reason why he wanted to speak with Washington: he wanted to find Lee, of whom we had heard neither sight nor sound since Connor's attempted execution. We heard that he had been captured by the British in December of 1776, and was still in custody.
Since Artemas Ward's resignation as second in command of the Continental Army due to his poor health, Lee stepped up to take the position. With such control over the army, the Templars were creeping back into prominence. All Lee needed to do was dispose of Washington and he would have complete control over the army - and could therefore swing the war in whichever direction the Templars chose.
With Lee still in prison indefinitely, we needed to speak to Washington - and soon.
I looked at Connor, watched the way the fire lit his face golden. "Penny for your thoughts?"
His dark eyes flicked up to me. "You would pay twice that not to know them."
I frowned. What darkness was there that I would not gladly embrace for his sake?
His expression lightened a little. "I am a brooder," he said in that soft voice of his. "Brooders brood."
He did not expand on this, and I did not ask him. There existed some things that simply did not wish to be spoken, and Connor's dark thoughts were among them. How I longed to shove my closed fist into that darkness, to feel the shadows against my fingers as minnows, and slowly to open my hand to allow light to spill forth - to light up the darkness.
Would he be willing to let the light in? Or was he so acquainted with his pain and anger that he would close himself up, never to see the sunlight again?
I was distracted from my thoughts by Connor settling himself on his sleeping mat and pulling his blanket over his chest. He had barely spoken, and I knew this should not concern me, but I found myself watching him anyway, for a sign of his mood.
After a moment, he noticed my eyes on him, and when he spoke, his breaths misted in the freezing air. "Are you cold?"
I nodded, curled tightly into myself in front of the fire. He shifted over and lifted his blanket slightly - an invitation that I did not refuse, and swiftly joined him under the shared blanket. He was warm and solid beside me, and I tucked my head against his shoulder; I needed something to hold, to remind me that, enigmatic as he was, he was nevertheless my Ratonhnhaké:ton.
His silence was unnerving. Physically he was here with me, but in his mind, he was far away, mulling over his fight with Achilles and thinking what he would say to Washington.
He did not usually wish to talk when he was deep in thought like this, so I nestled closer to him and closed my eyes, savouring the warmth that came from him. Neither of us smelled too good - in fact, we rather stank of horse - but I could not find it in me to care.
One of his hands came to rest on the back of my head, a gentle, reassuring touch that comforted me as I drifted into a deep sleep.
*
I was shocked by the conditions in Valley Forge when we arrived there some ten days later. It was not common knowledge that the soldiers were suffering - we heard it from Jacob Zenger and Clipper Wilkinson, two of our recruits - and to see them now horrified me.
Small cabins had been constructed to keep out the snow, but the stink of decay hung heavy in the air as improperly-transported food was thrown to the rats. The soldiers that I could see were pallid and thin, patrolling the perimeter with lifeless eyes or sitting limp as dolls under the dull, unforgiving sky.
We found Washington at the crest of a small hill from which we could see the entire miserable encampment. He watched us approach with cold eyes.
Connor dipped his head. "Commander."
Washington greeted us with a somber, "Connor, Cassandra." Snow flecked his grey wig, and the cold turned his lined face pink.
"Any word on Lee?" asked Connor, disguising his restless impatience with careful blankness.
The commander in chief shook his head. "Not yet." He broke off and sighed, shifting on his feet and clasping his hands behind his back. "My apologies. I have been distracted. Supply caravans meant for the camp have gone missing. . . I suspect treachery."
Connor and I glanced at each other. Surely this was the work of the Templars.
"A traitor," Washington continued, "named Benjamin Church, recently released from prison, has vanished as well. The two events are surely related."
Of course, I realised. Church was found to be secreting information to the British general Thomas Gage, and was arrested after one of such letters was intercepted in Boston. Washington had declared the doctor disgraced.
"Caught sending letters to the Loyalists," muttered Washington, "detailing our troop strength. He claimed it was a scare tactic, that we might avoid war. . . A poor lie."
I spoke up. "We will find Church for you."
The commander looked at us, face creased with confusion. "Why? What reason have you to help?"
Connor's voice was even. "Does it matter?"
Washington regarded us for a few long moments, scrutinised our faces with unreadable eyes. "As you wish. We've received reports of trouble along the southern road. Might be he's responsible - I suggest you begin your search there."
At his dismissal, we retrieved our horses and set off into the forest, following a trail only Connor could see. He could track anything: he could almost seem to hear the heartbeats of the birds, the individual steps of the beetles.
Since the supplies were being brought to Valley Forge behind the backs of the British, we knew that they would therefore need to be stored in a safe, secluded place where none would come looking, save for the American soldiers.
The trail brought us to an abandoned church. Its white planks were caving in, and the glass windows had been smashed out. The surrounding forest was eerily silent save for the creaking of trees under the weight of the snow and the faint rushing of water from a stream somewhere behind us.
I stayed outside while Connor stepped into the church, his footsteps hardly audible. There was no use in both of us going inside if there was no one keeping watch outside, but the air was freezing, and I grew restless. There were a few chipped wooden crates outside the door, but they were empty, with only bits of straw and discarded threads to speak of the former contents.
A shuffle and a muffled thud from inside the church had me springing around, hands going to the knives at my waist.
A dark figure had knocked Connor down from above and was pinning him to the chipped floor; I saw the silver glint of a blade at my friend's neck. But before I could pull my arm back to throw a knife, I heard Connor's defiant voice spit out, "Father."
In the same cold tone, Haytham Kenway said, "Connor. Any last words?"
Connor's eyes met mine for a fraction of a heartbeat and pushed against Kenway's hand on his chest. "Wait."
I could not see the smirk on Kenway's face, but I heard it in his voice. "A poor choice."
I threw my knife, then, and knocked the tricorne off his head. Startled, he twisted around, and the momentary distraction was all Connor needed to push him off and stand. His hood had fallen back, and in the cold winter light, he was pale and deadly as ice.
Kenway did not appear bothered, and acknowledged me with a dip of his head. "Cassandra," he said coolly, "we meet again."
"Come to check up on Church?" snapped Connor, turning his father's attention back to him. "To make sure he'd stolen enough for your British brothers?"
Kenway was appalled. "Benjamin Church is no brother of mine - no more than the redcoats or their idiot king." The two men glared at one another, and then Kenway sighed heavily. "I expected naïveté, but this. . ." He paced for a moment, and then turned back to Connor, speaking slowly and stressing his words. "The Templars do not fight for the crown. We seek the same as you, boy: freedom; justice; independence."
I spoke up. "But."
Kenway raised his eyebrows at me. "Hm? But what?"
"Johnson," Connor said; "Pitcairn; Hickey. They sought to steal land. To sack towns. To murder George Washington."
Kenway let out a long, slow breath, and pinched the bridge of his nose in annoyance. "Johnson sought to own the land, that we might keep it safe. Pitcairn aimed to encourage diplomacy - which you cocked up thoroughly enough to start a goddamn war. And Hickey? George Washington is a wretched leader - he's lost nearly every battle in which he's taken part." He paced a few steps, and the sword at his hip caught the light. "The man's wracked with uncertainty and insecurity. Only look at Valley Forge to know my words are true. We're all better off without him."
Connor kept circling, kept pacing - a cornered wolf preparing to spring. His dark expression did not change.
With a huff, Kenway said, "Look, much as I'd love to spar with you, Benjamin Church's mouth is as big as his ego. You clearly want the supplies he's stolen. I want him punished. Our interests are aligned."
The enemy of my enemy is my friend. I watched Connor, who looked to me for a moment before saying, "What do you propose?"
"A truce. Perhaps–" Kenway cleared his throat, like he had difficulty saying the words– "perhaps some time together might do us good. You are my son, after all, and might still be saved from your ignorance." A bland smile curled his mouth as he held up his hand, and a wrist blade appeared, shining in the cold light. "I can kill you now, if you'd prefer?"
Connor's eyes met mine again, but neither of us spoke. Kenway did have a point about the truce - and I knew that Connor harboured thoughts, a dream, perhaps, that he might sway his father in favour of the Assassins.
Thus, our silence was Kenway's answer. "Excellent," he said, suddenly bright, and picked up his hat from the floor, dusting it off. "Shall we be off?"
Connor scowled at him. "Do you even know where Church has gone?"
"I'm afraid not." The Templar replaced the hat on his head. "I had hoped to ambush him when he or one of his men returned here. It seems we're too late. They've come and cleared the place out."
So that was why he had been up in the rafters: he had been waiting for Church to enter, and instead of his target, it was Connor who stepped through the door, as an unsuspecting fly is trapped in the spider's web.
I stepped back to let the two men out of the church, and Connor crouched before the empty wooden crates for a closer look. Kenway and I stood back to let him work, and the Templar tilted his head at me. "I trust you are keeping well," he said, a poor attempt at small talk.
The last time I had seen him, I was begging him to help Connor. He had done it, too. "Why did you save him?" I asked him quietly, referring to Connor's execution.
Kenway's hard face did not change, but there flashed in his eyes a certain small sadness, a wistfulness that disappeared as swiftly as it appeared, swallowed up in sinking sand. "Curiosity."
We followed Connor through the snow-covered forest, avoiding deep and slippery patches. Ahead of us, a road wound through a clearing, where a man knelt by a loaded wagon, trying to fix its broken wheel.
Bold as anything, Connor stepped forward, hands clasped together, and said, "Are you Benjamin Church's man?"
The driver took one look at him and his face drained of colour; he bolted off in a desperate dash up the road. Fast as a viper, I darted after him and managed to grab him by the collar. He stumbled backwards, and I slammed him into a tree.
I leaned into his back, pressing his chest harder into the rough bark. "It wasn't very wise to run," I said.
"What do you want?" he spluttered.
I felt Connor hovering over my shoulder, heard his voice say, "Where is Benjamin Church?"
"I don't know!" the man cried as I pushed him harder against the tree. "We was riding for a camp just north of here. It's where we normally unload cargo. Maybe you'll find him ther–"
There was a deafening bang in my ear, and suddenly the man's head cracked, blood spraying, gore dripping from the skull. I staggered back as the hot blood coated my face, shaking my head hard to cease the ringing in my right ear.
Beside me, Kenway replaced a flintlock in its holster. "Enough of that," he said coolly.
Connor whirled on him; where his father was all ice, Connor was a burning fire. "You did not have to kill him!" I heard him faintly, for my head was still buzzing.
Kenway sighed. "Let's not waste time with all this pointless banter. You go catch up with Church's men - infiltrate that camp of theirs."
"What about you?" Connor's tone was suspicious.
"Never you mind." Kenway pinned him with a stare. "Just do as I ask."
Chapter Text
I followed Connor through the frozen pines as he tracked the way to the makeshift camp. It was little more than a few tents propped up in a clearing, enclosed by snow-covered shrubs under which hare prints were scattered. We crouched behind the thick shrubbery, masking our tracks with snow, and waited.
Our silence allowed me to sink into my thoughts. Connor had gotten his way (Again, I thought. He always makes sure he gets his way) and our truce with his father was tentative - an almost-alliance, somewhere in the grey area between enemies and friends.
We took shallow breaths so the men in the camp would not see the white vapour. There were three of them, each wearing thick wool coats to keep out the bitter cold, and tricorne hats to keep the snow off their heads. Two of them stood by the beginnings of a fire and warmed their hands, while the other poked around in the stolen crates, which were piled in their convoy wagon between the two tents.
"It was a good haul today," one of the men by the fire said. "I saw a bit of gunpowder in those crates. We'll get extra for that."
His companion nodded and tucked his hands under his arms. "Aye. Church'll be pleased and we'll be rich."
The first man noted his companion's lack of heat, and commented, "I almost feel sorry for the Yanks, shivering and starving out there. It's a hard way to go."
"All they need to do is raise the white flag," the other grumbled.
The first shook his head slowly, more sympathetic than his companion. "They should have done that a long time ago. All this fighting serves no purpose. The crown's sure to win in the end. To waste all these lives chasing a fool notion. . . Breaks my heart, it does."
The foreman, standing apart from the others, looked up with a face hard as stone. "There's another run planned for tonight." As he spoke, I saw that his teeth were black and rotten.
The shivering second man looked horrified. "You're not serious. I was planning to go see that show with the missus."
Interest sparked in the first man's face. "Which one?"
The other man was despairing. "The one that you saw. The Country Wife."
"Oh yes!" He nodded. "An old one. You'll enjoy it - the little actress is a real cracker. A spitfire."
"Which one? I'll have to keep an eye open."
"The little blonde lead."
Connor and I exchanged a silent glance. Could it be possible that they were talking about Meredith? My heart crawled into my teeth.
I wished I could glean more information from them, but the man with the rotting teeth cut in sharply. "Listen here. You won't be going to any shows tonight. Boss wants to try something new tonight. A raid. No more convoys. We're to steal from the Yank camp itself."
While the second speaker mourned, the first man's shrewd eyes narrowed. "Valley Forge?"
Rotting Teeth nodded. "That's right."
The first man did not look convinced. "You sure about this?"
"It's not my business to be sure or not sure," snapped Rotting Teeth. "I just do as Church asks. If you're so concerned, take it up with him."
Casting a furtive look around the clearing, the first man said, "Is he here?"
"Of course not," scoffed Rotting Teeth. "Hiding in New York, last I heard, trying to keep a low profile - what on account of him not wanting to go back to jail and all."
Without looking at him, I squeezed Connor's arm, intent on the words that the men spoke. Just like that, we had our lead. The only question that remained was this: where was Connor's father?
It did not take long for that question, too, to be answered, for two more men came bustling into the camp, dragging something between them: the bristling form of Haytham Kenway.
There was a little dribble of blood from his mouth, and his eyes were dangerously dark, but he seemed otherwise unharmed, bearing his usual temperament of a wet cat. He allowed himself to be hauled into the camp, and his lip curled with disdain as one of the men holding his arm called out, "Look what we found! He was creeping around the camp, all suspicious-like."
The first speaker drew a pistol. "Must be a Yank spy."
Rotting Teeth, however, looked thoughtful - almost malicious. "No," he said, "he's something else. Something special." He strolled a few languid steps until he was right in front of Kenway, looking down on him. "Isn't that right, Haytham? Church told me all about you."
Silent as death, Connor slipped the bow off his shoulder and slowly notched an arrow, his eyes hardly leaving the men in the camp.
In spite of his apparent vulnerability, Kenway was as cold was ever. "Then you should know better than this."
The man guffawed. "You're not really in a position to be making threats, are you?" With a sneer, he struck Kenway a hard blow across the jaw, hard enough to jerk his head sideways.
Kenway spat blood into the snow, and his pale eyes slid to the bush where Connor and I were watching, and the slightest smirk touched the corners of his mouth. "Not yet."
Connor loosed the arrow, and it skewered through the side of the man closest to us; he went down with a cry and a spray of bright blood. For a moment, all was still as the shock slowly crept upon the men, and then they bellowed and drew their guns. Kenway was thrown roughly to the ground, forgotten in the momentary panic as Connor stood and fired again.
I dived out of the bush before one could fire a shot, slipped two knives from my belt, and slashed at the arms of the man swinging a gun into my face. Red rose up through his sleeves in wet lines as he staggered back.
Just behind him, I saw Kenway climb to his feet, and met his eyes. "Once you've dealt with these louts," he said, indicating the three remaining, "meet me in New York."
"What?" Connor snapped, breathless yet raising his voice above the din of the fight. "You mean to just leave? Now?"
Kenway sounded smug. "If you can't handle a couple of mercenaries, then we've really no business working together."
"Unbelievable," grumbled Connor before Rotting Teeth took a swing at him; he ducked back before the butt of a pistol could touch his face, and stabbed into the man's shoulder with his hidden blade. Those blackened teeth snapped once as the momentum jerked him backwards.
Kenway slunk off into the forest, limping slightly, but I could not follow, not as another man landed a punch to my ribs that knocked the air out of me. Then Connor was behind him, pulling the handle of his tomahawk tight against the man's throat, a rare, seething kind of anger glittering in his eyes.
The man scrabbled against Connor's iron grip and eventually went still. We fought savagely, blades flashing silver in the winter light - we were two weapons of war doing what we did best.
When we were sure that the men would not rise any time soon, the world stopped, and we stood panting and aching. We have each other a once-over and, determining that neither was fatally injured, walked a few feet from the camp to determine our next move.
The two horses that had led the wagon into camp were not far beyond the treeline; we untied them from their posts and hitched them to the wagon. I climbed into the seat and watched Connor pick his way through the trees on foot - he was fetching our horses and would meet me on the road, and from there we would return the supplies to Valley Forge. It was not enough for the soldiers to survive on, but it was something.
The wagon jolted as the wheels rolled over stones in the frozen road, and I gently tapped the reins against the horses' flanks to spur them on. It was not long until I saw Connor standing in the road, holding our two horses by the reins; I pulled the wagon to a halt and waited for him to latch our horses to the back before moving over in the chair to make room for him.
We rode in silence for a few minutes. Every breath made my ribs ache. I lost myself in thought, chewing the inside of my cheek, and unintentionally ignored Connor until he nudged me and said, "Stop biting yourself."
I spoke the question that had plagued me since I heard the men in the camp. "Do you think they were talking about my sister?"
"There are many young women that might fit that description. We cannot be sure it was her." He did not sound certain.
I wanted to believe him, I really did. But as we arrived at Valley Forge, I found myself drawing further and further into my thoughts, content to bring the horses to the stable while Connor helped some soldiers to move the crates to the storehouses
Horses were good company in their silence. I took care to ensure the horses from the wagon were properly sheltered and untacked, and fed our horses while I waited for Connor to finish. Behind me, I could hear Washington's exclamations of joy and surprise as he watched the crates pile up - crates of life-saving medicine, clothes, and preserved foods.
A gentle hand on my arm alerted me of Connor's quiet presence; I saw his breaths turn to mist beside me. I leaned into his side and looked up at him, feeling the exhaustion of the day settle in like a thick fog. At that moment, I wanted nothing more than to burrow deep into the earth and sleep - I imagined the life of a mole to be quite ideal.
"When we get to New York," I heard myself say, "I'd like to find out where we can see that show those men were talking about." My tone was casual, but underneath I was desperate - I needed to know if those men were talking about my sister.
Connor nodded slowly. "I knew you would say that, so I asked a few of the men here. It is playing every night this week. We will not reach New York in time to see tonight's show, but we will be able to see tomorrow's if we hurry."
Oh, what a friend he was: to know my heart better than I knew it! The intimacy of it, of being so comfortable with one another that we could guess at what the other was thinking, was sweet enough to rot my teeth.
We pushed the horses as much as they would allow for the rest of the day, and arrived in New York close to midnight. The air was bitterly cold, and I could see the muddy puddles on the cobbled road beginning to freeze over. Even the lamps lining the street were muted, their orange glow hardly casting a light on us as we stabled our horses and walked into a late-opening inn. I was shivering hard, almost caved into myself in an effort to stay warm.
We paid for a meagre dinner of lukewarm watery stew, and once that was finished, we took our room. A hot bath cost us extra, but we did not mind in this rare instance. Peering into the grimy mirror, I saw that my lips were blue with the cold, stark against my pale skin.
The bath took almost an hour to prepare, as we had to heat the water over the fire and pour it, bucket by bucket, into the tub. I found a jar of salts and dissolved them into the water until it was fragrant and cloudy.
In the name of saving water, Connor sat at one end, and I at the other, our legs tangled together. We did not speak for a few minutes as we sat in the hot water, and I watched the ice on the inside of the window opposite us start to melt.
The light of the flickering candles danced across Connor's face, his bare chest, and I suddenly became very, very aware that we were sitting in the bath together, and we were very, very far from the watchful eyes of Achilles.
Like he was thinking the same thing, Connor gave me a soft smile, and there was a gleam in his eyes. "Have you warmed up?"
I nodded and settled deeper into the water, resting my head against the rim. The hot water eased the pain in my bruised ribs. "Your hair is getting long," I told him.
He looked down at the ends of his hair trailing in the water, plastered across his chest. "Yes. I may have to cut it."
I reached over the side of the bath - the air outside the water was freezing - and picked up a hairbrush from where I had left it next to the bath, and leaned forward. "Hold that," I said, pressing it into Connor's hands, and reached out again, this time picking up a small jar of conditioning oil.
I rubbed it into my hands and smoothed it over Connor's hair. He looked mildly perplexed, but did not protest, and handed me the brush when I asked for it. We were close enough to share breath as I brushed the oil through his hair, and though he wore a slight frown, there was a softness in his eyes that he showed only me.
We sat like that for a while, for it took a long time to clean one's hair. Connor's eyes were down, and it occurred to me that no one had touched him with this much gentleness - except for me. The only other hands that came to us were hands that hurt.
I kissed his forehead when I was finished, and tucked both arms around his neck so I could use my forearms to gather his long hair and push it behind his shoulders.
With my arms around his neck, it was easy for him to close the distance between us with a kiss that sent my world spinning. It was so easy to love him, to let myself be loved by him.
His hands, so gentle and kind, found my waist, my back, warm against my chilled skin. He pushed me until my back came to rest against the bath, and I was in the water again. One of his hands braced against the rim of the bath, the other cupped the back of my head.
We were closer than we had ever been before, mouth to mouth, skin to skin, and my arms around his neck tightened, pulling him closer still. I wanted to feel his heart beating with mine.
Breathless, we parted, though scarcely far enough to let the cold air come between us. His fingers traced the curve of my cheek, and his dark eyes were thoughtful, so thoughtful as he said quietly, in a voice just for me, "I will never love another again. I feel it in my bones."
I watched a drop of water trickle down his bare chest and felt myself smile. "Thank goodness," I breathed, "because I was yours from the start."
His grin became cheeky as he kissed me again, sweetly, and then moved back to his side of the bath, flicking water into my face while my guard was down. I jolted with a yelp, but he was laughing softly, and how could I not forgive him?
I slid myself down further into the bath, until the water reached my chin. Connor swatted at my legs, which pressed against his chest. "Hey!" he protested. "You're in my space."
I grinned smugly. "Good."
We bickered until the water was cold, and then we got out. I could feel his eyes on me, on every scar and bruise, and when we got into the bed, he let me curl against his side. Outside the window, snow was beginning to fall. We watched it silently for a few minutes, but I could feel my eyes drooping. "Good night, Ratonhnhaké:ton," I mumbled.
"Good night, my Cassandra."
Chapter 44
Summary:
hi all! wow life has hAPPENED since my last update
anyway enjoy <3 xoxo
Chapter Text
The Country Wife was performed in a warehouse rented for the week, and both cast and crew were careful not to let the occupying British catch wind of the illegal production. This did not deter the eager viewers, who piled in to the cold warehouse, crammed together on benches and pressed against the walls, beneath flickering torches and fogged-up windows. Connor and I squeezed ourselves onto a bench near the back, amid sweating men and giggling women. I had seen this play before, but that had been many years ago in London, when I had not fully understood just what was happening on the stage.
I did now. It was a rowdy, comical play about sex in the upper classes, and as the first scene rolled out upon the stage, the audience roared with laughter - but I could not focus, not as I scanned the face of every actress on the stage, looking for those familiar brown eyes, that tumbling golden hair. The first act came to a close, and none of the young women on the stage were my sister.
Then came the second act, and the character, Margery Pinchwife, stepped onto the stage to deliver her first line ("Pray, sister, where are the best fields and woods to walk in in London?"). I watched her closely, examined the way the flickering lanterns turned her golden hair to flame. She couldn't be my sister - she was too old, too tall, too curved.
But then I saw it: when she smiled at the other woman on stage, her lips curled into a tilt I knew too well; the fair cheek dimpled; the brown eyes danced in the fine-boned face.
It was Meredith upon that stage; Meredith, underneath the makeup and the padding; Meredith with her golden hair piled high on her head, showing her delicate neck, her slender back. Men whistled at her from the audience, and she smiled, relishing the attention lavished on her, the attention she never got at home.
I blinked and the play was over; I had seen none of it. The cast gathered on stage and took their bows - Meredith faced the roaring crowd triumphantly, her smile wide and indulgent.
Our eyes met, and her smile fractured - just a little. Then her gaze was sweeping on, proud, insurgent: savouring every whistle, every hungry eye pointed at her. Connor and I were silent. The world narrowed down to the roaring audience, the smile on my sister's face. And then the actors were leaving the stage, blowing kisses and clutching flowers to their chests.
The stage door closed behind them, and the audience began to gather themselves in preparation for leaving. I broke out of my frozen stupor; the voices around me went dull, echoing in an endless chamber as I started to push forward against the crowd, towards the stage door. If I could just reach that door, I could find Meredith, and then I could bring her home–
Connor's hand closed on my arm and he pulled me back. "Don't."
I stared at him, standing still while the people around us pushed and bustled to leave the hall. Above me, his dark eyes were unreadable. No more words were needed; I knew there was sense in letting her go - that is, my logic battled against my heart. Logic won, in the end; a sword tip against the throat of emotion.
Defeated, I turned away, allowed the crowd to swallow me, to carry me outside and spit me back out onto the frozen ground. The snow had never felt quite this cold; it was all-consuming; gnawing my bones, a restless dog.
Connor laid a protecting arm over my shoulders and asked if I would like to return to our room. I said no; I wanted to walk.
The gently-falling snow was soothing to watch, as it covered the ground one white spot at a time. I wondered what would happen if the stars above were souls, as people often said, and if they, too, watched the snow falling and thought it lovely. My hand found Connor's and squeezed, and for a few blessed seconds, I could let the icy air pierce my skin, let it purify my thoughts. Connor's breath was soft in the night air; I watched with tender interest.
"She's only twelve," I told Connor, and my voice was detached from my body, the voice of a ghost speaking through my lips.
He nodded slowly. "The same age you were when you crossed the Atlantic."
Was that true? Had I really been such a child when I made that journey eight years ago? I felt older at twelve than I viewed my sister to be; I was an older twelve-year-old than she was. Was it hypocritical of me, then, to want to stop her, to want her to please come home when I was just like her at that age?
No. I had crossed the ocean out of necessity. She ran away out of spite.
These thoughts occupied my mind as we walked back to our room, as we nestled under the sheets. Two Arctic foxes curled up together, two crescent moons seeking wholeness. Connor's head was heavy on my chest, but I did not mind.
Into the silence, he spoke. "I can hear your heart beating."
The smell of his hair filled my nose. I ran my fingers through it, separating it, smoothing it with my hand. "Tell me if it stops."
Through the night I clasped him to my chest, and between bouts of waking and sleeping we talked - about philosophy, about religion, about the war, about peace. Our hands hardly parted. If the world taught us to hate, we taught each other to love.
In the weeks that followed, I felt something change between us. We had always worked together as one unit, had always been close with one another, but now I felt that there was a growing tenderness, an intimacy between us (not that this had been absent before, simply that it was noticeable). By day, we kept in touch with our recruits scattered across the colonies, and Faulkner, who brought the Aquila down to New York at Connor's request; by night, we read each other stories and watched the moon crawl across the sky.
When we received a message from Kenway detailing when and where we should meet him, we were strangely peaceful. Haytham Kenway was a panther in human form; one wrong move from us and his fangs would flash, but I felt as though we were looking into the yellow eyes of the predator and were not afraid.
It was late January, and the air was colder than ever as we waited by the dock, watching the dark sky, the elongated shadows, the ink-black sea. I tapped the sole of my shoe against a patch of ice on the ground, fascinated by the way my foot slid on it. Connor leaned against the wall behind him, gazing out from beneath his hood.
We were the only people on the street at this hour, and the silence was haunting, but I still found it difficult to pick out Kenway's soft footsteps behind us, until his cultured voice broke the silence. "Good evening. I see you both made it here in one piece."
Connor gave his father a sly look over his shoulder. "Recovered from your beating, then?"
I watched Kenway's face twist for a second, something like disgust and irritation, but his voice was cool as ever as he said, "Benjamin Church is holed up in an abandoned brewery on the waterfront. We should be done with this by sunrise."
"Good." Connor was curt. "I would like to have these supplies returned as soon as possible."
"Of course. I wouldn't want to keep you from your lost cause." Kenway cast a sideways, taunting glance at me. It was ignored. With a sigh, he said, "Come along, then."
We set off through the winding streets, following Kenway while avoiding the patches of ice and deep snow. Stars began to glisten in the gaps between the dark clouds - the first stars I had seen all winter; the heavy snows had obscured the glory of the heavens until this moment. I pondered this as I walked, listening to my footsteps crunching over the snow, pondered the countless stars above my head, invisible now, but present all the same. And God made two great lights; the greater light to rule the day, and the lesser light to rule the night: He made the stars also. And He set them in the firmament of the heaven to give light upon the earth.
From behind me, Connor sparked a conversation with Kenway. "Tell me something - you could have killed me when we first met. What stayed your hand?"
Kenway threw a dismissive half-glance over his shoulder. "Curiosity. Any other questions?"
Now that Kenway had invited him to speak, Connor took the chance to ask what we had both been wondering since we met his father. "What is it the Templars truly seek?"
Now Kenway paused, forcing us to stop in our tracks. In the darkness, his pale face was empty of emotion, cold and unfeeling. "Order," he said, grimly. "Purpose. Direction. No more than that." We had been the subject of his contemptuous looks since we had met him, and were numb to the one he gave us now. "It's your lot that means to confound with this nonsense talk of freedom. Time was, the Assassins professed a far more sensible goal - that of peace."
"Freedom is peace," Connor protested.
"Oh, no." Kenway shook his head slowly, as though belittling a child. "It's an invitation to chaos. Only look at this little revolution your friends have started. I have stood before the Continental Congress and listened to them stamp and shout - all in the name of liberty. But it is just noise."
Connor was getting irritated. "And this is why you favour Lee?"
"He understands the needs of this would-be nation far better than the jabbernowls who profess to represent it," snapped Kenway.
"The people have made their choice," Connor said hotly, "and it was Washington."
"The people chose nothing." Kenway faced us now, and his voice became heated. "It was done by a group of privileged cowards seeking only to enrich themselves. They convened in private and made a decision that would benefit them. Oh, they might have dressed it up with pretty words, but that does not make it true. The only difference, Connor - the only difference between myself and those you aid - is that I do not feign affection."
He turned on his heel and began once more to walk, keeping a swift pace that forced us (or rather, me) to catch up with him. Connor jogged past me and retorted something back to him. I listened to the men argue back and forth only distantly; I considered the concept of freedom: that which the Assassins fought for, and that which Kenway disputed. What was freedom, anyway, but the ability to live? Stand fast therefore in the liberty wherewith Christ hath made us free, and be not entangled again with the yoke of bondage. I knew Connor was not a believer, and Kenway did not strike me as one either - Christ was absent from both of our sects, so how could they understand true freedom until they understood Him?
Then again, I mused, it was evident that the Templars modelled their beliefs on the philosophical thought of Thomas Hobbes, who claimed that man's natural state is one of anarchy, where unlimited freedom leads to chaos - and thus the Templars fought for what could only be called a Hobbesian state, for Hobbes likened the Biblical Leviathan to the perfect government: a powerful state created to impose order.
So consumed was I by my thoughts that I did not register where we were until Kenway stopped abruptly at a dark corner, peering around the cold bricks. "Hold a moment," he said quietly. "Church, you clever bastard."
Ahead of us, four British soldiers stood guard at the entrance to the abandoned Smith and Company Brewery, holding their muskets tensely by their shoulders. Snow banks were piled on the sides of the road to clear their patrol path.
"I was hoping I could wave you both past the guards," Kenway was saying, "but he's replaced most of them with men I don't know. Hm." He paused for a moment, mulling it over in his scheming mind. "Well, I should be able to pass without arousing suspicion, but you. . ." This final comment was aimed specifically at Connor, who started to shake his head and say, "No. We do this together. or not at all."
Kenway scoffed. "Then what do you propose?"
I looked up at Connor to find him also looking at me, a line between his brows as he thought aloud. "I will find a guard who is off duty and take his uniform."
"Very well." Kenway sat dramatically on an upturned crate, and looked expectantly up at Connor. "I will wait here, then."
Connor rolled his eyes with disgust. "Of course you will."
"Oh, I'm sorry." Kenway's tone turned sardonic. "Would you like me to come along and hold your hand, perhaps? Provide kind words of encouragement?"
But Connor was already walking away, tense and annoyed - and leaving me alone with his father. I found it interesting to note that I did not feel unsafe with Haytham Kenway; it was a feeling, I supposed, akin to that of standing next to a resting tiger: the threat was real, but I would not be harmed.
Kenway watched Connor's retreating back for a few moments before leaning his head against the brick wall behind him. "Close your eyes," he muttered, "and think of England."
Ah. The old advice given by mothers to their unwilling daughters on their wedding nights. Was this, then how he viewed his partnership with us: as a reluctant act, something forced upon him that must be endured?
Not that I particularly cared. After a few moments' silence, Kenway turned his head, fixing me with his icy stare. "Why did you come along tonight? Connor and I could handle it just fine on our own."
"Wow," I muttered. "You do know how to make a girl feel unwanted."
I was ignored. "You do not appear to have the physical strength that Connor has," he continued, "though this is by virtue of your sex. I do not doubt your capabilities, nor your loyalty to your silly Order. I am merely wondering about your intention."
"I might ask the same of you," I said. "Why did you suggest this partnership?"
There was something of Connor in the look he gave me: a desire - veiled, perhaps, but nevertheless there - that this war between our factions would end, that we might be united under a common cause. Our hunt for Church was our common goal, but that was only temporary; thus, beginning a partnership would provide ample opportunity to build longer-lasting commonalities and therefore call to a temporary end the war that had waged for hundreds of years.
But all he said was, "Strategy. Church would never suspect that we are working together."
This was not the answer I wanted. "Kenway–"
"Oh, please." He rolled his eyes. "If I can call you Cassandra, then surely you can call me Haytham." When I did not respond, he probed. "Tell me, Cassandra, are you well read?"
I narrowed my eyes. "Why do you want to know?"
He shrugged. "I'm trying to find a common ground so I don't bore myself to death waiting for my ape of a son." I cracked a smile - and he was encouraged to ask again. "Do you read philosophy? Literature?"
"A bit of both."
"Who do you read?"
I took a few moments to think. "Descartes. Hobbes. Berkeley. Bunyan. Have you much interest in these?"
A gleam entered his eye - if I were, perhaps, less naïve, I might have said he was pleased. "Oh," he said, "we're going to get along just fine."
I did not know if I should feel threatened or comforted by this. Perhaps it should have been more of a warning sign - finding commonalities between the scariest man I knew and me, as similar as a fish and a tiger - but the feeling that pricked at my heart, pawed at it with little tap-tap-taps was a small happiness - and with it, hope.
Chapter 45
Summary:
omg hi everyone and welcome back it's been a hot minute since i updated this lololol
this will be my last post of 2023 so MERRY CHRISTMAS and HAPPY NEW YEAR i love you all <3
xoxo Panda
Chapter Text
It did not take long for Connor to return, this time wearing a dark jacket and trousers stolen from some poor unconscious - and naked - man somewhere in an alley. A tricorne was pulled low over his stern eyes. I found it jarring to see him dressed like this - it was so not him that it felt, for a moment, like there was a stranger looking at me through Connor's familiar eyes.
Haytham gave him a once-over, and his face hardly changed save for a twitch at his mouth as he straightened Connor's neck tie. "That should suffice," he said. "Follow me."
Connor and I exchanged a look; I could not decipher his expression as we followed his father out of the shadows. The men guarding the abandoned brewery straightened when they saw us approach, and their fingers tightened on their muskets.
The ranking officer stepped forward to meet us - at once a guarded greeting and a warning for us to leave. "Hold, strangers. This is private property. What business have you here?"
Haytham was unfazed. "The Father of Understanding guides us."
This seemed to settle the soldier as he relaxed his guard slightly, acknowledging Haytham as his superior. The man's eyes narrowed and he leaned a little closer, peering at my face and at Connor's. "You, I recognise," he said. "But not the girl, and not the savage."
Without missing a beat, Haytham said, "My daughter, and my son."
At this, the soldier began to laugh. "Tasted of the forest's fruits, did you?"
Connor was not impressed. He was fine with people insulting him for his heritage, and he was used to being treated differently for the colour of his skin - but the objectification of his mother made him bristle, though outwardly, he looked impassive as ever, if not a little colder: the gentle Connor I knew had retreated, and the wolf within had raised its head.
When he did not get a reaction from Haytham, either, the soldier sobered up. "Right. Off you go, then." He stepped back, and the other soldiers at the door moved aside to clear the way for us to pass unhindered.
Inside the brewery was dark and damp, and smelled of mould and old beer; the shadows seemed larger in here, like every wisp of shifting darkness birthed a monster at our feet. The wooden door groaned as it closed behind us, and soon our only light was the silver glow of the moon through the high windows. Crates were piled high on either side of us, and broken glass gleamed on the floor, scattered among bits of straw.
We were silent until we reached the end of the long room, where another thick wooden door stood closed. Haytham reached out and tried the handle. "It's locked," he muttered, and looked between me and Connor for a moment. "Cassandra, your hands are small. See if you can pick this lock."
I felt him watching me as I knelt down and got to work with some picks I took from my pocket; he watched my face closely, eyes narrowed ever so slightly.
I didn't look up. "See something interesting?"
I had expected a snappy response, but Haytham sounded thoughtful as he said, "Your face is familiar."
His tone suggested that he knew the reason for this and did not want to reveal it. It didn't bother me - Haytham was a London man; he doubtless saw my grandfather's face in mine. Or, I realised, my father, whom I did not know - but perhaps Haytham did.
While I was twisting the locks, Connor, once again, began a conversation with Haytham. "It must be strange," he said, "discovering my existence as you have."
"I'm actually curious to know what your mother might have said about me," was Haytham's lofty response. "I always wondered what life might have been like had she and I stayed together. How is she, by the way?"
My heart dropped into my stomach. No no no.
Connor's voice was cold. "Dead." Then, with more venom: "Murdered."
Haytham was silent for a long moment while this information sank in. "I am sorry to hear that."
This was entirely the wrong thing to say to Connor, who was already stirred after the guard's comment. "Oh, you're sorry? I found my mother burning alive. I'll never forget her face as she sent me away." His voice trembled with passion - not the passion of sadness, but of deep and simmering rage. "Charles Lee is responsible for her death by your order - and you're sorry?"
The door opened silently; I stood slowly, so I would not call attention to myself. Indeed, neither Connor nor Haytham noticed me as the latter insisted, "That's impossible - I gave no such order. I spoke the opposite, in fact: I told them to give up the search for the precursor site; we were to focus on more practical pursuits."
"It is done," Connor snapped, "and I am all out of forgiveness."
He brushed past both of us and stalked into the room beyond the door. I avoided Haytham's eyes as I followed. This next room was just as dim as the first, but it was wider, evidently a storage space for the boxes and bottles that went out of business long ago. The smell of mildew was stronger in here.
In the centre of the room, with his back to us, stood a man. Waiting patiently, like he had expected us.
Haytham stepped forward. "Benjamin Church, you stand accused of betraying the Templar Order and abandoning our principles in pursuit of personal gain. In consideration of your crime, I hereby sentence you to death."
But the man that turned to face us was not Church. He wore the doctor's coat and white wig, but the face was thinner, more rodent-like, and his slow smile was missing a few teeth.
"You're too late," he jeered. "Church and the cargo are long gone - and I'm afraid you won't be in any condition to follow."
The shadows around the piled crates moved, and suddenly there were men slowly closing in around us. I heard one of them spit on the floor and hiss, "A girl, a half-breed, and his handler. This should be an easy one."
"We've chosen to stand with the victor," the impostor continued. "It's Britain who will win this war. But you always did prefer principle to profit. Perhaps that's why your little kingdom has started to crumble. It was a nice dream you had - but a dream is all it ever was."
At his signal, the men sprang forward and attacked.
Connor was a whirlwind of steel and fury as all of the anger that had built up over the course of the evening came spilling out. Where Haytham was poise and precision, Connor was all vicious brutality, a living weapon that could not be tamed. I heard one of the men gasp, "He's like a feral dog!" before Haytham turned on him.
One of the men raised his arm to drive a blade into Connor's back while he fought off another, so I ran behind the man and wrenched the arm back, twisting his wrist until his fingers released the dagger and the man gave a shout. He kicked out at me, and I could not dodge quickly enough; he hit the side of my knee and I fell, landing hard on my hip.
I dragged him down with me, and he turned halfway, gripping the knife handle tightly as he tried to stab me; I twisted beneath him, and the blade embedded into the floorboards a hair's breadth from my ear. He yanked the knife up, and prepared to stab again, but I got there first. My wrist blade sliced his ribs, and I felt the hot blood spill over my hand as he cried out in pain. I took advantage of the shift in his weight to kick him off me.
A hand descended from above me to help me up: Haytham's hand, slick with blood. I let him pull me to my feet, and once I was up I could see that the rest of the attackers were either on the floor or had fled. Connor had pounced on the man disguised as Church, and had him pinned against the wall. Haytham meandered closer, hands behind his back.
"Where is Church?" Connor was demanding.
The man quivered. "I'll tell you anything," he bleated. "Anything you want. Only promise that you'll let me live!"
Connor was a man of honour. "You have my word."
The man looked terrified, and I could see the rapid rising and falling of his chest. "He left yesterday for Martinique - took passage on a trading sloop called the Welcome. Loaded half its hold with the supplies he stole from the patriots. That's all I know, I swear."
Connor regarded him for a long moment, and then pulled the man off the wall, though he still gripped the dark coat. "All right," he said.
The man started to say something - and then he was abruptly cut off as Haytham drove his wrist blade through his ribs. He was frozen for a moment, and then wheezed, "You promised. . ." to the horrified Connor.
"And he kept his word." Haytham's voice was soft and vicious, but the man did not live to hear it, and slumped instead to the floor.
Connor stared at his father. "Seriously?"
Haytham ignored him. "Let's go."
There was a pool of blood slowly expanding beneath the dead impostor; Haytham stepped carelessly over it, while Connor edged around it, and I heard a prayer whispered on his breath in his native language.
I cast a look over my shoulder at the wreckage of the room we were leaving behind: our would-be attackers lay, some unconscious, others bleeding heavily. I saw one of them move his arm, saw something glint in his hand, and then there was a spark.
A spark was all that was needed for the dry wood of the floor to catch alight, and the fire spread quickly, tracing ancient trails left by decades of spilled alcohol.
The flames reflected in Connor's wide eyes, and for a split second I saw him freeze - and then I grabbed his arm and pulled him through the door at the end of the room that Haytham pried open. Thick smoke began to follow us: creeping, silent, grey death.
Flames had started to lick up the dry walls and across the beams overhead. We followed Haytham down narrow, dusty hallways, listening to the flames as they got closer; beams started to fall from the ceiling, showering us with sparks and engulfing us in thick black smoke that stung our throats.
There were no more guards in the brewery - all had either fled or been taken by the fire. We reached a room from where we could go no further. It was square, and empty of most things save for a few dry, discarded boxes. A small window was embedded high up on one wall, but I met Connor's eye, and knew we were thinking the same thing: neither he nor Haytham would be able to fit through it, but I might.
Haytham pushed on the door at the end of the room: nothing. While he was busy, Connor wasted no time in using his tomahawk to smash the glass of the tiny window, and then laced his fingers together to give me a boost up to the window.
I got my arms through and scrabbled for something to hold, to pull myself through. I had expected to see solid, frozen ground below me, a safe distance away, but below me swirled the black waters of New York harbour. The broken glass sliced my stomach and legs as Connor gave me a final push, and then I was falling, falling, whipped by the icy wind, and hardly took a breath before I hit the frigid waters.
I kicked to the surface before I could sink into the endless dark, gasping with the shock of the cold and the stinging pain of the salt water on the fresh cuts. The street lights that lined the dock were faraway stars that I set out to reach, and soon my fingertips touched the dock.
As I was pulling myself up, I heard a muffled yell from behind me, and looked back just in time to see the wooden door smash open as Connor and Haytham fell through, and hit the water with a crash. They resurfaced and took a moment to gather themselves before swimming to the dock; Haytham scooped up his fallen hat, loath to leave it behind.
I stood, shaking, on the edge of the dock, and offered my hand to help them up. Haytham was first: he gave me a dark, wary look, but accepted my hand and let me pull him up. After I had helped Connor up, Haytham said breathlessly, "Church has at least a day on us."
Connor, equally as winded, said, "I have a ship that we can use. We will set sail in the morning."
A logical decision to leave it until the next day: we were all too cold to do anything now, and with the icy wind picking up, it would become dangerous for us to stay outside like this. I was so numb that I could hardly move; my thoughts were becoming foggy.
Our accommodation was not far from the dock, so Connor put an arm around my shoulders, ignoring the curious stare of his father, and helped me along. I could feel him shivering against me, but he managed to ask Haytham, "Where are you staying?"
The Templar's breath turned to white mist. "Nowhere."
By now we had reached the door of the inn. Why were we outside? I focused my eyes on my wet shoes and tried to speak, but my tongue was heavy in my mouth.
I heard Connor's voice as though through water. Water - why was I in water? "I need to get Sassy inside," Connor was saying, and there was urgency in his voice. Why? I was simply tired. Nothing a brief nap wouldn't cure. "We are staying here. I would advise you do the same."
My heavy eyes were starting to close, and I heard no more of their conversation. Or maybe that was the end of it. The next thing I knew, we were in our room with the door locked. Had we ever left this room? Perhaps there was a leak, and that's why my shoes were wet.
"Sassy," I heard him saying, that voice that was so dear to me. My eyes struggled open, but I looked at him: he was dripping wet, and I was too. His voice was a sound in my ears, but his words did not register until a moment after. "We need to get out of these clothes." He was hoarse from the smoke.
I nodded dumbly, and my slow fingers fumbled with the buttons of my jacket, soaked through. I realised that I was no longer shivering, and knew distantly that that was not a good thing. A moment later, I felt Connor's hands helping me along, opening my jacket and my shirt and peeling them off my shoulders. He let me handle my trousers while he knelt down to unlace my shoes.
I barely registered my clothes falling to a wet heap on the floor. Numb, I let him nudge me towards the bed, and when I lay down, he briefly examined the cuts on my stomach and legs for splinters of glass. Finding none, he wrapped me tightly in the blankets with hands of ice.
I watched him swiftly remove his own clothes, and, with only the moonlight as his guide, climbed into the bed next to me, and pulled me close. I recalled, then, one of his many forest lessons, from many years ago, that skin to skin contact was the best aid for hypothermia. Was that what this was?
Thus we lay for several minutes, tangled together, so close that I could hardly discern where I ended and he began. I listened to his heart, strong and steady, and wondered at this little cocoon we had built ourselves, a little warm haven.
How our relationship had changed since we first met! I remembered that awkward boy with the stone tomahawk knocking on Achilles' door, remembered the defiance in his dark eyes. The children who had met that fateful day would never have dreamt of doing something like this. My best friend had become something so much more, and it was a progression that felt as natural as breath. There had been no other path for us to take but that which we walked now - side by side.
I looked at his face and found him watching me. The fog was slowly lifting off my brain; I managed to mumble, "You're so warm."
He laid his chin on the top of my head. "You are so cold."
But I could feel my blood start to warm again with heat borrowed from him. Symbiosis - that's what this was. I took his warmth and gave it back to him: we created a life-giving circle between us, and with each passing moment, we came to life again.
Time passed; minutes or hours, I was not sure - all time I spent with him felt the same. No, I decided, this was not symbiosis, for symbiosis pertained to a relationship between different species, and he - he was blood of my blood, and bone of my bone, and though I knew that those were the words of a wedding vow and therefore meant nothing for us in any sense, I felt their meaning in my heart.
"Sassy," he murmured, "you do not have to come with us tomorrow. I do not know how long we will be at sea."
"I don't care," I said. "I'm going with you, even if I have to sneak on board with the cargo."
I felt him laugh very gently. "I do not think it will come to that."
And so it was settled. We arose before dawn the next morning and ate a subdued breakfast before joining Haytham on our way to the dock. Connor remained at my elbow, keeping a close eye on me, weak as I was in my recovery. Haytham eyed us again with interest, but said nothing.
Faulkner was waiting for us when we arrived, and only then did Connor detach himself from my side to take the wheel. I stood by the railing to keep myself out of the way while the rest of the crew hurried to their places.
Haytham found his way to me, and stood for a few moments in silence, watching the crew warily. "How are you faring after your ordeal last night?" he asked without looking at me.
I was reluctant to reveal my weakness to him, but found myself doing so anyway. "I could be better."
He nodded slowly. "Connor seemed very worried for you." When I did not respond, he pondered a few moments before adding, more a question than a statement: "You two seem close."
His tone probed me for answers. "Yes."
"He calls you by a nickname. Sassy." He tried the name out, and I cringed. The name sounded strange when it did not come from the mouths of Connor or my mother.
There Connor stood at the helm, eyes on the horizon, strong hands gripping the wheel. Faulkner called orders to the crew, and above us, the massive sails unfurled and caught the breeze. As the ship jolted into movement, Connor's eyes found me, and the grin he gave me was boyish and handsome, and prompted me to return the smile.
Haytham scrutinised my silence and formed the answer he was looking for. "Ah. I was unsure at first of your relationship to him beyond the confines of your Order, but it makes sense now."
I did not respond, for I knew he was only searching for leverage. Instead I fixed my eyes on the horizon, which was turning red with the rising sun, a slash of blood where the sky met the sea. The sails caught the wind fully now, and then we were off, setting sail upon a course that would take us south to Martinique.
Chapter 46
Summary:
hello i have once again gone absolute YONKS without updating this hehehehe in my defence i should be writing essays but nooOo this was my priority
TL;DR
im just a girl
Chapter Text
Three months at sea was more than enough time for me to settle myself into the captain's cabin, and even befriend some of the less-superstitious crew members. I saw little of Connor, for he spent his days at the helm, and his nights belowdecks. We talked when we could, mostly in passing, but it was superficial and quick.
Still, I was happy among the crew, most of whom I recognised from the homestead and their frequent trips to the Mile's End tavern. There were two brothers, David and Richard Clutterbuck, who were gunmen in the Aquila's first days, and were among the oldest in the crew - but this made them, by proxy, the most fun to be with, for they liked to poke fun at the young and inexperienced men with whom they shared sleeping quarters. They told me stories of the first missions the Aquila was taken on: how Faulkner, her first mate for two decades, worked on the behalf of Achilles and the colonial Assassins to hunt down Templars.
What surprised me most, however, was the budding, somewhat reluctant, friendship I felt with Haytham. As Connor was frequently busy, it seemed that both of us were at a loose end: if we could not tease Connor, we could at least tease each other. When it was good weather we sat on the deck and played cards, or talked about philosophy (on occasion, Connor would join these conversations, though only briefly); when the weather was bad we sat in the crew mess amid the smell of salted fish.
On this day, the wide sky stretched high above us, a sapphire dome that went on and on for ever, until it reached the ends of the earth and the blue horizon. Even in February, the Caribbean sun was more than enough to warm our backs as Haytham and I sat on the deck, hunched over my notebook. I had mustered the courage to allow him to read what was inside, and he was full of criticism. His was not a poet's heart, I knew; he did not see the beauty in the mundane in the same way I did.
He squinted at a page. "What even is this?"
"I've been experimenting with pentameter," I said. "That's iambic trimeter."
"Reads like a horse with a sore throat," he muttered.
I had long ago learnt not to take his words to heart, and instead leaned back in my chair, watching the sea spray against the hull. Haytham, too, looked up, and realisation sparked in his pale eyes. He closed the notebook over and handed it back to me, eyes fixed on Connor, who stood, handsome in his navy coat, at the wheel.
To my surprise, Haytham's forthcoming words were not ones of disdain for Connor's skill as a captain, as they had been of late, but were instead words of prose. "This tempest in my mind," he muttered, "doth from my senses take all feeling else save what beats there: filial ingratitude." With a shake of his head he stood and approached the poopdeck to call out to Connor, "I told you this was a poor heading - Church is surely days ahead of us now."
Before Connor could snap back a retort, Faulkner, at his side, said, "Have some faith in the boy! He's yet to disappoint."
Haytham fixed Faulkner with a sharp look. "Well, the bar's not been set very high, now, has it?"
I tucked my notebook into my pocket and ascended the stairs to stand by Faulkner, who greeted me with a cheeky, knowing grin. Our months at sea had been filled with Connor and Haytham's back-and-forth squabbling as Haytham tried to jibe his son into handing the wheel over, while Connor stubbornly refused.
He was, after all, the better captain.
I caught Connor's eye, and saw the crease at the corner of his mouth, the suppression of a smile. He unhooked a telescope from his leather belt and passed it to me. "Here," he said. "Tell me what you see."
I held the telescope to my eye and blinked as my world narrowed down to a circle, slightly blurred, and settled on the horizon. The smooth blue line stretched on for ever, and I scanned it slowly, watching a whale far in the distance. Rising out of the water in a hazy grey cloud was land: jagged teeth of rock that was home to none but birds and ghosts.
And there, rocking gently on the waves, was a ship, silent and stationary. If ever there was a perfectly functioning ghost ship, this would be it. For all appearances, she looked as though she had simply dropped anchor in favour of one expedition or another, but there were no crew members moving on the deck, no captain at her wheel.
With a frown, I passed the telescope to Connor, who also sighted the ship. He lowered the telescope slowly. "Is it the Welcome?"
After Faulkner took a turn with the telescope, he nodded slowly. "Yes - and she's dropped anchor."
I jumped when Haytham said behind me, "Take us in for a closer look," for I had not realised that he had followed, so silently. It was a reminder, if nothing else, that I was attempting to befriend a panther.
As Connor brought the Aquila gently closer to the stationary ship, I could see that the deck had indeed been abandoned. A breeze stirred the limp sails, and the wheel was turning very, very slowly, but save for these, there was no movement from the Welcome.
Connor's furrowed brow was a mirror of my own confusion. Why would Church abandon ship? - and where would he leave the cargo?
Behind me, Haytham muttered, "Church always was a slippery little bastard."
But before Connor could get a word in, Faulkner, after his turn using the telescope, pointed and cried, "Enemy ahead! They're making to flee!"
I followed the line of his finger; and there, just beyond the craggy teeth of the rocks ahead, was a small ship - a schooner, really - laden with oak boxes and manned by few. At this distance I could not recognise which of the men was Church and which was not, but one thing was certain: he was attempting his escape.
Connor reacted quickly, while the crew of the Aquila snapped into action; soon the wind was whipping my cheeks and causing my eyes to water as we gave chase after the schooner who, upon noticing our pursuit, sped away. I gripped the rail to steady myself, and the voices of Connor and Faulkner were drowned in the howling wind.
Haytham, holding his hat down with one hand and the rail with the other, said quietly, earnestly; a tone just for Connor, "Hurry, son. We won't get a second chance at this."
The distance between the Aquila and the schooner decreased with frightening speed, and Faulkner began to order the crew to roll the cannons out. There were sixty in total, and their wheels grated against the wooden deck in a way that set my teeth on edge. If Connor was bothered by the sound, his face did not show it - there was only a cold determination in his eyes, a hard line at his mouth.
As the schooner disappeared into the narrow space between the jagged rocks, Connor swore under his breath (a word not in English, but one that I had come to recognise nevertheless as a swear) as he began to turn the wheel to guide us around the rocks - great rotations of the heavy wooden wheel that only a man of his physical strength could accomplish.
Behind me, Haytham and Faulkner began to argue about the course we were taking, but I ignored their heated words, focusing my energies on remaining upright. As a fresh gust of wind brought us around the rocks and onto open water, dazzlingly blue, Connor gripped the wheel to pull the ship straight once more. For a few seconds, there was nothing but the sea around us and the wide sky arcing above us - but there was an undeniable apprehension in the air, the crackling of a storm about to break.
And then, coming out from behind the other side of the rocks, there it was: a man-o'-war.
Man-o'-war was not an official naval term; it was merely used to refer to a three-masted frigate with cannons. She was almost twice the size of the Aquila with twelve dozen guns to our sixty, and twice that many crew members. The ship acted as a shield for the schooner, which ducked behind the shadow of her hulking mass.
I realised, then, that this had all been a set-up: that Church had never been on board the schooner, but had instead orchestrated these events to draw us into the web of the man-o'-war.
"Church is using the ambush as a cover," snapped Haytham. "Send the bastard to the sea floor."
"No." Connor tore his eyes away from the ships to cut his father a glare. "I need his ship afloat - the cargo must be saved."
Before Haytham could open his mouth and offer a snarky retort, a cry was raised on board the man-o'-war as her crew began to load the guns. Instantly Faulkner ordered our crew to prepare for combat, though they had barely made it to their places before the other ship opened fire.
For a moment, the world stopped and we stood, paralysed on the deck, watching from afar the sparks from the cannons, the plumes of black smoke rising into the clear sky, the soldiers in red ducking and covering their ears–
Connor grabbed my arm and pulled me to the deck just as the cannon balls made impact. It was like nothing I had ever heard before: the sound of wood shattering and splinters raining down on the deck and the water below, that sent the birds on the craggy island screeching into the air.
Our retaliation was swift and immediate, for the crew were experienced and the captain was clever. Faulkner ordered chains to be shot at the other ship's masts, and one by one the thick wooden posts began to crack.
We were closer to the other ship now, and her crew members were dispersing their muskets amongst themselves as they prepared for closer contact. At this closer range, our cannons could do more devastating damage - but so could theirs.
Another round of cannon balls tore through our main mast, and it began to fall; our crew cleared the way and let it fall to the deck with a crash that shook the entire ship. Cries of triumph raised from the other ship, but we were not finished.
Our cannons ripped a gaping hole in the hull of their ship, and even from this distance, I could see the water flooding into her, and now it was we who were cheering as the ship started to sink. Connor's teeth flashed in a grin of dark glee as he turned the Aquila in preparation to board. He looked at me for half a second–
Haytham surged behind him and, grabbing him by the shoulders, yanked him away from the wheel; Connor stumbled back, catching himself on the railing before he could fall - but he was helpless to stop his conniving father from seizing the wheel for himself. For a heartbeat there were no hands on the wheel, and it was enough to send it spinning. Both Haytham and I darted out to try and steady it before we could go crashing into the cliffs, which were getting dangerously close.
"What are you doing?" I demanded.
He did not look at me as he gritted out, "Ending this," and heaved the wheel the other way with a sudden jerk. The ship swerved sharply, sending the crew staggering from one side of the deck to the other. We were careening toward the other ship - and fast.
Haytham tried to turn the wheel, but was not swift enough to pull us back in time, and the Aquila rammed into the side of the ship with a devastating crash. The impact slammed me hard into the railing, knocking the air out of me in a pained wheeze. Waves splashed over the deck, and they carried chunks of broken wood and other debris.
My eyes were drawn to Connor, who took the axe from his belt, eyes fixed on the enemy ship like a hunting dog - and then he was running to the starboard side, and leaped from the railing, crossing the gap between the two ships as though it were but a step for him, and landed on the man-o'-war's deck. He rolled to absorb the impact, and slashed his axe across the hamstrings of a soldier in red.
The man's pained shriek snapped us out of our stupor, and with roars of triumph, the Aquila's crew swarmed across the deck to the starboard side: some used the ropes to swing on to the deck of the other ship; others began to pick off the enemy crew with their muskets.
I followed Connor's path onto the ship with a leap through the thick folds of smoke, and when I landed, I was met instantly with a swinging bayonet coming for my face. I dodged backwards, narrowly missing the blade, and skirted left, slicing the man's arm with my wrist blade.
Behind me, on the Aquila, Faulkner ordered the crew from his station at the wheel. The air was trembling with the sound of continuous gunshots, and the smoke was gathering quickly, making visibility harder by the second. Another man came at me with a sword; I blocked it with my wrist blades, pain reverberating down my arms from the impact, and used all the force I could muster in my arms to push the sword away, opening the man's guard.
I stepped forward into his space and plunged my own blade between his lower ribs. Hot blood spilled over my fingers. The man staggered back, dropping the sword to press his hands to the wound; I kept moving past him, making my way ever closer to the opening in the deck that led into the bowels of the ship, to steerage, fighting off solider after soldier. It seemed that the assault would never end.
I felt air move by my ear, and dropped to the deck a heartbeat before a long musket blade sliced through the place where my neck would have been. I swept his feet under him with my leg, and he fell onto his back with a curse; but before I could pull myself closer, he kicked out with vicious intent, and his boot connected with my nose.
I fell back in shock, and felt something warm trickle down my face. My eyes began to automatically and involuntarily water, rendering my vision hopelessly blurred. I sniffed angrily and clawed my way closer to him, and he lashed out again, this time kicking my shoulder. The pain blinded me as I felt the bone disconnect, silencing all thoughts.
Through the smoke and the tears in my eyes, I saw the man stand up, watched his boots step closer to me. He reached down and took a handful of my hair, dragging my head up. I hissed between my teeth as the motion sent searing spikes of pain through my shoulder.
As the tears finally fell down my cheeks, I could see the man raise his hand, could see his fingers curling into a fist. My eyes shifted to his face - and shock made me forget the pain.
"Rowan?" I panted.
Thomas' brother glared back at me, his fist trembling, suspended in the air. "Bitch."
His hand tightened in my hair, and as his fist swung for me, I used my good arm to stab my wrist blade into his thigh. Rowan howled in pain, and his grip loosened enough for me to wrench myself free; he made to snatch at me again but his leg gave out, dark blood spilling down his shin. I rammed myself into his weakened leg and he collapsed.
I hauled myself to my feet, gripping my injured arm close, and watched with disdain as he tried to staunch the bleeding. "You'll live," I said, and my voice felt disconnected, as though I were a puppet and my master was speaking. "I missed the artery."
My breaths tore through my chest as I stumbled away from Rowan. Not too far from me was Connor, grappling with a soldier: graceful and deadly in his art. The man fell after Connor's axe became embedded in his arm, and then Connor's eyes were on me, and he was by my side in a blink. I knew how I looked: blood dribbling down my face, and cradling my immobile arm; and he wasted no time in opening the way to the inner hull belowdecks. As he started down the ladder, a few of our crew members saw what we were doing, and rushed to cover us.
Once Connor reached the bottom, he looked up at me and held out his arms. I peered down and started to shake my head. "It's too far. My arm–"
"Trust me," he said.
How could I not? I sat tentatively on the edge, shuffling myself forward inch by inch. Gritting my teeth and squeezing my eyes shut, I held my arm tightly and dropped from the edge into the hull.
Connor was as gentle as he could be when he caught me, but the impact still jarred my arm so badly that I cried out, and more tears, not all involuntary, sprang to my eyes. His apologies were soft and sad, filled with guilt, and he made me sit on an upturned crate while he removed his heavy coat and cut a strip from his undershirt.
He knelt in front of me, eyes flitting between my bloody nose and my arm. "You are hurt," he murmured, above the sounds of battle coming from the upper deck.
I managed to raise my eyebrows and smile a little. "You're not."
He huffed as he wiped the blood from my face with his thumbs before gently feeling along the bridge of my nose. Determining that nothing was broken, he turned his attention to my shoulder, using the same light touch. "It is dislocated," he said. "I will have to reset it."
I knew this was coming, and tensed in fearful anticipation. This was not helpful for Connor, and I knew that too, so he took a series of deep, slow breaths, and I followed along with him until I felt my heart rate drop.
Before he touched me again, he slid a knife from his belt and held it up to my mouth so I could bite down on the handle. Then his hands were on my arm again, and with a whispered apology, he forced my shoulder back into place with an audible pop.
It was like no pain I had ever felt. It became everything: as though my blood had turned to poison in my veins and was burning my shoulder from the inside out.
Connor swiftly bound my arm in a sling using the strip he had cut from his shirt, and secured it tightly. While the pain eased, he pulled his coat back on. "We need to find my father," he said. "Who knows what madness he intends." After a pause, he looked at me again, and his smile, in spite of everything, was soft. "You need to stop hurting yourself, my little ótkon. Else I shall have to intervene."
"If I stopped," I said, "you would have nothing to save."
He fixed me with a thoughtful gaze. "You do not need saving."
But every day I needed saving. Every day I needed my Lord, whose mercies are new every day. How could I say that to Connor, who would not believe me? Where he saw human strength, my Saviour saw human weakness filled by His own strength; that the very same Spirit that raised Jesus from the dead dwelled within each one He called His child.
I kept these thoughts to myself, however, as we walked deeper into the heart of the ship, our footsteps light and cautious. That was when I realised that something was very wrong.
Where Washington's stolen cargo should have been, there was nothing. No boxes, no crates - only lines of dust on the floor where the cargo had been hastily moved. It was not on the Welcome nor on this ship - so where had Church taken it?
Far ahead, in the darkness, there was a dull thud. We looked at each other, and quickened out pace just as Haytham's muffled voice began to speak. "So," he was saying, "here we are - face to face at last."
A rat scuttled across our path, its tail dragging in the dust, and disappeared into a hole at the edge of the floor.
"It's been quite an adventure, let me tell you," Haytham continued, his voice growing louder the closer we got, "working my way through your nasty little tricks and traps. Clever - some of them, anyway. I'll give you credit for that. And for the quietude with which you pulled it off."
There was another dull thud that sounded like a person hitting against a wall, and a male voice cried out.
"We had a dream, Benjamin!" Haytham's voice came again, vicious with barely-restrained fury. "A dream you sought to destroy. And for that, my fallen friend, you will be made to pay."
We reached a row of locked cabins and tried the handles on all of them. Each were locked.
Then, from inside one of them, there was a gunshot.
Connor was at the door in an instant, trying to force the handle again. When that did not work, he took a step back, gathered himself, and began to kick the door in. It cracked, and then splintered; the hinges snapped and the door swung limply open.
Church lay on the floor inside the bare cabin, and on top of him was Haytham, with bloodied fists and murder in his eyes. Church's face was mangled, and bleeding from his nose and his temple, and his cheeks were already swelling. He made little effort to fight back in his weakened state, and his open and gasping mouth revealed several missing teeth.
Connor darted forward and grabbed Haytham by the shoulders, hauling him off Church before he could strike him again. "Enough," he snapped. "We came here for a reason."
Haytham shook him off with a glare, and stretched the fingers of his bloody hand. "Different reasons, it seems."
Ignoring his father's snide tone, Connor advanced on Church, still on the floor, and glowered at him. "Where are the supplies you stole?"
Church spat a mouthful of blood onto Connor's boots. "Go to hell."
Before Church could struggle to his feet, Connor was on his knees next to him, and with cold determination he stabbed his wrist blade into the Templar's side. Church gasped as the blade was removed, and pressed a hand to the wound, but the bright blood was already spurting.
"I ask again." Connor's voice was rigid as stone. "Where are the supplies?"
Church's mouth worked for a few moments before he could finally get the words out. "On the island yonder, awaiting pickup. But you've no right to it. It isn't yours."
"No." Connor leaned closer to Church, looking over him in menacing anger. "Not mine. Those supplies are meant for men and women who believe in something bigger than themselves; who fight and die that one day they might be free from tyranny such as you."
Church gave an indignant huff, weak and pained. "Are these the same men and women who fight with muskets forged from British steel? Who bind their wounds with bandages sewn by British hands? How convenient for them. We do the work - they reap the rewards."
I had never thought of Church as a patriot for England; indeed, I had never given him much personal thought. But to hear him speak now struck chords in my heart as the dangerous question began to rise: is it true? But regardless of his motivations, it did not excuse him from the fact that he had betrayed those he claimed to serve, and stolen from the people who needed it most.
I shook my head to rid myself of these thoughts. Pain was making me sentimental.
It seemed that Connor did not share these thoughts. "You spin a story to excuse your crimes, as though you are the innocent one and they the thieves."
A lifted shoulder was Church's noncommittal response - unfeeling to the end, even as his lips grew pale. "It's all a matter of perspective. There is no single path through life that's right and fair and does no harm. Do you truly think the crown has no cause? No right to feel betrayed?" His tone dropped with disdain. "You should know better than this, dedicated as you are to fighting Templars, who themselves see their work as just." He raised a shaking finger and pointed it first at Connor, then at me. "Think on that the next time you insist your work alone benefits the greater good. Your enemy would beg to differ - and would not be without cause."
His speech drained the life out of him with every breath. As the light began to dim in his eyes, Connor said, "Your words may have been sincere, but that does not make them true."
Church did not hear them; or, at least, he did not live to respond to them. After murmuring a few Kanien'kéha words over him, Connor stood and glared over his shoulder at Haytham - back to his usual self.
Haytham, wiping his bloody hands on a handkerchief, said with casual nonchalance, "You did well. His passing was a boon for us all."
Then, as though truly noticing me for the first time, he frowned. "What the hell happened to you?"
I dearly hoped that Rowan was still lying lame on the deck. "You should see the other guy."
He rolled his eyes, and as the three of us gathered at the smashed door, he said loftily, "I expect you'll want my help retrieving everything from the island."
"What is the alternative?" I said. "Dumping you on this ship?" Not a bad idea, really.
His teeth flashed in a smile. "You wish."
"Perhaps we do," muttered Connor, but there was nothing harsh in his voice, nothing that indicated that he was serious.
"Good luck trying," said Haytham. "Good luck indeed."
Chapter 47
Notes:
GUYS I TURNED 21 !!
(I'm not American I am ✨European✨)
ANYWAY hiiii it's been a long time since I updated !!! I think it's because I am entering my Villain Era !!! (setting boundaries and realising that I deserve to be loved too ! I deserve a healthy relationship with myself ! It’s been a long time coming !)
So yeah it takes me approximately 5-8 business weeks to write half a chapter because I am Too Busy Being Wicked (trying to treat myself with the same grace I extend to others)
Back to the topic, I have a new goal: to finish this story before I turn 22 !! It's been seven (7) years since I started and I can't wait to be finished !!! Please help me 🙏
Mighty ambitious considering my dissertation is due in March. I am writing a movie. It is going to drain every ounce of creative energy in me 🥰🩷🧚♀️✨🌸
See you soon for the next chapter ! May the Lord bless and keep you 🩷
xoxo Panda
(also if anyone saw me at the Eras Tour deleting all my apps so I could record Taylor, no you didn’t 🩷)
Chapter Text
When we eventually emerged from belowdecks, we were greeted with the sight of our victory on the enemy deck. At Faulkner's order, our crew were holding the surviving redcoats at gunpoint. As they saw Connor, their captain and the living symbol of their victory, the crew of the Aquila let out a roar.
Connor faced them with cold determination - one look from him silenced the crew, until the only sound was the lapping of the water against the sides of the two ships, and the creaking of the broken wood. Standing there, between two crews, he was not my Ratonhnhaké:ton - not in that moment. He was a stern-faced captain with blood-stained hands, and if I did not love him, I would fear him.
I looked up at the broken mast of the Welcome: there was no coming back from that. She would sink down to rest at the bottom of this sapphire sea and open her arms to welcome the fish into her carcass, and leave her loyal crew to die. Connor knew this too, and it was mercy that urged his words: "Who among you is your leader?"
The captive crew members looked at one another - some were more bloody than others; some were able to stand, while others balanced on their knees - and, one by one, every pair of eyes turned to one man, whose red coat was torn and stained with black patches of gunpowder, and his army medals were tarnished and spackled with blood. His hands were behind his head, a result of the musket pointed at his face.
"That'll be me," he said warily.
Connor focused on him. "Tell your men to stand down, and we will bring you to the nearest port. If anyone has a problem with that, we will leave him on this ship to sink."
"But how are we meant to get home?" a voice piped up from the end of the line. The leader stood in resigned silence. "Some of us have wives. Children."
Connor did not look away from the commanding officer. "Find your own way. Or don't."
With that, he turned sharply and made his way to Faulkner, and his implication was clear: get them off this ship. As our crew started to nudge the men to their feet and push them towards the Aquila, I noticed that Haytham, next to me, was tense and stiff-legged as a hunting dog, and following the line of his eyes, I saw his attention was focused on Rowan, who was struggling to his feet, keeping his weight off his injured leg.
Haytham took a step closer - just one. "Rowan."
Rowan's eyes snapped up at the mention of his name, and he straightened when he saw that the source was none other than the Templar Grandmaster. "Haytham."
"What are you doing here?" demanded Haytham. "I thought you were with Nicholas."
"I was, for a time," said Rowan. "But after we heard about Benjamin, he told me to go with him."
I noted the casual familiarity with which they referred to the other Templars - using their first names instead of their last. How long had Rowan been working with them? I wondered, and how long had he known?
Haytham's blank mask did not shift. "What happened to your leg?"
Rowan scowled and did not look at me, hesitating a moment before saying, "Some ruffian from the other ship caught me by surprise."
I couldn't help my silent huff of humour, and knew that Haytham did not believe him. His pale eyes drifted from Rowan's leg to the still-sticky blood on my hand, and one corner of his mouth twitched. He had put the clues together, and it amused him.
"Come on," he said to Rowan. "Best get off this ship before Connor decides he wants you overboard." He extended a hand to Rowan, placing it on the younger man's shoulder to guide him along. Rowan ignored me as he limped past.
Perhaps if my shoulder did not hurt so much, I might have smiled more. Instead I sought out Connor - an impulse, automatic at this point, as a moth to flame - and joined him at Faulkner's side. His eyes were following Rowan as he crossed the planks laid out to connect the Aquila with the Welcome.
When Faulkner saw me, his eyes widened with surprise. "My, my," he said. "What happened to you?" He took me by the chin and tilted my head up before I could get a word out. "That bruising around your nose and eyes'll spread fast." He cut Connor a playful glare. "You need to take better care of her!"
Connor's smile was fond, though tired. "I apologise for my shortcomings."
"Yeah." Faulkner swatted him away with one hand. "Go and make yourself useful. I'll bring Cass on board."
Raising his hands in surrender, Connor backed away a few steps, meeting my eyes one last time before returning to his duties as captain. Faulkner shook his head after him, but there was no malice in the action. "He's sweet on you," he said to me. "He really is." When I smiled shyly, he grinned. "Pathetic."
"Disgusting," I agreed. "We shall have to do something about it."
Faulkner roared with a laugh and threw an arm over my shoulders - but I shrank away, swallowing a whine of pain. He lifted his arm immediately. "Jaysus," he said, "I'm sorry. Dislocated, is it?"
"Yes." I nodded. "Connor cut his shirt for my sling."
"Ah." He laughed again. "That's an intimation if I ever heard one." Placing a light hand on my back, he began to gently guide me to the exit planks. "You fought well today," he said, and his voice was brimming with pride. "You got fighting blood in ya?"
"I suppose I have," I said. "From my grandfather."
"Oh?" This seemed to interest Faulkner, and he tilted his head. "Who's that?"
"Ryan Glade."
He went still and looked at me with wide eyes. "You're Ryan Glade's granddaughter?" When I nodded, a broad smile overtook his weathered face. "I knew you looked familiar! You share his smile."
I raised my eyebrows. "You knew him?"
"Knew him? I sailed with him!" We paused our walk, letting some of the other crew members pass us by. "He didn't tell you?"
Ryan had not told me. The older I got, the more I realised how very little I knew of my own family, of whose blood was in my veins. I did not even know my own father. My family line was like a fleet of ships, and each one carried the weight of its own secrets, threatening to drag it down into the deep.
Faulkner broke my silence by ruffling my hair with a black powder-stained hand. "I've got some stories for you, all right. From the good old days. But I'll not tell them yet - we need to get everyone sorted on the Aquila first." As he helped me along the planks between the ships, he shook his head and muttered to himself, "Knew she was familiar. Ryan, you old chuckle head."
*
Within hours, we were docked at Fort-de-France. The Aquila was looking rather worse for wear, with small tears in her sails and holes in the hull - but neither of her masts were broken, and for this I was thankful.
Martinique was further south than I had even been, and even though it was only March, the air was warmer than I was accustomed to. I was too northern for the climate of the West Indies - pine trees and snow were more familiar to me than the soft sands and palm trees that greeted us here.
After changing out of my grimy, blood-stained trousers and shirt, and into a skirt and apron, I stood by the rail, watching the mixed crew members disembark; once on land, the Aquila and Welcome men separated - the former heading deeper into the town, making a beeline for the taverns and the cathouses; the latter gathered along the shore, red coats in tatters, to discuss their next move. Rowan, I noted, was not among them - Haytham, having pleaded his case to Connor, managed to secure him a place on the ship until we returned to Boston. They had long since disappeared into the town for a full debrief: Haytham striding with stiff confidence, Rowan struggling to keep up, shuffling on a crutch.
With the repairs that the Aquila needed, we would be docked here for at least three days. Just as I was beginning to wonder what I would do with all of this sudden free time, Connor appeared beside me, a gentle, quiet presence. "How are you feeling?"
I turned my face up at him. "How do I look?"
His small smile was at once amused and apologetic as he traced a finger over the dark bruises spreading under my eyes. "Like a raccoon."
I laughed, and we looked out at the little town sprawling before us. The little wooden buildings cast long, dark shadows on the dry ground as the sun began to lower into early evening. By now the deck was empty: only Connor and I remained. I nodded toward the last of our crew members, who had set a lazy pace into the sunny town as they headed for the brothels. "They've never invited you out with them?" I joked.
Connor looked down at me, his mouth curved in a smile. "They know not to ask me."
In his hand he held a letter. I nodded towards it. "What's that?"
"It is for Achilles," he said, grimly. "I will post it tonight."
Achilles. The last time we had seen him, he and Connor had been fighting, and we had stormed out of the manor knee-deep in snow. Three months had passed since - three months for both men to simmer and cool, though I knew Connor still disagreed with Achilles.
"Did you tell him about your father?" I asked.
After a moment, Connor shook his head. "No. I told him only what was necessary: that we found Church, and that we are docked in Martinique for repairs."
"You know you'll have to tell him eventually."
"I know." He sounded resigned. "But not right now." He looked down at the letter in his hand, and paused; when he looked up, his eyes were brighter. "Come with me to post it, and then we can get dinner."
He had sent Faulkner to arrange for the Aquila's repairs, so we were free to spend the evening how we wanted. It did not take long for us to find the local post office, and when Connor was finished, we began to explore the vendors and stalls that lined the main street. Between the two of us, I was the only one who spoke any French, so I was the one to talk to the vendors, while Connor listened in interested silence.
We gathered bits and pieces between us, foods I had only ever heard of in books and newspapers: mangoes and pineapple chunks and stuffed crabs and steaming portions of fricassée de chatrou (a stew of octopus and tomatoes) and frozen scoops of coconut sorbet topped with mint leaves, which we shared while we walked, for it melted quickly in the Caribbean heat.
Having amassed a banquet for ourselves (our cause for celebration, I supposed, was the successful elimination of Benjamin Church and the staying of Connor's blade from Haytham's neck), we bought a bottle of wine before setting off in search of a quiet place to sit. We explored the wild coast line, stopping every so often to admire the brilliant red flame trees, the soft pink hibiscus, the white orchids. We pointed out the little blue hummingbirds and the gargantuan luth turtles digging nests in the soft sand.
We found a grassy verge, sheltered by trees and overlooking the beach, and, at my urging, Connor untied the apron from around my waist and laid it on the ground for us to sit on. There, we gorged ourselves on the delectable food we had gathered: I felt that we were like two mice hiding in our nest so we could feast on the cheese we collected.
"I've missed this," I found myself saying. "Spending time together."
He was cutting into the mango with a knife, and its sticky juice was running down his hand. "As have I," he said in his soft voice. "Still, we have almost completed our task. We will be home soon."
Neither of us mentioned the fact that, in order to get home, we would have to face another three months at sea - if the weather favoured us. This was the first time in months that we had spent this much time one-on-one, and we both wanted to savour it while we could.
With Church dead, our remaining targets were Nicholas Biddle, Charles Lee, Rowan, Tobias - and Haytham. I couldn't help the pang in my heart at that realisation, that we would eventually have to kill Connor's father. There was a part of me - insane and naïve, a little girl playing dress-up in a woman's body - that still held on to the belief that he could be spared, that he might change his ways and pursue peace with us. But the little girl was clutching a handful of frayed strings.
"What do you make of Rowan Carter?" I asked him.
Connor was quiet while he handed me a carved piece of mango, and his dark eyes were distant in thought. "I am wary of him. His name is another on our list, and I do not like that my father took him on board so easily. They are Templars: they support Charles Lee, and I cannot forgive that."
If we were to kill Rowan while he was in Haytham's good graces, then we would jeopardise our relationship with him, and thus the tentative alliance we had forged. If we wanted to keep everything we had built with Haytham, we needed to stay on Rowan's good side - which would be difficult, as he did not like me.
Where was the young man he had once been? The one who had joked with me and Thomas, who had cared so fiercely for his younger brother, and treated me as the sister he never had? The old Rowan was gone - he had disappeared when he met Tobias and joined the Templar Order; he died with his brother.
As though our thoughts were connected, Connor asked, "Have you heard from Tobias?"
I shook my head. "Not since that summer. No one knows where he went."
It was slightly alarming. His final words to me were a threat, and though I did not fear him, his words troubled me. I did not know a face so innocent could hide such venom.
I wondered when the change happened in him, when he turned from gentle breeze to hurricane. Had he always been that way, or was the delivery of that scar to his face the catalyst, as the dark blood inside stained the porcelain outer shell?
I had not liked him - not in the way that counted. Certainly not enough to kiss him. I realised now that I had never wanted to share that with him; I had wanted to kiss someone in a moment of overflow, where the love in my heart had no place else to go. But he was a placebo, a stand-in for Connor.
I looked sideways at him now, at my best friend and object of my affections, and found that he was staring into space, his gaze hovering just below the blue line of the horizon. Our silence was comfortable: content in the secure knowledge that we were beside each other.
I bit into the chunk of mango in my hand, and the sticky orange juice trickled down to my elbow. I chased it with my mouth, relishing the sweetness on my tongue. When I glanced up, I found that Connor was watching me, his mouth turned up ever so slightly at the corners.
"I love being alive," he said.
I smiled. "You do?"
"I do." We did not touch, but I felt him: the warmth of his heart, the strength of his bones. "It is moments like this that I remember that my heart is beating and I am alive, and that I have a reason to continue doing so."
"What reason is that?" I asked him.
I saw it in his eyes: that softness he took on only rarely, and only for me. There were a hundred different responses, a thousand words he could have said; what he chose was gentle. "The ability to love, and to be loved."
He was not a happy person: pain had taught him to be silent, to expect the worst while simultaneously daring to hope for the best. It was the nature of the path we had chosen. Happiness was a rare gem dug up from the earth, and we gripped each fragment tightly, fearful that we might not find another for a long time.
For him to admit this now was huge - it was a baring of his heart to mine, permission for me to see what nobody else could.
We sat in silence for a long time and watched as the sun touched the horizon, turning the water to a smooth bronze. I do not know at which point my hand found his, but when I realised our fingers were intertwined, I squeezed him tighter.
He looked down at our hands, as though he, too, only noticed our contact now. "I will keep an eye on your shoulder," he said. "You should be able to remove the sling in a few days."
I looked down at the makeshift sling. My injured arm was the one I had burned, and the mottled scars peeked out from beneath the covering. By now they had mostly faded to a silvery white, but the deeper burns had stained my skin pink, never to recover, and when I touched them, the skin had a texture that was not there before.
"Your poor shirt," I said.
"My favourite," he drawled, slow and sarcastic. Then, speaking with his usual gentle timbre: "I will change it when we are back at the ship. Make one with a real bandage."
By now the food was finished, and the bottle of wine was almost empty. We split the dregs, grinning at the memory of the last time we had shared a bottle of wine (though the last time was done on admittedly empty stomachs, which resulted in the unfortunate morning after), and in the golden dusk, he was beautiful as sunlight on the water.
We stood and gathered our things, preparing to head back to the Aquila, and as he tied the apron around my waist, I leaned up and kissed his cheek. He looked down at me with a smile, tucking hair behind my ears, and offered me his arm - which I gladly accepted.
We returned to the ship contented and lazy, pointing out things to each other that had previously gone unnoticed: the small lizards on the path, the noise of the taverns as we passed, the moon forming a hair-thin crescent in the sky. By now the sky was dark and the stars were shining twice as brightly. The Aquila creaked as the waves gently lapped at her sides, breaking the night's silence with the rhythm of breaths.
Without stopping or thinking twice, we bundled into the captain's cabin, and I was giggling at nothing, at the sheer joy of being alive.
We sat on the floor and played with Connor's deck of cards; when we were bored of this, he made me a more secure bandage and threw away the scrap I had been using. His fingers brushed the burn scars on my arm: he dipped his head to kiss them. And when we grew tired, we crowded into the cot, far too small for both of us, and he covered us with the thin blanket.
We lay in silence for a long time, long enough to hear some of the crew members stumbling back to their beds belowdecks, but I did not sleep, and I knew Connor didn't either.
I reached up and traced the profile of his dear face that I knew so well: the slope of his forehead, the curve of his nose with its smattering of freckles, the shape of his lips, even the dent of the scar on his cheek. He lay still while I touched his face; there was something I wanted to ask him, something sudden - I could feel the words between my teeth, could feel the way my mouth formed around them, but I could not release them.
Then, softly, Connor spoke. "Cassandra. Your name is magnificent."
I turned my head to look at him. "It is?"
"Yes." His gentle hand on my back stroked tender circles over my skin. "It is Greek, right?"
"It is," I murmured. "Prophetess, princess of Troy, bed-slave to Agamemnon."
"Cassandra," he said again, slowly, sounding it out, as though picturing every letter. "One must employ the entire mouth to speak it, every syllable and sound. An effort I will enjoy for the rest of my life."
I could not hold the words in; they slipped through my lips before I could rein them in. "Why have we never married?" A silence followed these words, and, heart quickening, I added, "We have been together for a little over a year. We would spend our lives with no other, so why have we not made it official?"
He was staring into the darkness, watching the silver reflections of the water flicker over the ceiling. "I wanted to wait until after the war," he murmured, "before asking you."
He had given it some thought, then. It seemed reasonable, but tiredness loosened my tongue. "Why?"
Now he looked at me, eyes glinting in the dark. "Because I want more for you than a rushed ceremony with no promise that either of us will live to see our happy ending. I want you to have everything you could dream of."
I remembered Achilles' parting words to us. "But life is not a fairy tale," I said quietly, in my best impression of Achilles' voice, feeling the truth of the words settle into my bones.
"We will write one." He sounded so determined, so hopeful. It made my heart ache.
"You know that all I want is you, right?" I twisted my head up to try and see his expression. "I don't care about the fairy tale if you're not in it."
A hum and a quiet sigh escaped him. "I know." He pressed a kiss to the crown of my head. "Some day - I promise you. We will live a life together that is happier than that of the other Cassandra. We will create a new image of your name - one of joy, not tragedy."
"And what of yours?" I asked. "Your real name. He scratches at life."
Though the cabin was too dark for me to see his face, I recognised the way his voice sounded when he smiled. "My life began the day I met you. There is nothing to scratch at because, with you, I have already begun to rewrite its meaning."
*
Church's instructions to find the stolen cargo were not very specific, for there were, in fact, many islands 'yonder'. Connor, Haytham, and Faulkner bickered about it for a day or so, before deciding on a course of action: Faulkner would take a portion of the crew in a schooner borrowed from a friend of a friend and search the islands to the south and east, while we would search the north and west in the Aquila, and reconvene at Santo Domingo, Hispaniola, in two weeks.
(Hispaniola was a Spanish-speaking country, and neither Connor nor I spoke Spanish: we hoped dearly that we would not have to communicate with the locals.)
That was ten days ago. We had searched almost every island with no luck, and although I could see Connor's patience wearing thin, he did not lose hope, even with only four days on our north-bound course before we were forced to dock.
Haytham was another matter. Every day he grumbled at his son's futile attempts at recovering the stolen goods - he deemed it a pathetic attempt to redeem the reputation of a failing man (meaning Washington), and tried once more to warm us to the views of the Templars - but this was swiftly shut down by Connor, angered by the mere mention of Charles Lee's name.
"Charles Lee is a murderer and a tyrant," Connor snapped. "He cares only for himself, and not for the wellbeing of this country. Why do you associate yourself with such a man?"
Haytham's tone was strained - this was not the first of these arguments that they had had. "Charles is disciplined, and loyal to the Order. He seeks the truth, just the same as you."
"Truth?" Connor's hands tightened, incredulous, on the wheel. The wind whipped his dark hair into his face, but he ignored it. "He - and all your Templar brethren - seek only to gain from the suffering of others. See his cowardice as Washington's so-called general! The Templars would murder the man that is leading this country to brighter days - and for what?"
"You can't seriously believe that George Washington is a great leader?" scoffed Haytham, re-adjusting his hat on his greying head. "After all this time? Really? He is a blundering fool - even you cannot deny that. The man can barely string his words together in a letter, let alone before a crowd. How can you expect him to represent this country?"
I listened to this argument half-heartedly: I had long since grown bored of this tête-à-tête, and instead amused myself with the telescope. There was a dark smudge on the horizon that did not move with the bobbing waves, so I watched it with mild interest - anything to occupy myself and help me ignore the growing argument next to me.
"Charles Lee is a murderer," Connor was saying, his tone full of contempt. "You expect me to sympathise with the very organisation that saw my mother burned alive?"
"I told you before–" Haytham sounded strained– "he had nothing to do with that. It was certainly not by my command."
"There's land ahead," I muttered, but it was drowned out by their voices.
"The Templars do not want a state of anarchy, which you Assassins seem sympathetic towards," Haytham was saying. "We fight to maintain order, and organisation."
"And you would enslave innocent people to ensure this structure remains standing." Connor was gripping the wheel tightly, turning it with more force than necessary, and kept his eyes carefully away from his father.
"Is that not better than the alternative?" was Haytham's quiet response. "Absolute freedom, with chaos following in its wake? Society would crumble, Connor. I am trying to ensure that that will not happen."
The black smudge on the horizon was getting closer; I could see the shapes of tall palm trees, the only texture on the otherwise-flat island, and next to them, huddled mounds of bushes.
As we drew closer, something to the east caught my eye. I pivoted the telescope, and for a few moments saw nothing by the glimmering waves.
There. A frigate heading towards the island. I narrowed my eye, trying in vain to see the crew and the captain clearly, but could not see from this distance.
I lowered the telescope and said again, louder this time, "Land ahead."
Neither Connor nor Haytham acknowledged me: instead, their voices rose above mine, like I was but a fly buzzing by their ears. I was not hurt by this lack of attention, but I was irritated - so I whacked both of them across the head with the telescope.
"Ow!" yelped Connor, one hand coming up to automatically touch the back of his head.
Haytham, whom I had cut off mid-sentence, slowly looked at me - if I could call it that. Storm clouds would have been brighter than the glare he sent me.
"There's an island ahead." I shoved the telescope back into Connor's belt. "And there's a ship heading for it."
Leaving them to squabble and decide on a course of action, I went down to the main deck to watch the crystal waters lap against the ship's hull. Far below, shadows danced across the pale sand, silver flickers of fish and sparse patches of seaweed - and the black silhouette of the Aquila as she passed by.
A shuffling sound behind me interested me enough to look over my shoulder: it was Rowan staggering up from belowdecks, leaning heavily on the crutch under his arm. His leg had stopped bleeding, but it was still wrapped in thick bandages, and he visibly kept as much weight off it as was possible. I did not fight the smug twinge in my chest to see him like this, unkind though it was. My own arm was still slung about my neck, I tried to reason. This was vengeance.
I was shocked to see him heading towards me - there was nowhere I could run to, for I knew he had seen me notice him, so I had no choice but to stand and wait for him to reach my side. It was unusual to see him so dishevelled, with his sandy hair falling into his face and a light sunburn across his nose and cheeks.
Then again, the last time I had seen him was after Thomas' funeral, when he had threatened me at gunpoint. He had been hysterical then, pale and wild and sleepless, and had turned on me as a rabid dog turns on its master.
It was not his fault - grief had made him this way. I remembered the man he was before Thomas died: playful and charming, with a ready smile and a smart comment up his sleeve,. I had always considered him a friend. Templar though he was, he was also just a boy who had lost his brother.
"How is your leg?" I found myself asking him.
He looked stunned, like he had not expected me to speak so soon. "It's fine." Then, after a pause: "How are you?"
His question encompassed all, both my shoulder and my bruised face, the latter of which had blossomed to a deep purple before turning yellow at the edges. "I'll be out of this sling in a day or two," I replied. "I'll be right as rain then."
Rowan nodded, evidently at a loss for what else to say. Why was he beside me if he did not want to talk? I turned away from him and leaned over the edge of the ship, trying to get close enough to the water to feel its misty spray on my cheeks. A mild breeze whipped my hair into my face, and I tucked it behind my ears. I did not normally wear it loose, opting instead to braid and pin it, and now I noticed how long it had grown without my noticing.
Beside me, Rowan cleared his throat. "How long do you think it will take us to reach New York?"
I half turned my head to him, keeping my eyes on a silver shoal of fish below the ship. "It's hard to say. It took us three months to get here."
That silenced him - but not for long. Another pause stretched between us, and he coughed again. "Cassie–"
The nickname awakened something in me, a quickening of the heart, a heating of the blood. "Don't call me that," I snapped. "You lost the right to call me that."
Rowan opened his mouth. Closed it. He took an awkward step back, and I found myself standing straighter as my face settled into a blank stare, a mask of ennui that I did not feel. I held eye contact until he blinked and looked away.
"I was advised," he tried again, "not to burn my bridges so soon. That if there is a chance for reconciliation, let it be taken."
I knew instantly who had put him up to this. Though he was not overtly looking our way, I knew Haytham was watching from the corner of his eye. He had taken my place at Connor's side and was trying to persuade him to hand over the telescope, but I noticed that his body was angled so that he could keep me and Rowan in his sights.
So I sighed. "Why?"
I could see the conflict in his eyes - the desire to shut down and end the conversation warring with his need to speak. "It's what Thomas would have wanted."
He still said his brother's name with tenderness. It still sent pangs through my heart.
A year had passed since Thomas died. There was a little graveyard behind the homestead church - his was the first one in it. At first, it was so harsh, so strange, to see that wooden cross, the flowers gathered at its base. I used to visit it and clear the snow from the arms of the cross, and when the weather was better, I sat in the grass and weaved daisy chains.
My silence was an opening to continue speaking, and he grabbed the opportunity with both hands. "I was harsh to you," Rowan said quietly, slowly, as though choosing his words very carefully. "I blamed you for his death. At first, I thought you had told people about his condition, and that's why he . . . he jumped. Then I thought that if there was anyone that could have saved him that day, it would have been you."
They were the words I had tortured myself with since the day we found him floating in the river. "I tried," I said, and my voice sounded small, even to my own condemning ears. "I really did. He stayed with me all winter. I was with him every single day - and the one day I took a walk without him was the day he did it. So to say that I was the sole cause of his death is really unfair."
"I know." Whatever Haytham had said to him when we docked in Fort-de-France had evidently impacted him enough to actually speak calmly to me. Then again, I thought, a year was more than enough time for him to arrange his words into a civil order.
Perhaps I had not been protecting Thomas by keeping him in the house with me, holding him by my side all of the day. Perhaps I had been merely holding him back while he strained for the open door: he would have ripped his arms free of my grip either way.
"I suppose," Rowan said into the quiet between us, "I was angry, and needed something to point my anger at - something that was not myself."
So he chose me as his doll to drive pins into, making a porcupine of me, a sacrifice on the altar of his grief, hoping it would be enough to stop his own blood from spilling.
It was not an apology. I did not expect one from a Templar - and longed, suddenly, to ask him how he had gotten himself caught up in this mess of a war. But before I could open my mouth, Connor called my name from his place at the wheel.
I looked back to Rowan, who shifted on his feet, and I raised my chin. "We'll pick this up later."
By the time I made it back to the wheel, Connor had taken the telescope from his belt and was holding it out to me. "Look again at the ship, and tell me what you see."
He could have given this job to Haytham - and it seemed that Haytham felt the same, and looked on with folded arms as I peered through the glass.
It was a few moments before I focused on the ship, much closer this time, and saw that the crew were men in British red. One man in the ratlines was pointing to something: a dark pile in the sand. Wooden boxes, hastily covered with broken palm leaves. The stolen cargo.
The tide brought the other ship close to the sand, and as she turned, I caught a glimpse of the gilded lettering carved into her stern: USS Randolph. So her captain was. . .
We were advancing towards the island with record speed, and as thought he knew this, the captain glanced our way dismissively. I recognised the black-and-red coat, the tricorne shading his weather-worn face. He was young - scarcely touching his thirties (only a few years older than Connor and me), but I recognised his face - we had spent years poring over the portraits in the basement: this was another painting come to life.
I lowered the telescope. "It's Nicholas Biddle."
Haytham's face paled. "Give me that," he muttered, and snatched the telescope from my hand. His disbelief was put to death after seeing for himself the Templar's ship weigh anchor.
Biddle had been the scourge of the east coast for the past three years, ever since he had been made captain of this ship on the behalf of the Continental Navy: aided by the Templars, he organised attacks on the naval trade routes into America from places as far north as Newfoundland, down past Martha's Vineyard and Nantucket, to Barbados and the Bahamas. All of these exploits, arguably, were a part of his effort to be made admiral of the Continental Navy fleet. He must have received word of Church's death and raced to get to the cargo before we could.
Connor's mouth was a grim line. "I will bring us in close," he said, "and try to board her myself. I want as little blood spilled as possible."
He did not look at Haytham as he spoke; we all knew what needed to be done.
The man on the Randolph's ratlines spotted us, and called something down to Biddle, who raised his head and locked eyes across the water with Connor. We were close enough now to see the Templar's face without the telescope, and I watched him set his jaw forward. Obstinate, then.
Haytham walked to the edge of the ship and raised an arm in greeting toward his cohort. "Nicholas."
Biddle's eyes settled on him, and shock crossed over his face like a flash of lightning. "I knew you had allied yourself with the Assassins to kill Church," he called across the water, "but coming for the supplies? You know that goes against the very principles we stand for."
Biddle was young and bold, and his months at sea had doubtless lent him the courage to speak to Haytham as he did. He said something to his first mate, who gripped the handle of the swivel gun mounted by the wheel, and fired at us.
Swivel shots were small and largely harmless against the ship's hull - but this time the shot hit one of our crew members, who went down with a cry. Even from our distance, I heard Biddle yelling, "Damnit, man, I said a warning shot!"
The man was on the ground, bleeding from somewhere on his leg. Another man, his friend, was crouched next to him, trying to stem the flow of blood.
Connor released the wheel, and Haytham dashed to take his place, gripping the heavy spokes tightly to maintain our position. Tossing his hat aside, Connor strode to the railing and called out, "Biddle! I do not wish to ruin these fine ships. Let us settle this like men."
His implication was clear: a fight to the death. Just him and Biddle.
I could see the Templar considering it carefully, and then he nodded his concession and faced his own crew. "Clear the deck!"
Connor turned away and started to remove the many weapons on his person; I stepped forward to hold them for him. First came his two flintlocks and his tomahawk, his smoke bombs, and long-toothed dagger; opening his navy coat, he removed his coiled rope darts and array of throwing knives. The last weapons were his dual hidden blades, which he unstrapped and handed to me with gentleness. The leather was soft and well-worn, and still warm from his contact.
As he shrugged his coat off, I said, "Be careful."
He side-eyed me as he tossed his coat on top of his discarded hat. "Am I not always careful?"
"No." I placed the armful of weapons by his coat. Across the water, Biddle's crew were throwing ropes to draw the Aquila near.
We did not wish each other good-bye as he took hold of one of the ropes hanging from the rigging and swung himself across the gap, landing on his feet on the deck of the Randolph. Biddle, now shed of his own weapons, faced Connor with puffed chest and taunted, "Your misplaced sense of justice is pathetic. You should have never set foot outside your little village."
Both crews gathered around in eerie silence to watch the Assassin and Templar circle one another like two wolves. The only sound was the lapping of the waves against the hulls of the ships.
Biddle struck first, darting in as fast as a snake, and Connor narrowly dodged his fist. As he twisted, he managed to land a punch in Biddle's kidney; the latter snarled and lashed out, but Connor shielded himself with his arms.
Some of the more adventurous men on the Aquila were starting to cross over to the other ship. I had half a mind to join them and get front row seats for Connor's victory - but my eyes were drawn instead to the two men on our deck, the one who had been shot and the one who supported him.
The latter stood up, stiff-legged and quivering, eyes fixed on Biddle's first mate, whose attention was on the sparring match. "Bleeding fucking bastard," the man cried, before drawing his flintlock and firing.
The first mate's head shattered in a burst of red. Blood showered down on Biddle and Connor, distracting them for a fraction of a moment.
All at once, chaos broke out on the decks of the ships as both crews drew their guns in retaliation and began to fire. Cries and shouts were drowned out in the deafening gunshots.
I instinctively crouched lower to avoid the flying bullets, and looked up at Haytham. "Stay at the wheel."
He looked appalled. "What the bloody hell do you think you're doing?"
I tore my sling off and tossed it to the wind, relishing the newfound freedom of movement in my arm, and grabbed the rope that Connor had used to swing himself across. Ignoring Haytham's complaints behind me, I gripped the rope in both hands, and jumped.
I was suspended in space; I was flying; and then I hit the Randolph and rolled over my shoulder to absorb the impact. When I stood, my shirt was sticky with blood from the deck. Beside me lay the body of the first mate, a shattered mess where his head used to be, leaking brains and blood.
So far, I was unnoticed. The crews clashed upon one another like waves, permeated by the screaming of steel and the wet slap of blood. Connor and Biddle were in much closer contact now, their blows landing harder, faster, but Connor was gaining the upper hand, forcing Biddle back little by little.
In his backwards step, Biddle bumped into one of his crew members and slipped on the bloody deck. He fell hard on his side, but before Connor could advance any closer, he pulled a flintlock from where he had hidden it in the folds of his coat, and fired.
The shot went stray and hit a barrel - a barrel that was full of gunpowder. It exploded, and I fell to my knees as the deck shuddered. The planks where Connor was standing caved in with a deafening screech, and he disappeared into the dark underbelly of the ship.
Thinking this an easy win, Biddle leaped down after him. Flames danced along the floorboards, very bright against the thick, dark smoke. One of the Randolph crew members spotted me, then, and swung the butt end of his musket at me. I dodged backwards, and he swung again, forcing me back, closer to the gaping hole in the deck.
But I would not be toppled so easily. As I ducked under his musket, I scooped something off the ground, something wet and still-warm, and threw it into the man's face.
He screamed in horror and disgust as the first mate's brains landed in his face, and I used his distraction to seize the musket from his grip and turn it on him, hitting him hard across the head.
As he fell, I staggered to the edge of the gap to peer down. I could hear Connor and Biddle fighting, and when I lowered myself down, I saw Connor pull a knife from his boot and slash at Biddle, cutting him across the cheek.
Biddle fought dirty, but so did Connor.
The smoke was thick down here, clogging my nose and filling my lungs. There were more crates stacked against the back wall: a closer look told me that they, too, were full of gunpowder.
Just as the idea bloomed in my mind, I saw Connor close the distance between him and Biddle and drive his knife through the Templar's ribs. Biddle gasped, and as Connor drew the blade out again, his legs buckled. Connor had hit a lung: it would not be long now. His dark hair was plastered to his face, unnaturally pale and glazed with a sheen of sweat.
Connor stood over him, looking down - a position of intimidation, of power. "Your reign over the colonial coast has come to an end."
"Is that why you hunted me?" spluttered Biddle, and was interrupted by a cough that brought blood to his lips. "Because you thought me an enemy to the cause? You are every bit the fool I was told."
"You brought pain and suffering upon innocent people for nothing but personal gain," Connor spoke over him, ignoring Biddle's half-hearted insult.
Biddle laid his head back on the floor, body shaking with a cough that visibly weakened him. "Pain," he muttered. "Suffering. I set them free. Weeded out the dissenters and empowered the patriots. So what if I was named Admiral? The revolution needs one, and I was the best man for the job. The only man. If not for me, the Continental Navy would remain but a handful of rats." One hand came up to press against the spurting wound in his chest. "For all your vision, you Assassins are blind to the truth."
Connor tilted his head, but his facial expression did not change. He switched his blade to his other hand. "Enough."
"Wait!" Biddle gasped, tensing automatically in preparation for the killing blow. "Let the Randolph die with me. Don't take her as a prize. Please. Please. I want no quarter - just to sink with my ship." He was pleading - I had never heard a Templar sound so desperate.
In another life, Connor and Biddle might have been friends. There was real, true sympathy on Connor's face as he, without another word, turned his back and walked away.
He was surprised to see me belowdecks with him, but before he could speak, I pointed to the crates of gunpowder. He nodded to me, and swiftly climbed up through the hole in the deck while I knelt and took a flint from my pocket. I could hear him ordering the crew back to our own ship.
I managed to create a spark, and struck the flint again, closer to the crates. The wood was dry, and did not take long to catch the spark and nurture it into a flame.
Time was running out. I scrambled up, following Connor's path to the deck. The fires had spread to the top deck, and the ship was melting around us.
The last of the Aquila crew members were fleeing back to our ship. Connor was ushering them along, until he was the last of our crew on board. When I reached him, he wrapped an arm around my waist, pulling me tight against his side, and with his other hand he held a loose rope. He looked down at me for a moment, and he was blood-spattered and grimy, but he grinned before he swung us across.
As we hit the deck, the Randolph began to explode.
Flames shot skyward. Black smoke bloomed up to the clouds, glittering with red sparks. The men that were not caught in the inferno were throwing themselves overboard, into the waves caused by the explosions.
The tide caught the Aquila and pulled away from the sinking ship, and as the Randolph sank in flames, our crew began to cheer.
I did not expect to feel such joy - perhaps it was fed by adrenaline - but I looked up at Connor with a wide smile, which he returned freely. He picked me up in a tight hug, spinning me around, and we were both laughing breathlessly as the crew howled around us. And before either of us could really think about it, he kissed me hard before setting me down.
"How is your shoulder?" he asked, like he had only just noticed.
I laughed at the question. "Better."
His smile was brighter than the fires on the Randolph. "Be sure not to over-exert yourself. My father and I will gather the cargo from the island, if you stay on board."
I nodded, happy to stay on board, and as Connor ordered the rowboat to be lowered, I felt Haytham's presence next to me. He did not speak, but he was looking at me strangely. Like he was examining me under glass.
I didn't care. I was still smiling stupid, because we had killed two of our targets and we had found the cargo and we could go home. We were going home.
Chapter 48
Summary:
Cassandra is a thought daughter because I am a thought daughter who cannot resist lending her pieces of myself
Anyway it’s Cassandra’s birthday on the 19th of August (4 days from now!!) so everyone please please please wish her a happy birthday 🥺 or I will find out where you live 🩷
ALSO it is canon that Connor cannot spell “traitor” and ??? idk why that’s so cute ???
Chapter Text
It took two full days for me to get used to the feeling of solid ground under my feet. I could hardly mount the stairs in the manor without swaying to one side or the other, and found myself holding the smooth wooden rail for balance until the world stopped sloshing like water in a glass bottle.
But as soon as we were used to the land again, Connor took his beloved bow and left to stay a few days at Kanatahséton and reconnect with nature. I did not blame him: after six months at sea, surrounded by the same people every day, even I wanted a break. Some silence.
But silence was a luxury I could ill afford. Myriam and Norris were getting married in a mere two weeks, and while most of the preparations had been done in our absence, I could still feel it in the air - a crackling tension, the calm before a storm.
Maybe I was selfish for wanting to escape from it. My six month odyssey was no Caribbean holiday. I had lived so long on edge, waking in tension, sleeping with one eye open, that I was bone tired. Really! I thought to myself. Not yet twenty-one years old, and already I had the weak constitution of a seventy-year-old.
I was happy to be home - happy to sleep in my own bed again, happy to talk to different people - but most of all, I was happy to be back to my books. I had not brought many with me to Martinique, only two novels: a copy of Richardson's Pamela, and my tattered edition of Bunyan's The Pilgrim's Progress. One for my heart; the other, my soul.
Sitting on an armchair on the upstairs landing, a steaming cup of tea beside me and an open book in my lap, I stared into the empty space above the worn floorboards, and thought of the half-year that had passed me by. There was so much that I needed to do - I had to see my family, who had recently been visited by Ryan during his time off school; I had to speak to Jamie Colley and Clipper Wilkinson, two of our recruits, about the movements of the Templars during our absence; I had to ask Prudence and Corinne about their plans to feed the coming wedding party and how I might help in that area - I had so much to do that I ended up doing nothing at all.
Sometimes I felt that my life could have been so much more. In moments like this, it was as though I were sitting cross-legged in a river and watching the silver fish swim past me. I could see them coming, could easily reach out and grasp them, but I was distracted by the feeling of the water flowing through my fingers, and the fish flitted past me, flashing their tails in mockery. I was hungry, but could not eat; I was thirsty, but could not drink. There were so many fish that I ended up choosing none at all. I was being murdered by my own complaisance. My life was not my own - I was a pawn in the hand of a nation in labour, playing on a chessboard designed by my grandfather, and his grandfather before him.
Good for Connor, I thought grumpily. He can escape for a few days, while I'm stuck here, rotting like a log in the forest.
The book in my lap was unappealing. I closed it and laid it gently aside, listening to Achilles' cane echo off the downstairs floor as he limped into his study. His health had deteriorated in the months since I had last seen him: he was slower-moving than usual, and I had noticed Diana visiting more often with this herb or that ointment for his use. Even his breathing was different: he struggled a little more to take breaths that were still too shallow.
It worried me to see him like this. The only man that had ever been a father to me was only human, and just as perishable as the rest of us - and it terrified me. I had lost enough people that I loved. I was not ready to lose him, too.
Perhaps that was the reason that Connor had left so quickly after arriving. Maybe he was scared, too - he just did not know how to show it.
He and Achilles had made up when we arrived; after all, six months was more than enough time for both men to calm down from their argument and talk about it like adults. Achilles had even welcomed us, though his tone was dry. And how was Martinique? he had asked.
I had let Connor do the talking: he had more to say than I did. I owe you an apology, he had said. It was wrong of me to say the things I did.
Your words were harsh, Connor, Achilles had conceded, his voice calm, but there was also truth there. I failed the order. Allowed the Templars to take control.
But now their hold is weakened, I had found myself saying with conviction, which leads us to believe that there's a chance for peace.
Imagine what might be accomplished if we were to unite, Connor had added.
But Achilles had not been convinced, and even now, he was still wary. Why the change of heart? Where is this coming from? he had asked with narrowed eyes, which widened as the truth dawned on him. You've met your father, haven't you?
Connor had not needed to say yes or no: his response was all Achilles needed to hear. I do not claim to trust the man, or even like him - but we would be remiss to ignore this opportunity.
Haytham may listen, Achilles had agreed, but I had known even then that he was dubious, but will he understand? And even if he does, will he agree?
Connor had remained resolute. Even he must admit that we achieve more together than we do alone.
True as his words may have been, none of us could deny the apprehension that followed us over the next few days: the buried suspicion that a grave mistake was about to be, or had already been, made.
Another noise from downstairs roused me from my thoughts - a noise I knew very well: the grating of stone on stone, the shifting of metal gears. Achilles had opened the hidden doorway to the basement.
Curiosity got the better of me and brought my silent feet down the stairs above the old man's descending head, which was bare and grey without his hat. The basement was as dim as it always was, and smelled faintly of mould after six months of disuse. A thin layer of dust coated the weapons racks, something I knew Connor would not be happy about. I, on the other hand, was a little pleased: a life without the need for such weapons or violence was a good life indeed.
But it was just a dream.
I joined Achilles in standing before the portraits of our targets. Only Haytham and Charles Lee remained - they glared at us from the painted canvases, faces cold and impassive. I scanned the notes Connor had written on the wall over the course of our study of the Templars: their roles in the core group of Templars, their motives, and the questions we had never gotten answers to. I picked up a piece of chalk and carefully corrected the spellings of a few words.
Achilles was staring up at the picture of Connor's father when I turned around, his mouth pulled into a thin line. "Sometimes I wonder if that portrait will ever be removed."
If there was peace between the Assassins and the Templars, we would have no need to cross out Haytham's face like we did the rest. I wondered how far Connor was willing to go in the name of peace. Perhaps, if our lives had been different, we would have known what it was to be calm, to live lives unshaken by wars.
There was an empty space on the wall - not quite large enough to fit another portrait of the same size as the others, but noticeable enough that my eyes was drawn to it. I found myself asking something that had been on my mind for a long time, but had never been brave enough to share. "Why isn't Shay Cormac's portrait among these?"
Achilles was silent for a few moments, and his eyes met mine. He sighed. "Did I ever tell you how I got my limp?"
I shook my head. The old man arched an eyebrow. "It was in 1760," he said. "Some of my Assassins and I - Liam O'Brien, primarily - had discovered the location of a Precursor site up in the Arctic. We sailed for weeks to reach it, through the ice and freezing waters. Little did we know, Shay Cormac and Haytham Kenway had followed us there. The Templars wanted to destroy it like Cormac did the one I sent him to find in Lisbon, back when he was one of us.
"Kenway managed to catch me alone on the ice, while Cormac went and killed Liam. We fought there, but Kenway was younger than I, and fresher in his skills. He managed to disarm me, and was about to kill me . . . but then Shay Cormac stepped in and begged mercy on my behalf. According to him, I was no longer a threat to the Templars. And I wasn't. They had killed everyone. Shay had killed everyone. He managed to convince Connor's father to spare my life - but he made sure that I would never fight again."
He reached down and touched his right leg. "He shot me, point blank. Just below the knee. The bullet shattered the bone in my shin. I've never walked properly since. But," he added, "were it not for Shay Cormac, I would have been dead on that ice eighteen years ago. I have left him off this wall because, though loath as I am to admit it, I owe him my life, miserable as it may be."
"Even though he killed Charles Dorian two years ago?" I asked - not to provoke, but to understand.
Achilles fixed me with a look of sudden melancholy. "While he is a hindrance and a danger to our cause, if you or Connor decide to eliminate him, it will not be by my command. Besides - whatever he has attempted to stir up in Paris is nothing compared to what you and Connor have done in America."
It was the closest thing to praise that he would give. I chose to accept it with a dip of my head. "We could never have done it without you."
"I know." His tone was uncharacteristically tender, and though he had never been one for physical touch, I felt as though this was the equivalent of him laying an arm over my shoulder in a fatherly manner.
I looked at him properly. In the dim light of the torches on the walls, he looked small and thin, and the lines on his face seemed deeper, like cracks in stone. He was nearing seventy years, I realised. Time was catching up to him swiftly, like a dog nipping at his heels.
This was the first time I had noticed that he actually looked old. Connor and I called him old man on occasion, but more often than not, it was only to get a reaction out of him. But now he was starting to live up to the name. Suddenly we did not have nearly as much time left with him as we thought we did.
I had never been good at hiding my heart. Achilles saw right through me, and rolled his eyes. "Come," he said, taking me by the arm to turn me towards the stairs. "Go on upstairs and make me a cup of tea. I'm not so old that I can't get up these steps by myself."
*
Perhaps I loved too much, all at once. It was simultaneously what I admired and loathed in myself: my ability to feel so very deeply.
Looking back, I think it is what prompted me to leave the manor a few days after my conversation with Achilles and take a horse to my family's house in Boston. Their faces floated before my eyes, phantoms of people I would love even if it killed me.
The house that I once inhabited looked grey and dead, even in the June sunshine. Like all of the light had been drained from it, evaporated through the open windows. Then again, I supposed, only two people lived there now. With Ryan in Virginia, Meredith missing, and Nadia married, only Lydia and Gabriel remained.
My mother opened the door when I knocked. She looked more tired than I remembered - there were dark smudges under her eyes, her lips turned down, even her golden hair did not shine as it once did. The house did not smell the same either: the scent of flowers had been replaced by the musty smell of old perfume that had not quite washed out of the fabric of the cushions.
Lydia greeted me on the doorstep with a hug that pulled me tight against her chest, before she held me at arm's length so she might look at me. "Oh darling," she said, looking me up and down. "You've gotten terribly tanned. It looks very lower class."
My smile faltered. "What a pleasure it always is to see you, mother."
She invited me inside and sat me down in the drawing room, leaving me alone for a few minutes while she fetched Gabriel from his study. In these moments of silence, I pondered.
Sometimes, I did not actually like my mother. She spoke her mind at the worst of times; she abandoned me and attempted to smother me to make up for it, which drove her other daughter away; she kept my very blood a secret from me. While I did love her, I did not like her.
She still had not told me the name of my Templar father. It was something I had agonised over, picked apart, in the last six months - and it was only made worse by Haytham's presence on the ship. The way he looked at me so critically, like he knew exactly what I was. Occasionally I had felt that he knew who my father was, and was on the verge of telling me. But, after six months, I knew Haytham - and I knew he would tell me nothing if he thought he could use it as leverage.
How different he was from his son!
How different was I from my father? Were we as far apart as the east is from the west, as fire and ice to one another - or were we as close as long-lost siblings, carved from the same bone, waiting to be welded back together?
I had voiced these thoughts to Connor many times, during those long nights keeping watch at the wheel. He had tried to assure me that I was nothing like my father, but neither of us knew for certain whether or not his words were true. Nevertheless, I had appreciated his attempts to comfort me.
The drawing room door creaked as Lydia opened it wider for Gabriel to pass her by. I stood and gladly hugged him, smiling at his softly-spoken greeting. If there was anyone in the world that I could choose to be my father, I would have chosen him.
"How are you both?" I asked once they were seated on the sofa adjacent to mine.
"Bearing up," said the gentle Gabriel. "I don't think we'll ever get used to how quiet the house has become."
"How is Ryan doing? I am sorry I missed him."
"He's so tall now," Lydia gushed. "You would hardly recognise him."
Gabriel leaned forward in earnest. "He's so clever. They're teaching him such marvellous things in that school. Why, he stood before us and recited poetry in Latin for us!"
"That's wonderful." A headache was already forming behind my eyes. I could not imagine the Ryan that they spoke of: all I could see in my mind's eye was the little boy with the gap-toothed smile. "Have you heard from Meredith?”
Lydia and Gabriel exchanged a sad look. "No," said my mother. "The theatre group moved down to the Carolinas a few months ago, and after that, we don't know. We haven't seen her since she ran away."
I took a breath. "I saw her performing," I admitted. "In New York. She was . . . she was good."
A line appeared between Gabriel's dark brows. "What was the performance?"
I was not sure I wanted to tell them that their precious golden daughter played one of the primary characters in a play about sex, but I knew I should not lie to them. "The Country Wife."
For a few moments, they sat silently as the realisation settled upon them like a pox-infected blanket. Then, Lydia's blue eyes filled with tears and she pressed a hand to her mouth. "Where did I go wrong?" she whispered. "Where?"
Though I did not know if I was like my father, I knew that I was not like my mother. I knew when to keep my mouth shut.
So instead of torturing her with the truth, I sat next to her and placed an arm over her shoulder, while Gabriel held her from her other side. He was as sad as she was, but he held it better than she did. "We did our best," he said quietly.
Lydia leaned into his shoulder as the tears made their way down her cheeks. "Did we?"
"Yes," he murmured. "We never stopped loving her."
I felt Lydia sink further into Gabriel's side, and further away from me. I removed my arm from her shoulder. “Look at what we've raised," she wept. "A scholar that we never see, a runaway actress, and an . . ."
I knew the word she did not want to say. Assassin. I was following the path she had hoped desperately that I would avoid. But I noticed that, of all her children, I was the one she abandoned first, and the only one who kept coming back. My relationship with her was an open wound that oozed no matter how I tried to pack it.
I wondered if it was a fatal flaw on my part, that I would keep returning to this place like a dog to its vomit.
Perhaps I was thinking too much about myself.
Lydia wiped her cheeks with a sniff, and looked at me with watery eyes. “I’m sorry. I have not asked you about your travels. You spent six months in the Caribbean?”
Her voice was trembling. For her sake, I ignored it and spoke normally. “Yes. It was awful living on a ship.”
“I can imagine.” She wrinkled her nose. “I still remember the journey I took to get to America. What a horrid three months they were.”
She had come over here alone. At least I had had Thomas and his family with me.
“The journey was exhausting,” I admitted, “but I cannot deny that Martinique is a lovely island. We spent three days there.”
“Out of leisure?” She tried for an engaged smile.
“Necessity, mostly. We docked there for some repairs, but we got to see the island, too.” I clasped my hands in my lap.
She nodded along. Gabriel piped up, then. “And how is Connor doing?”
“He is well,” I said. “After we returned, he went to stay at his village. He is still there now.”
Lydia’s mouth pursed with interest. “How did he find the journey? I cannot imagine he has been on a ship before.”
Something in me bristled. “He is the captain of the ship.”
Shock - utter shock flooded her face. For a moment, I feared that she would say something else, also ill-spoken, but all she said was, “He is more impressive than I thought.”
I had the impression, then, that she was envious. Not of what I had with Connor, but of the life I lived. Assassin or not, I went on adventures - the world was at my fingertips. She had never lived like that, never had those opportunities.
I might have tried to say this, to sympathise with her - the words were right there on my tongue, but what came out was something different entirely. “When will Ryan visit again?”
Gabriel sighed through his nose. “Not for another few months. We will have to deal with the silence in this big old house until then.”
I understood the sudden loneliness they felt, the split-second transition from having everyone in the house to having no one. Two birds with an empty nest. My tender heart understood them, saw them for what they were, and took pity.
“I have an idea,” I said. When they both looked at me, eyes wide with curiosity, I smiled. “You could move out of this place and come to the homestead. It’s a close little community - you would be most welcome.”
They looked at each other, stunned. Lydia opened her mouth, about to refuse, but I watched Gabriel place a hand over Lydia’s. “Maybe she’s right,” he said. “There’s nothing for us here anymore.”
Lydia was still for a few moments, and then her chest moved with a deep breath. She raised her eyes to mine with a smile that slowly grew in certainty. “Okay.”
She hugged Gabriel’s side, and then leaned over to hold me too. I reciprocated with closed eyes and a smile - but I was not finished. “You must answer me this, though.”
Her expression was instantly wary, like her momentary bubble of elation had been popped as I asked the question that had plagued me for months. “Who is my father?”
She was very still. “Why are you asking?”
Because he was a Templar. Because I was sworn to fight against his cause and all for which he stood. Because I deserved to know who I was. “I need to know.”
I remembered leaning over the side of the ship in Martinique to watch the water spraying against the hull. Reaching out to touch it. If I leaned far enough, I might have flown. The world had sped past me, whipping red into my cheeks. I remembered feeling like I was passing by the entire world: I could look up and it would all be gone, covered by the sea.
The feeling returned as she opened her mouth and told me the truth. My father’s name was—
Chapter Text
Charles Lee had been released from prison on parole back in April, and I was informed by our recruits that he had arrived at the encampment at Valley Forge with Washington's enthusiasm. In May, he was named second in command of the Continental Army, forgiven of all his treason.
"But that's absurd," I protested to Jacob Zenger, one of our recruits. He had taken a disguise as a redcoat for the past few months so that he could glean information and pass it to us - and without his skills, I was sure we would not have succeeded thus far.
The German man nodded, squinting into the sunlight as it came through the trees. We were sitting outside the Mile's End inn, enjoying the last of the sun; it was almost the middle of June, and the evenings were long and warm.
"Yes," Zenger said. "We hear that Washington's generals - including Lee - are advising the commander-in-chief against partaking in any major conflicts." Disgust curled his lip up. "He takes advice from a man such as that!"
"This cannot be good," I muttered. "The Templars do not mean for Washington to succeed in this war. They've placed Lee by his side to be their worm in his ear."
"Be that as it may," muttered Zenger, "it seems that Washington is more stubborn than that - he still means to fight."
I expected no less of the man leading this country to war - even if the lies the Templars spread did stem from truth. Were not the best lies made up of half-truths? I pondered. And none knew the art of lies better than the Templars.
I wished I could say that six months with Haytham Kenway had taught me that - but as I got to know him, I found that he had a tendency toward the truth, even if he masked it with harsh or menacing words.
"I'm glad to hear it," I said. "With him, we actually stand a chance at winning this war."
Zenger gave me a rueful smile. "I long for the day."
Sometimes, on this homestead, it was easy to forget that we were at war with England - even more so after six months at sea. I felt like I had stepped out of my skin and had only just settled back in.
A group of people passed us on their way to the inn's door: I recognised them to be some of the Aquila's crew members, and smiled at them. They greeted me with grins and several variations of my name, and nodded to Zenger before they went inside.
Zenger followed them with his eyes. "Have you had any word from Connor?"
I shook my head. "No. It's been two weeks, but I understand that he hasn't seen his family in a while."
"As long as he is back in time for the wedding."
"He will be." I did not doubt him - though he was cutting it a little close, for the wedding was in less than forty-eight hours. To turn the topic away from him, I gave Zenger a sideways look. "How is Dobby?"
He ducked his head. "She is fine."
I grinned. "Were you speaking to her?"
A pause - and then a quiet, "No."
I laughed. "You know you'll have to tell her some day."
"Some day," he assented, begrudgingly, "but not this day."
In a way, I was glad he ended that line of conversation - because it meant that I did not have to give him advice on how to pursue Dobby. I did not know many other Assassins who were in relationships - truth be told, I sometimes did not know how I ended up in one myself. I would have to direct him to Connor for that future talk.
After we said our good-byes (and Zenger went into the inn to have a pint with Clipper Wilkinson), I walked home. The ground was dry and dusty - it had not rained in weeks.
The high call of a deer pierced the air, and I paused to listen to it. Beside me, yellow goldenrod and violet aster danced in the dry breeze - not as bright as they should have been, for lack of water had made them dull.
I passed through the growing town, waving at Ellen and Maria, who were putting the finishing touches to Myriam's dress outside their house, making the most of the evening heat. Winter was long enough.
By the time I reached the front door of the manor, I was too wrapped up in thought to notice the extra horse in the stables, or the coat hanging up behind the door. Only when I slipped my shoes off and laid them in their place by the door did I recognise another pair of boots there, worn and slightly dusty. Connor was home.
I found him on the upstairs landing, lounging across one of the arm chairs with his legs thrown over the side, reading a book. At the sound of my footsteps on the stairs, those lovely brown eyes of his lifted and settled on my face. He was travel-weary and there was a slight shadow along his jaw. He's magnificent.
My Connor. When I reached him I took his outstretched hand in both of mine, and returned his smile with a kiss - a gentle touch that neither of us had felt in a long, long time. "Welcome home, my darling."
He squeezed my hands, and reached up to tuck my hair behind my ear. "I missed you."
His eyes were on my mouth, but I would not give in so easily. "What are you reading?"
He turned the book over and squinted at the front cover. "The Castle of Otranto."
"One of my books," I realised. "You went in to my room."
The tilt of his head was cheeky, mischievous. "You keep the best of the books in there."
"I'm a hoarder of knowledge." I tapped his legs so he would move them - which he did - and when he was sitting normally I perched on the arm of the chair. "What so you think of it? They say Walpole has started something new with this book - a new Gothic genre."
"Really?" He tilted his head and looked up at me with round, interested eyes. "I will admit I have not made much progress in it thus far. Perhaps I will continue reading it."
"Perhaps not," I suggested. "You could talk to me instead."
His smile was so soft, so disarming, that I did not notice one arm snaking around my waist until it was too late, and he had tugged me down to his lap - a gesture so unlike him that I had to laugh in surprise. "Hey!" I protested. "I said you could talk to me, not manhandle me."
"We are talking. Please, continue."
Absence had indeed made our hearts fonder, it seemed - we had never done this before. Sure, we had slept next to each other and we had bathed together, but sitting on one another was an entirely new affair. I dearly hoped that he would not try to reverse our places in the future, and sit on my lap - one of his legs alone would crush me.
"Well now I feel as though I am backed into a corner," I said. "I don't want to talk about books now. Not when we have so much else to catch up on."
"Like what?" One of his arms wrapped around my waist, and his warm hand came to rest on my hip.
He was surprisingly comfortable to sit on - the muscles of his legs provided a more-than-adequate cushion for me. I looked at him with a smile - how I had missed those kind brown eyes. "Charles Lee has been released," I said, and swiftly filled him in on everything Zenger had told me.
He nodded sombrely when I had finished. "He grows closer to Washington by day," he said. "It will not be long now before he snaps. He has always been known to be angry - when he married a woman of the Bear Clan, they named him Ounewaterika. Boiling Water."
I had forgotten that Lee had married a Mohawk woman in 1755. I had forgotten that she had borne him twins during the Seven Years' War. "Boiling Piss, more like," I muttered, recalling the man's pungent reek.
Connor burst out laughing, and I couldn't help but join him, wrapping an arm around his shoulders to keep myself upright. He rested his forehead against my collarbone, and the hand on my hip squeezed affectionately.
It was the weeks apart, I told myself. The weeks apart and the months spent at arm's length that made me lift his face and kiss him. The rough scratch of his beginning stubble against my cheek was unfamiliar, but not unwelcome, and I felt myself smile against his mouth.
His other arm curved around my back and pulled me closer, pressing our lips harder. I heard his book crash to the floor. Not that either of us cared - it was as though it had all come crashing in at this moment, like we had not realised just what six months of looks exchanged across the ship deck in passing, days at a time with hardly a word passed between us, and these recent weeks of silence, had done to us until now.
I cradled his face in my hands and opened my mouth for him. There was a little voice in my head that whispered that maybe we were pushing things further than I was comfortable with.
Our hearts were crashing against each other, and his warm hand had moved from my hip to my thigh and I felt like I was burning, like his every touch poured melted gold over me.
But we needed to breathe eventually. We parted, and he pressed his forehead against mine, sharing our breaths in the small space we had created. "My beloved," he murmured. "I do not know which of us missed the other more."
"I'll settle for equal measures." I never wanted to be apart for so long again. I would drive myself insane! Brushing my fingers over his jaw, I murmured, "You haven't shaved."
"Forgive me. I was preoccupied."
I thought it rather suited him, in a dark, dashing way, but I knew it was customary for his people to remain clean-faced, and did not mention the matter further - and all thoughts were banished entirely when he brought his lips, wet from kissing, to my throat.
This was dangerous, the line we walked - venturing into territory we had never broached before. It was a natural progression, I thought. We had endured our teenage years together; we had fought and bled side by side; we had laughed until we cried; we had bathed together and swam together and he had taught me to swim, and we had curled together under the same blanket and–
The list went on. He saw my soul and I saw his, in all our beauty and terror, and we were not afraid.
His mouth moved higher, soft and warm on my skin, and usually I was ticklish, as he had so deviously found out many years ago, but a soft fluttering in my stomach overrode any urge to squirm away from his gentle teeth. I felt as though we were on a raft at sea, and the waves around us were surging higher, threatening to break and wash us way.
I placed a hand on his chest. "Wait."
I did not want the waves to break. I did not want to be washed away.
He stopped immediately. When he looked up at me in question, I found my words. "Can we– can we just talk?"
He was gracious enough to understand that I did not want to cross the line we had carefully constructed, and nodded. "Of course."
Now that I could think clearly, I could see how tired he really looked. "Why were you so preoccupied?" I asked. "Were things okay at your village?"
A shadow crossed over his face as he let out a sigh - all signs of whatever had been building between us vanished. "I worry for them," he said. "Many villages in the surrounding areas are subject to raids almost daily. The Kanièn:keh valley is the only natural route from the Atlantic to the Great Lakes of Canada, and with many travellers passing through, my people are suffering. Villages are being burned. I do not know when conflict will reach Kanatahséton."
This was a conversation too serious to be held sitting on his lap. I stood up and straightened my skirt before moving to the armchair next to him, keeping my eyes on him to indicate that I was still actively listening. "Are your people equipped to stand against potential raiders?" I asked.
My heart shuttered as he shook his head. "My people value peace above all else. We are the keepers of the eastern door - and they do not fight to keep it. Even when I was a boy, they refused to fight."
I kept my voice soft. "What can we do about it?"
He fixed me with a bleak look; I had never seen him look so helpless. "I do not know yet."
I nodded in sympathy. What was there to do but wait and see what Lee did? With him by Washington's side, he had more influence over the movements of the commander-in-chief, and more sway over the patriot relations to the Iroquois.
Another thought occurred to me - one that I spoke into the silence. "If Lee is married to a Mohawk woman, then why did he destroy your village all those years ago?"
It was rhetorical, of course. I did not expect a response - and Connor could not provide one. We knew that Lee did not work independently, but as a Templar; in order to remain true to their tenets, he would have to forsake all personal values and loyalties, including, I supposed, his wife's people. What were their words? Uphold the principles of the Order and all that for which they stand, to do so until death, whatever the cost.
To demand absolute loyalty at all costs was to push them toward corruption (is that not what the Assassins do?), and, in spite of my misgivings, I was grieved - not for Lee and all the men we had killed, but for Rowan, Tobias, even Haytham (begrudgingly). Was there room for redemption, between the confines of blind fidelity?
Connor spoke again, pulling me from my thoughts. "I will spend more time with my people for the next few months. Until I know that they are safe."
I nodded. "Of course. Whatever you need to do. I would like to help," I added as he leaned down to pick the book up off the floor. "I'll do anything I can."
He looked at me sideways. "It is not your war to fight. It is not your axe in the pillar outside."
"Your axe is my axe." It would not be rotten work, not if it was for him.
After a few moments of thought, one corner of his mouth quirked up. "All right."
*
He was still troubled by the time the wedding came rolling around, but he had the decency to not let his mood affect the celebration. As he joined arms with Myriam outside the church, I could see, even from my place at piano stool, the gentle pride shining from his face.
Norris had been a bundle of nerves for weeks, and he stood with Father Timothy at the altar, shifting from foot to foot with nervous excitement. Behind me, the pews were brimming with open, joyful faces - the faces of the people we had brought to this land, the people who built this town.
Ellen's daughter, Maria, holding the hand of baby Hunter, had sprinkled white rice over the aisle, and Catherine had tied bundles of bright flowers to the edge of each bench. Ellen made the clothes, Big Dave made the rings, Prudence had provided the food . . . The entire town was involved. And now the final piece was about to slide into place as I caught the eye of the priest, and he nodded for me to start playing the piano.
It was a surprise for the congregation, but most of all, for Norris. Myriam had come to me not long after her engagement to commission me for a piece for the wedding, giving me a comfortable year to compose it. Not a word of it was to be breathed, she had told me, not to anyone - and especially not to Norris. She wanted something that was special, that was just for him.
Of course, it was impossible to keep it hidden from Connor, who was forced to listen to my trying - and, at times, failing - to compose this piece, inserting and removing parts of it, playing the wrong notes, whether he liked it or not. But even he had never heard the finished piece, because I had only finished it the week previous, while he was away.
As I gently pressed the keys, the audience behind me stood, and Connor, clean-shaven once more, and the bride began their walk. Myriam was dressed in a simple cotton dress, coloured the palest silver-grey, and she wore a crown of fresh flowers in her light brown hair. Her eyes were fixed on Norris, and only on him.
When she reached him, she stretched up to kiss Connor's cheek, and the two exchanged a tender look before she let go of him and took Norris' hands in her own. Connor sat next to Achilles in the front row - a seat of honour. I remained at the piano so that I could continue playing as the couple walked out of the church.
Their vows were exchanged swiftly, and Father Timothy bade them kiss. The room erupted in cheers as the couple parted, hands joined, and started their walk back down the aisle as one. A cheerful tune sprang forth from my fingers as the rest of the room followed Norris and Myriam in a singing, dancing procession to the Mile's End. Even Achilles was swept away by Catherine.
Connor stayed with me until I finished playing - there was such pride in his eyes! - and once all of the guests, including Father Timothy, whom I had told to go ahead of us with a smile, had left, we walked arm in arm to the inn, following the sounds of raucous laughter.
As we walked, he leaned down and said softly, "You look wonderful."
I smiled up at him. "So do you. You seemed so happy walking with Myriam."
"It was an honour I will not forget," he said. That she considered him - us - family was no small thing. Nothing to be sneezed at, my mother would say.
I banished thoughts of her. And my father. "Joy looks good on you," I told Connor instead. "It makes you look so young and handsome."
"And green looks good on you." His fingers touched my dress. Ellen had made it, and it was the most gorgeous thing I owned: full skirts and a bodice of soft cotton dyed a deep green, and trimmed with white lace. The sleeves ended just below my elbows, and the lace tickled my forearms. A wide-brimmed white hat, trimmed with the same green of my dress, shaded my face from the sun, and it was from beneath this that I smiled at him.
"It matches your eyes," he continued softly and, refusing to let me have the last word, opened the inn door for me.
Corinne and Oliver had pushed the tables and chairs to the sides of the room, so we could eat in small clusters while having a clear space to dance. We sat at a table with Warren, Prudence, and Lance, in awe of the food that the former couple had prepared. There was plenty to go around - even the sailors and our Assassin recruits had been invited.
Every table was laden with honey roasted duck, oysters drizzled with red wine sauce, sweet potatoes, mashed turnips and carrots, and bottles and bottles of spiced ale and punch. Eyes wide as moons, Connor was looking at another plate on the table - soft, yellow cornbread, still warm. From the corner of my eye, I saw Warren and Prudence smile at each other. They had made it specially for him - they knew cornbread was commonly made by his people, and baked the bread so he, so unfamiliar with colonial weddings, would feel more comfortable.
His smile was small, but completely unguarded - it came straight from the soft heart he kept so well hidden. "Thank you," he said, quietly.
Prudence reached out and squeezed his hand in a motherly fashion. "Of course."
And, naturally, after the dinner came the wedding cake: a two-tiered fruit cake, soaked in whiskey and covered neatly with white sugar icing. Myriam and Norris cut the first slice of it together, to the cheers of the guests, and then it was served, along with more cups of ale.
Happily tipsy, several people stood, fetched their musical instruments from behind the bar, and began to play: a mishmash of talents and instruments (Lance produced a fiddle, Duncan a wooden flute, and Dobby a bodhrán) that reflected the nature of this homestead. A strange combination of peoples and backgrounds that came together in harmony and love.
Norris and Myriam danced first, a merry jig that had the room up on their feet and joining with stomping shoes and clapping hands. Even Achilles was smiling around his cup of ale.
While Terry and Godfrey joined hands and danced a drunken jig, Connor and I turned to Ellen and Big Dave, who were standing against the wall apart from the rest of the party, as private as the setting offered. They looked up sharply when we approached, and the blacksmith offered a sheepish smile.
Ellen was more smooth. "Hello. Enjoying yourselves?"
Connor responded first. "Yes. It is good to see everyone together and happy."
Behind us, a few scattered cheers rose up as the newly wedded couple joined hands with Terry and Godfrey to form a giggling, spinning circle.
"Look at those two kids," Big Dave sighed. "It's a lovely sight. Norris is one of my best friends, and he couldn't have found a better woman. I'm proud of him."
I did not miss the way Ellen was looking at him, with soft brown eyes and lightly flushed cheeks. There was a budding romance here, I knew. "Sometimes people are just right for one another," she said. "Like Warren Prudence, or you two. Norris and Myriam are a match made in heaven - or, a match made by Connor, isn't that right?" she added, teasing.
Connor took the bait good-naturedly. "I only helped Norris muster his courage. The rest came naturally." A little laugh crossed his lips at that, and we all laughed with him. Were it not for Connor, we knew Norris would have been useless at pursuing Myriam. He would not have gotten married today.
A roar of laughter rose behind us, and I turned around to find the source. Terry and Godfrey, having left the dance circle, were with their own wives by the empty hearth with fresh cups of ale. Leaving Connor to talk to Ellen and Big Dave, I excused myself from the conversation and crossed the room to the Scottish families, who were listening to Terry attempting to spin a tale, to their amusement.
"–and my little brother, Joseph, tossed him in the river!" Godfrey cried, and Terry wheezed with laughter, almost snorting into his over-full cup.
Diana noticed me first, and smiled widely at me to welcome me to the conversation. "Cassie! We were just recalling our own weddings."
"Ah," I giggled. "Spirited events, I will assume."
"Spirited?" plump Catherine guffawed. "More like brawls than unions, they were."
Laughing, Terry waved a hand to bring our attention back to him. "Calling Joe 'little' is like calling me Big Terry - boy's a bloody mountain!"
"My younger brother," explained Godfrey, for my benefit, "had a blow-up with one of Terry's cousins - a minor disagreement about some lass' dance card. I'll just say Terry's cousin sobered up right quick when it was over."
"Poor boy," Diana jumped in. "Sitting there, sopping wet on a stump while Joseph spun around with the object of his affections.”
She was drowned out by Terry’s wheezing laugh. “It was good for him! Taught him that good things don’t come easy.”
They truly did not. I resisted the urge to glance over my shoulder at Connor, a silent confirmation of all we had fought just to reach this moment.
I must have worn my sentiment on my face, for Catherine leaned closer to me with a conspiratorial smile. “I do enjoy weddings,” she said. “I hope this isn’t the last one we see on this homestead.”
Her implication was clear. I laughed. “Only the Lord knows. We will have to wait.”
She laughed good-naturedly, and we were both distracted by the sound of a spoon tapping on a glass behind us. Every person in the room halted their conversations as all eyes fixed on Norris, the owner of the spoon.
Once we were all focused on him, he said, “Good evening, everyone!” He slowed a few moments for us to cheer before continuing: “We want to thank you all for being here. Truly. We would not be the people we are today without this community. I would not be married to Myriam were it not for the love you have shown us.”
Drunk Terry raised his glass and yelled, “That’s only because you’re the only miner here!”
The homesteaders laughed heartily, and even Myriam chucked at Norris’ expense. The miner took it well, and raised his glass back at Terry. “Be that as it may,” he said, “We are so grateful for everything you have done for us. I am not so eloquent. Please, everyone welcome my wife, who will say better words than I have.”
Everyone cheered as Myriam stepped into the middle of the room, resplendent in her grey dress, all shining eyed and flushed cheeks. “Dear friends,” she said. “What a joy it is to stand before you today as man and wife!”
Another cheer erupted among the townsfolk, loud enough to raise the ceiling. Though I clapped, my eyes were drawn to the door, which Clipper was closing behind him quietly, unseen by most. When had he left?
Myriam started to say something else, but I did not hear her as I followed the recruit with my eyes as he slipped through the crowd, coming towards me. He locked eyes with me, and I recognised urgency in his expression.
Once he reached me, he took me by the elbow to pull me aside. I frowned. “What’s wrong?” I whispered.
Behind us, Myriam sounded on the border of being emotional, but I could not focus on her as Clipper reached into his coat pocket and produced an envelope, which he pressed into my hand. “This was just delivered,” he said quietly.
The envelope was unmarked. I knew who had sent it before I even opened the seal, but I read the letter anyway.
16th of June. Meet by the graveyard in New York.
H.K.
When I raised my head, I saw that Connor was already watching me; when we locked eyes, he tilted his head to the side in a silent question. I mouthed his father’s name and watched his expression fall.
We had both secretly wished for more time before we had to return to work. Perhaps it was foolish of us to dream of a time in which we might know peace, if even just for a day.
Myriam had finished her speech, and after the applause died down, she called everyone to the floor to dance. As Terry and Diana, Godfrey and Catherine, made their way to the centre of the room, I skirted around them until I reached Connor.
He cut straight to the point. “What was in the letter?”
“Your father summons us,” I said, taking both of his hands. “But we don’t have to worry about it right now.”
His brows furrowed. “But–”
I cut him off with a squeeze of his hands. “But nothing. Let’s enjoy this night. It’s not every day that there’s a wedding we can actually enjoy.”
I was already leading him, with small steps, to the dance circle. This did not go unnoticed by him, and he started to smile. “All right.”
Feeling my heart flutter all over again for him, I grinned up at him. “Good,” I said, and pulled him in to dance with me.
Chapter 50
Summary:
DONT try to talk to me I am in MOURNING
Because what do you MEEEEEAN GRRM might never publish winds of winter???? This has, quite honestly, ruined my entire week. Maybe even my year.
So yeah. I'm angsty. Connor's angsty. There are a lot of feelings in this house rn and not many of them are very demure
If you have any good Braime fics to cheer me up, send them my way xoxo
Chapter Text
"I do not know if this alliance with my father bodes well or ill," Connor admitted. The horses' hooves sent up puffs of dust from the dry ground as we walked, sticking as closely to the shelter of the trees as we could. I was sure I had never experienced a hotter summer than this one - even the rain was humid, not at all like the cold winter rains I found myself missing. The sky was unnaturally dark with unshed water that had been gathering all day, and we watched the clouds warily.
And in the midst of this startlingly hot and volatile weather, the war still raged. We were safe on our homestead, but it was easy to forget that the other colonies did not live like we did.
It was two days after the wedding, and we were riding steadily through the frontier, heading for New York. Though it had not begun raining yet, his hood was up in expectation. It would not be long now until we reached New York, but we knew the rain would start before then - and, since the ground was so dry, the landscape would swiftly flood.
"As far as independence is concerned," I said, taking a neutral stance for the sake of debate, "our goals are aligned."
He looked over at me, his expression taut. "Yes, but he continues to defend Charles Lee. The very man that burned my village and killed my mother."
No matter how many times we talked about it, the hurt in him was not healed. Sometimes I wondered if it ever would be. "But," I injected, "Haytham does make a good point about Washington, and the patriots. He's not a strong leader. We've been fighting this war for years, and there's still no end in sight. Where's this freedom they speak of?"
"It seems one must be a landed white man to benefit from this proclaimed freedom and equality," muttered Connor. "What of someone like me? Or Surry?"
(All these years - after all these years, Connor had not forgotten Sam Adams' slave. It was touching in a way that made my heart ache. How he cared for the small folk. How he took their burdens upon himself.)
Connor spoke to fill the silence I left. "What role is there for us in this new world?"
He met my eyes, and I knew that I was included in this question. Where was our place in this growing nation? Should America gain her independence, what then? How would we be governed, how would we be taxed? What impact would it have on the Assassins and Templars?
That was why it was vital that we either forged a peace between our factions, or obliterated our enemies entirely, before the end of the war. We did not have much time - but with Washington's snail pace, it was hard to tell just how much we had. Much of the time, I felt as though I were stumbling blind through a labyrinth, hands stretched out; sometimes they brushed the back of Connor's coat, sometimes they were plunged into thorns, sometimes I felt nothing at all.
Wartime was such an unfortunate time when one was in one's early twenties. Whatever dreams for a life we might have had were stalled as the country fell apart. If we were not at war, what might our lives have looked like? Ryan would not have been sent to Virginia, for there would have been no conflict in Boston to protect him from. Meredith would not have run away with the theatre, for the theatre would not have been made illegal. Connor and I . . .
We would have married, I thought. With no large-scale war to hold us back in this other universe, our happy ending might have started sooner. We might not have been plagued by Achilles' cynicism or followed by the shadow of Charles Lee.
And if we lost?
We would never see that world born. The likelihood of us seeing our thirties, or even our-mid twenties, dwindled to a pinprick. Perhaps that was why Connor was trying and failing to be subtle about the fact that he was making my upcoming birthday, my twenty-first (two months away yet), a Very Big Deal. We did not know how many more birthdays we would see.
Connor was still looking at me. Expecting a response.
I gave voice to the question that neither of us had dared to ask, but had grown more pressing with each passing day. "What if Haytham is right?"
Connor's look pinned me in place, and his horse slowed to a stop. The glossy flanks were damp with sweat. "Then we find a compromise."
It was so easy to say it. I stopped my horse and faced him, letting my hands holding the reins drop. In response, my horse snorted and swished her tail. "And if we can't?"
His stare was level, but there was a tension at the corners of his mouth that betrayed him. "Then we will make peace. By any means necessary."
How far would you be willing to go? I wanted to ask, but I feared the answer. Nobility and honour were so deeply engraved on his heart that they were in his blood; every beat of his heart was a fresh infusion of these things to his body. It was something I loved about him, yes - but I always wondered where he would draw the line. He would rather die himself than see such harm come to others. But was that where all of this was going? One last sacrifice in the name of the greater good? What of love?
He seemed to take my silence as an answer, and urged his horse forward once more. Thinking that was that, I tightened my hold on the reins and turned my horse's head to continue down the path - but Connor stopped me with a gentle hand on my arm. "I do not forget why we do this," he said quietly. "I want to see a better world born - for us."
*
Somehow, as we rode through the north gate of New York, I was not comforted. The first drops of rain had fallen not too long ago, and already we were damp and miserable. It was not the heavy flow we had been expecting, but with the blackening colour of the sky, we could see that it was coming.
As every step took us closer to Haytham, so my thoughts followed their trail. Because neither of us had been able to answer the question of if he was right or not, my mind raced to form her own conclusion. The Templars were starting to make sense - and that was a terrifying thought.
If what they said was true, and they were attempting to protect America from what could be a disastrous failure under the authority of George Washington, then why were we fighting them? Did we not also want to see peace once more?
But the Templars would see us enslaved to a system that sought to destroy us, I reminded myself as we wound through the dry streets, feeling my eyes lose focus. Yes, we agreed on our mutual need to be free from English rule, but they cared not one whit for individual freedom - only for order. I did not deny that complete freedom did come hand-in-hand with anarchy and chaos, but surely there was a way to have it both ways? To have both order and freedom?
I did not realise that the horses had stopped until Connor placed a hand on my leg, drawing me out of my thoughts. He had dismounted and led his mount to a water trough, which his horse was snorting into.
"You okay?" he asked me.
I nodded, suddenly dazzled by how dull the day had become. "Sorry. Just thinking."
I climbed off my horse and brought her next to Connor's, dusting drops of water from my breeches. It was easier to travel such distances on horseback if I wore breeches and a waistcoat instead of my usual skirts, and with wrappings across my chest to conceal what little was there, a cloak over my shoulders, treated with deer fat to keep out the rain, and my hair tucked into a tricorne, I looked like a boy with an oddly feminine face.
We left the horses in an open stable and began our walk. In case things went wrong, we had decided to leave them on the other side of the city from where we were going, after slipping a coin to the neighbouring tavern owner's son to look after them. For the most part, we walked in silence. I wondered what an odd sight we were: not a man and a maiden, but a tall Native American and his . . . What? His squire?
The thought was an amusing one. But by the time we reached the graveyard, it was evening, and my amusement had worn off. Even from afar, we could easily spot Haytham in his navy cloak and tricorne. He was standing by the entrance to the graveyard, and he was not alone. Dying grey light glinted on pale gold hair. The soldier's uniform was a splash of blood in the dusk.
The graveyard wall formed one of the perimeters of an otherwise-pleasant market square, where the vendors were beginning to pack up their wares, casting rueful looks at the sky as the drops of rain got bigger. I saw several stalls with withered-looking fruits for outrageous prices, hand-woven rugs, second-hand clothes, and homemade jewellery. I wandered over to these and pretended to look, to the annoyance of the vendors, but I did not care. It was my excuse to inch closer to Haytham and his companion and listen to their conversation.
"We need to know what the Loyalists are planning if we're to put an end to this," Haytham was saying, and there was a bite to his tone that I had grown oddly familiar with.
But it was his companion, whose face I glimpsed when I looked over my shoulder, that sent my heart rattling in its cage. Tobias had changed in the two years since I had last seen him - he was broader now, and his eyes were colder. He regarded Haytham coolly, as though he addressed an equal, and his scarred face remained impassive. "I've tried, but we're told nothing now - only to await orders from above."
To my smug satisfaction, Haytham did not look impressed - if anything, there was utter disdain in his expression. "Then keep digging. Come and find me when you have something worth sharing."
An obvious dismissal. I watched Tobias' back stiffen, like he was holding himself back from a sharp retort below his station, before he placed his black tricorne on his golden head. I turned away quickly, immersing myself in a set of wooden earrings as Tobias stormed past me, smelling of tobacco smoke.
I thanked the vendor for her time, earning myself a glare for not buying anything, and turned to see Connor already making his way to his father. Fixing my tricorne, I joined them.
Haytham acknowledged us with a look of distaste and a slight inclination of the head that sent the water gathered in his hat splashing down. "We're so close to victory. A few more well-placed attacks and we'll be able to put an end to this civil war and be rid of the crown."
Under the shadow of his hood, Connor's eyes were narrow. "What do you intend?"
Haytham indicated, with exasperation, to the street that Tobias had disappeared into. "Well, nothing yet - since we're completely in the dark."
Connor met my eyes for a split second. He knew I had seen Tobias. Our look was a silent promise to dissect it later. "I thought the Templars had eyes and ears everywhere," he said, slyly.
"Oh, we did." Haytham fixed him with a sharp stare. "Until you started cutting them off."
The corners of Connor's mouth curled up slightly in satisfaction. "Your contact said 'orders from above'. It tells us exactly what we need to do - track down the Loyalist commanders."
"As if I hadn't already considered that," retorted Haytham, stung by Connor's condescension.
I perked up. "I know of a few of their meeting places."
Haytham turned his pale eyes to me. "How did you come by that?"
I was not about to disclose Jacob Zenger's name to the most dangerous man in the colonies. "You're not the only one with eyes and ears."
A beat passed - and then Connor huffed out a restrained laugh, earning us both a flat glare from Haytham. Still, he stepped aside and gestured for me to lead the way.
We were closest to Trinity Church, so I started there, taking the most sheltered routes as the rain grew heavier. Wide puddles were already spreading across the stones of the ground, so we avoided them as best we could.
As we walked deeper into the west side, I could see that, even after almost two years, all of the black, crumbling buildings incinerated in the fires had not been touched. The ground still smelled of smoke.
Thomas had lived along this street. Francis had lived over there. We kept our silence as we walked through the ghost town, listening only to the sound of the rain.
Trinity Church was a shell of what it used to be, as it had been decimated by the fires. We paused in the shelter of a crooked doorway next to it, though the roofless building offered little comfort. Over the sound of the rain, there were voices. Quiet, like they were speaking of confidential matters, but nevertheless they were speaking.
I nodded toward the ruined church. "They're in there."
Haytham was not a man to offer praise, and I never asked it. He was looking up at the broken bell tower that stood guard over the broken, three-walled church. "How do we get in?"
I followed his gaze. "It's not difficult to climb up. There's a mostly-undamaged platform halfway up the tower. We can listen to their conversation from there."
"Marvellous," he muttered.
Connor cut him a glare. "I will climb first."
He stepped out of the meagre shelter - not that it had done him any good anyway - and took a running start at the broken tower. After he had raised himself a few metres above the ground, and saw that there was indeed a path up, he waved us over.
Haytham gave me a cool stare, and his silent meaning was loud. You first. With a huff, I followed Connor's path up the tower. The bricks were slick with rain, and my cold fingers cramped, but the fires had, in the very least, burned away anything on the tower that might have hindered our ascent, for there was plenty of purchase for our feet and nooks to dig our fingers into.
Soon all three of us were crowding the tiny wooden platform, once a floor, now no more than a few planks of wood connecting two walls. Haytham leaned over the edge, looking down at the meeting below. For a dizzying moment, I imagined what it would be like to watch him fall from this tower, and was shocked to find that I actually did not want that to happen.
I joined him at the edge, though I was more wary than he was. There were eight redcoats below: two standing guard at the church door directly below us, one at each of the east and west walls, and one at the empty space where the back wall of the church used to stand. Three officers stood close together in a conspiratorial huddle, and it was their voices that drifted up to us.
"Have you considered the proposal?" the smallest of them asked, squinting against the heavy rain, in spite of his black tricorne.
The tallest of them spoke with a slow, unrushed ease. "I'm unconvinced. To reinforce them would leave New York exposed. It's hard enough maintaining order with our current numbers. Cut in half–"
"Yet," the third broke in, "if we do not join with them, they risk defeat. And then what?"
They looked to the first, who spat, "Well, they should have come by sea."
Next to me, Haytham shook his head in irritation. "They're talking in circles. We'll learn nothing watching as we are."
As he straightened up, Connor glared at him. "Then what do you propose we do? March in there and demand answers?"
A sudden light entered Haytham's eyes, like he had just heard the greatest idea in the world. "Well, yes."
Another look passed between me and Connor - but before either of us could speak a word of caution, or talk Haytham out of it, the Templar had dropped from the platform, unsheathing his dual wrist blades, and landed squarely on top of the two guards beneath us, using their bodies to soften his landing.
Immediately the other guards raised the alarm, and I heard one call out, "Ambush!" Connor sighed, and there was a glint of dying light on his wrist blades. As he jumped down to join his father, I remained on the platform, and pulled a flintlock out from the shelter of my cloak.
I loaded it as swiftly as I could and knelt at the edge of the platform. Connor and Haytham had been separated, each engaged in their own skirmishes. The guard from the back wall had not directly joined the fight: standing apart, he had loaded up his musket, and was taking aim.
I pulled the trigger before he had a chance, and even from here I could hear him cry out as his leg collapsed beneath him. I had hit his knee, I thought distantly, but did not care as I reloaded the pistol. The sounds of steel clashing on steel drifted up to me, but I did not fear for Connor, or even Haytham. They were capable fighters: Haytham had poise and precision, and Connor had brute strength and simmering rage. Together, they were invincible.
Before I knew it, only the officers were left - but we wanted them alive. I climbed down just in time to see Connor disarm the last of them, and all three were standing, helpless, with hands raised in surrender. Haytham forced them back against the wall, all icy anger once more, and Connor took a length of rope from his belt to bind their hands.
"We'll bring them to my quarters at Fort George," Haytham was saying, "and see what secrets they might share."
Two of the officers made a break for it. I darted after the first one before he could get very far, grabbing him by the scruff and shoving him into the wall face-first. "Don't move," I snapped.
His voice was muffled and pained as his cheek scraped against the roughened bricks. "Get off me, boy!" he spat.
The other officer ran on, sprinting like his life depended on it (and it very well did). Haytham watched him go, his face twisting with annoyance. "Really?" He looked over his shoulder at Connor, who had just finished tying the hands of the man I was holding. "Well, you'd best get after him, then."
"You go," said Connor tightly. "I will watch the prisoners."
"No, you do it."
"Why me?"
"Because I said so!" Haytham sounded offended. "Now go."
Though he did not like it, Connor could see when he was beaten - and we really didn't have time to stand here and argue. With an annoyed growl, he took off after the runaway officer.
Haytham watched him smugly. "Has he always disrespected authority like that?" he asked me without looking.
I thought of all the times he had argued with Achilles, had defied orders, had taken his own path. "Once or twice."
Haytham, unimpressed, shook his head. "Come on. We'll head for Fort George."
It was not a suggestion, but a veiled command. I wanted to remind him that he held no real authority over us, but I also did not want to remain standing out here as the rain grew heavier. So I took the end of the rope tying our captives' hands together, and gave it a yank. "Come on, then."
*
By the time Connor joined us at Fort George, the rain was sheeting down from the black sky. I stood under the shelter of the entrance to the fort, letting the cool night air ease my nerves. Haytham had taken our captives for interrogation one at a time, and had made me stand in the hallway, guarding the second while he questioned the first.
The first was obstinate at first, hurling foul insults at both of us, but did not last long once Haytham started lifting his fingernails with the tip of his blade. Then he spilled everything.
The second took a different strategy - silence. It took him longer to bend than the first, but I could not say for certain what it took to break him, for it was at that point that I fled to the safety of the entryway, at once waiting for Connor and trying to take deep breaths.
Now, as Connor half-dragged his prisoner up the path, the man balked, and tried to back away. "Wait!" he cried, his voice squeaky with panic. "Wait! I'll tell you anything you want - anything! Only don't make me go in there!"
Connor was wet, muddy, and annoyed. "We just have some questions for you."
"Cross that threshold," the officer pleaded, "and I'm a dead man."
Unfortunately, he was probably right - but I could not voice this as I heard Haytham's soft footsteps on the stone floor behind me. "There you are, Connor," he said coolly. "I was worried you might have gotten lost." He cast an indifferent eye over his son, taking in the mud that caked his legs and the tension with which he held himself. "Come along, then."
He took the man from Connor's grip and hauled him inside. As he passed me, the officer, even more muddy than Connor, turned to me with wide, panicked eyes. "Please . . ." he whimpered as he was pulled away. "Please."
What could I do but watch him disappear into the dim stone corridor? There were so many reasons to be hopeless in this world. I turned my eyes away.
Connor was sheltering from the rain beside me, officially soaked through, but unable to remove his coat, for there was nowhere to let it dry. I looked down at his muddy legs. "Are you all right?" I asked.
He followed my downward gaze. "I cannot wait for this to be over."
"I know." I dearly wished that we could stay here and avoid having to return to Haytham, but knew we could not. Defeated, I turned away from the safety of the exit, and faced the darkness behind us.
"Have they told anything?" Connor asked, his voice hushed in the echoing hallway. We walked side by side, and the corridor seemed to go on for ever.
"I don't know," I said. "Haytham . . . He's brutal."
He was silent at that, and I did not explain - nor did I need to, for as had reached the heavy wooden door to the interrogation room. It was wide open.
Haytham was pacing, a panther in human skin, in front of the chair in the centre of the room, to which the final officer was tied. The man's face was the colour of curdled milk. Dark pools of blood had spread along the stone floor beneath him - and behind him, slumped against the wall, were the bodies of the first two officers. The air was sharp with the smell of urine.
Haytham's voice was cold as steel. "What are the British planning?"
This officer did not resist at all. "To march on Philadelphia," he bleated. "That city's finished. New York's the key. They'll double our numbers, push back the rebels."
"When do they begin?" Haytham idly wiped blood from the steel blade at his wrist.
The man in the chair was very, very still. "Two days from now."
"June 18th," murmured Connor, thoughtfully. "We must warn Washington."
Haytham had not heard. "You see?" Patronising, condescending. "That wasn't so very difficult, now, was it?"
Even from my place at the door, I could see the officer quivering. "I've– I've told you everything. Now l-let me go."
Haytham's smile had the bland, cold look of a shark. "Of course."
The man's death was swift: a drawing of Haytham's blade across his throat, the gushing of dark blood down his front. Twice he had done this - promised men he would release them, and killed them just as their hope sparked. Connor started forward in outrage, held back by my hand.
Haytham wiped his blade clean with a bloodstained handkerchief. "The other two said the same. It must be true."
"You killed him," Connor seethed. "You killed all of them. Why?"
With an indifferent shrug, Haytham tossed the handkerchief on the discarded bodies. "They would have warned the Loyalists."
Connor was indignant. "You could have held them until the fight was done."
Haytham scoffed. "What, and waste precious time and money on their care? What would be the point? They'd given up everything they knew."
A muscle in Connor's jaw jumped as he ground his teeth, biting down on his silence. His dark eyes shot arrows at Haytham, but his father wore his thick skin like an armour.
"Come," he said, brushing past us. "We should be leaving."
I did not look back at that room of death when I turned away. The sharp, metallic smell of fresh blood clogged my nose, so I hurried down the corridor, which echoed with the roar of the rain outside.
Connor was not far behind me. Once we were outside, he said, "We should make for Valley Forge. Washington must be warned."
Even behind the screen of rain, Haytham looked disdainful. "We should be sharing what we know to Lee."
We started a brisk walk back through the city to fetch our horses from the stable. Connor, leading the way, snapped over his shoulder, "You seem to think I favour him. But my enemy is a notion, not a nation. It is wrong to compel obedience - whether to the British crown or the Templar cross. And I hope, in time, the Loyalists will see this too, for they are also victims."
Every word was injected with venom. "You oppose tyranny, injustice," argued Haytham as we splashed through the street. The puddles were growing alarmingly large. "These are just symptoms. Their true cause is human weakness. Why do you think I keep on trying to show you the error of your ways?"
Connor whirled on him then, his eyes sparkling with fire. Unwilling to listen to them argue, and too miserable to care, I stomped past them.
"You have said much, yes," I heard Connor scoff. "But you have shown me nothing."
I had almost reached the stable. My horse nickered when she saw me, ears pricked forward. So focused was I that I hardly heard Haytham's quiet response. "Then we'll have to remedy that, then, won't we."
By the time I had laid the saddle over my horse's back, the men had reached me, in tense silence. Connor reached out to touch his horse's muzzle, offering a slightly sticky lump of sugar from his pocket. Without looking at Haytham, he said, "I hope you have a horse. It is a long walk to Valley Forge."
Haytham watched the horse snuffle up the sugar from Connor's palm, and turned his eyes to the other stalls in the stable. There was a chestnut next to my horse, watching with bright eyes. "I'll take that one."
Connor stared at him. "You cannot just steal another man's horse."
"I'll leave him some money to buy a new one." Haytham rolled his pale eyes, clearly done with the conversation.
Before long, all three horses were tacked up and we were mounted. True to his word, Haytham tossed a small, jingling pouch into the empty stall before leading the horse out with stiff-backed arrogance. Wordless, we followed.
*
We reached the encampment at Valley Forge in a record two hours. By now the moon was high in the sky, but one would have never known it for the dark clouds that covered it. At least the rain had eased its force - for now.
The night was too dark, and too still. I did not like it.
As we entered the camp, I noticed the signs of life. Most of the soldiers were sheltering from the rain, but a few stood guard, scattered across the perimeter. They were gaunt-looking, and tired, but they recognised Connor and me, and let us pass.
Washington's war cabin was in the centre of the camp, an open-front building that faced the training ground. It was there that we found Washington, alone and occupied with reading a letter spread across the splintered desk. His grey wig was dull, flickering white and orange in the dim candle light.
Connor made our presence known with a simple, "Sir."
Washington looked up sharply. "Connor. And Cassandra. Come in." We stepped into the shelter, dripping wet, and I could see Washington's wooden teeth as he asked, "What brings you here?"
"The British have recalled their men in Philadelphia," said Connor, clasping his hands before him. "They march for New York."
Haytham stepped deeper into the shelter, creating a space for Washington to take a grim step closer to Connor. "Very well," said the commander, holding his arms behind his back. "I'll move our forces to Monmouth. If we can rout them, we'll have finally turned the tide."
Connor nodded, and perhaps he said more; I was watching Haytham lean over the table, peering down at the letter Washington had been reading. Slowly, he picked the page up by its corner and held it to the light.
"And what's this?" he said. Slow. Smug.
Washington whirled around. "Private correspondence," he snapped, making to snatch it from Haytham's hand.
But Haytham was quicker, and sidestepped easily. "Oh, of course it is." His eyes were fixed on us. "Would you like to read what it says, Connor?"
Silence. My heart was roaring in my ears.
"It seems," Haytham continued in that lofty tone I had grown to despise, "your good friend here has just ordered an attack on your village."
Beside me, Connor was very, very still.
Haytham frowned at the sheet. "Although 'attack' might be putting it mildly. Tell him, commander." A cold look at Washington, and he stepped to Connor's side.
Several moments of cowardly silence passed as Washington tried, and failed, to form words. He would not look at any of us. "We've been receiving reports of allied Natives working with the British. I've asked my men to put a stop to it."
"By burning their villages, and salting their land," was Haytham's grave response as he referred to the letter still in his hand. "By calling for their extermination, according to this letter - not the first time either. Tell him what you did eighteen years ago."
Eighteen years. Connor was four. Oh God–
"That was another time," Washington ground out, slowly. "The Seven Years' War."
I was stuck in time, but Connor had taken a step back, away from the other men. His face was devoid of feeling.
Haytham leaned closer to Washington, until they were face-to-face. "And so now you see what happens to this great man when under duress." He turned towards us, throwing up a hand in Washington's face.
He was triumphant, I realised. He had won.
"He makes excuses," he continued, "displaces blame - does a great many things, in fact, except take responsibility."
"Enough," cried Connor before the other two could leap for each other's throats. He was trembling, I realised. Trembling with rage. "Who did what, and why, must wait. My people come first."
Haytham leered into Washington's face one last time, pure violence in his expression, before turning away. "Then let's be off."
"No." Connor took a step back - one. "You and I are finished."
Haytham's eyes shuttered. "Son–"
"Do you think me so soft," snarled Connor, "that by calling me 'son' I might change my mind? How long did you sit on this information - or am I to believe you discovered it now?" Haytham opened his mouth to get a word in, but Connor was not finished. "My mother's blood may stain another's hands, but Charles Lee is no less a monster, and all he does, he does by your command."
Washington and Haytham had the decency to stay silent. I wanted them to speak; I wanted to watch my blood run down my knuckles while Washington choked on his stinking wooden teeth.
Connor turned sharply away, and I followed - but before we left, he pointed one unwavering finger at them, and his voice was as cold as death. "A warning to you both - choose to follow me, or oppose me, and I will kill you."
Chapter 51
Summary:
Anyone else notice that Connor never sees his people again after this mission in the game? This is the chapter that I decide to explain why (not canon LOL)
Notes:
Guys! Get you a bestie who will crochet you a Shrek hat even though she hates Shrek, and a House Lannister cushion even though she despises the Lannisters 🩷🎀 that’s true love. Right there. One day she’s gonna read this fic so this note is for her: ILYYYYYYY BABE
Anyway!! This will be my last chapter before 2025!! I hope you all have a wonderful Christmas 🥹🩷 God bless you all 🫰
xoxo Panda
Chapter Text
The forests of Kanièn:keh were oddly silent this night. Located in the far north-eastern corner of New York, closer to Canada than to Boston, the woods were usually teeming with deer, rabbits, even wolves straying from their territory in Diamond Basin. But tonight, apart from the pouring rain and the occasional roll of thunder, there was nothing.
It was not a long ride north from Valley Forge, but Connor did not speak. He pushed his horse alarmingly fast, crossing the uneven terrain, winding through the trees. The moon gave us no light.
I had never seen him this angry.
We were nearing the first markers at the edge of the territory when I saw them. Torch light flickering between the trees.
Washington's men, I realised - sent to carry out his evil deeds. The messengers of doom.
I matched my horse's pace with Connor's and reached for his reins, pulling him up short. His first reaction was to snatch his hand away, but I pulled again, hard enough to yank the horse's head. He glared at me, and opened his mouth to snap, but I silenced him with a hand, and pointed to the messengers.
They were ahead of us on both sides, scattered through the forest, and were creeping steadily closer to the village. We could not go onward together if we wanted to see the village still standing come the morning.
I unhooked my feet from the stirrups and slid off my horse, landing in the mud with a squelch. Shoving the reins at Connor, I whispered, "Give me your bow."
He slid the bow off his saddle and handed it over, along with the quiver of arrows. We met eyes; even in the darkness, I could see his strained expression, the desperation to reach his village.
So I slapped his horse's rump and sent him on his way, pulling my horse alongside his own, and was swiftly alone in the dark forest. Wolves and bears could not touch me. I would not be afraid.
And I wasn't afraid, I realised, as I crept through the wet undergrowth, arrow nocked. I cared not one whit for the hidden dangers of the forest - the anger in my veins burned hotter than any torch light ahead of me.
Though I did not know the frontier as Connor did, I knew these forests better than the messengers did, and reached the first one without so much as a snapped twig or too-heavy breath.
The arrow skewered his neck, and he fell without a sound. I didn't even try to remove the arrow - that would waste precious moments - and continued toward the next Patriot soldier. He was crouched, musket in hand, and was picking his way through the mud and using a glass lantern to light the way.
His mistake. The light made him an easy target; I loosed another arrow, which embedded itself in his back. He stumbled forward a few steps with a breathless gasp of pain - and when I shot him again, he dropped to the wet ground, and mud splashed up. He did not rise again.
The lantern fell and the glass smashed. I froze at the sharp sound, and listened. There was nothing but silence in the forest. No messengers coming my way. I stamped out the flame and gathered up the broken glass as best I could.
I had to walk a while before I found more of Washington's messengers - this time there were two of them, side by side. We were somewhere west of Kanatahséton, and the trees had thinned out considerably, no longer closely packed but scattered, linked by thickets of bearberry, dogwood, and witch hazel. The men were picking their way warily across the uneven ground, and even with the lantern light they slipped in the mud, using each other for balance.
They were muttering to one another. I dropped to my knees and began to crawl, ignoring the mud oozing between my fingers and seeping through my breeches.
Somewhere behind me, in the distance, an owl called. The man holding the lantern swung around and stared into the darkness, holding the light before him. I froze and shrank into the bushes.
The man took a furtive step forward - closer to me. "I don't like this," he muttered to the other. "Sending us to do his dirty work for him. Those Indians know this forest better than anyone. They're out there - I know it."
"Will you shut up," said the other, aggressive to hide his unease. "Complaining won't get the job done."
"I'm telling you, that owl call wasn't an owl," the one with the lantern insisted. "It's them Indians communicating."
I inched forward, just out of range of the unsteady lamplight as the man swung the lantern around, one hand uneasily on the flintlock at his hip. The other one sighed loudly. "I'm telling you, there's nothing out ther–"
Branches snapped overhead. Feathered wings beat against the night sky.
The man with the lantern fired a blind shot into the darkness, staggering backward with fright. He struck nothing. The sharp sound bounced off the trees and echoed back to us like building thunder.
"Shit!" cried the second man. "What was that for?"
"There's something out there," the first repeated, and his voice trembled.
The owl called again, further away. Then, nothing. I listened to them curse at one another for a few moments, and once they were sure there was nothing creeping out of the darkness, they continued toward the innocent village. Hot anger gathered in my hands, prickling my fingers like fire.
They did not hear me crawling after them, gaining ground in spite of the mud that tried to suck me into the earth. Three metres away. Two. One.
The man with the lantern shrieked when I grabbed his leg and pulled him to the ground. His companion whirled around and swung the blade of his bayonet; I rolled aside and avoided the shining blade by a hair's breadth, pulling the screaming man along with me. He was too shocked to fight back, and I drove my knee between his legs to ensure it.
The bayonet swung for my face and I leapt back, palming two of the bigger shards of broken glass, each about the length of my palm. Then I was on my feet, lashing out with both hands - I missed with my left, but not with my right.
I felt the glass slash across the man's arm, deep enough to cut. He retaliated with a swift blow to my chest with the butt of the rifle, driving all of the breath from me and forcing me back. My feet slipped in the mud and I fell hard, winded and aching. But I could not gather my breath, for in the light of the fallen lantern, he was looking over me, and the point of the bayonet blade was under my chin.
"This one's not an Indian," he said.
My fingers dug into the mud and found something. I spat a mouthful of dirt onto his boots and looped one leg around his, pulling his foot out from under him. He stood no chance against the slippery mud. I raised the rock I had found in the mud, and brought it down on his head.
The other man was still rolling on his back, whimpering in pain. I pulled myself to my feet and shook my hands out, but my attempts to clean myself of mud were futile.
"Please," the man whined up at me. "Don't kill me."
"I won't," I said, and I kept my word. A swift kick to the head rendered him unconscious, and he would wake with a headache, but he would have his life - if the forest didn't take him first.
The pain in my ribs took my breath away, but I pressed onward, staggering through the mud and the tumbling bushes. I fell to my knees only once.
By the time I reached the village, Connor was long gone. The horses were outside the disguised entrance, tethered under the shelter of a towering tree. I did not pause to check on them; I ran into the quiet village and skidded to a stop once I was inside.
Most of the villagers were outside their longhouses, in spite of the late hour. I recognised some - mostly women or elders, and the Clan Mother was among them, but there were no men. Children peered around closed doorways, and a singular fire burned at the heart of the village.
Taking a handkerchief, wet from rain, out of my pocket, I did my best to clean my hands and face of mud before approaching Connor's grandmother. "Oiá:ner," I said. "What has happened here?"
The old woman fixed me with a weary look. "Cassandra," she said, and in her darkness she looked twice her years. "It has been a long time."
"Where is everyone?" I pressed. "Where is Ratonhnhaké:ton?"
"I fear Ratonhnhaké:ton has betrayed us," she said grimly. "My people live on a land in constant danger of being sold from under our feet. The man they call Charles Lee stands for us - he promises to preserve us. He took many of our men this night, to push back those that would take our land."
My heart dropped in my chest. "Impossible."
"And yet it is so." Oiá:ner shook her grey head, long braids limp in the rain. "Ratonhnhaké:ton has always wanted us to take a stand, and rise from our place as the peaceful keepers of the eastern door. Yet now he stands in our opposition." Her eyes, beady as an owl, bored into me. "Some say he has been seduced by the white man. Some say you have corrupted his mind."
I realised, then, with the growing sense of doom as a deer in a wolf's territory, that I was not welcome here. Perhaps I never was. The peace and joy I had seen before in Kanatahséton had been an illusion; I had seen what I wanted to see, and nothing more.
These were Connor's people - but after so many years apart, they had moved on. They were not his anymore.
I did not know just when the people of the village began staring at me, but I felt the prickle of their hostile eyes under my skin, and when I glanced around, I found them all watching me with narrowed eyes.
I took a step back, feeling the blood roaring in my ears. I could not tell them about Washington's plan now - every word against him would stand in favour of Charles Lee, and feed their support of him.
Connor was silent as a ghost as he entered the village. In the moonless night, he was pale - in a way I had never seen before. Dark blood splattered his face, his right hand. But most frightening of all was the look in his eyes - unfocused, looking at me without seeing me.
He was alone. I did not know what alarmed me most: that fact, or that the remaining people in the village were looking at him in much the same manner as they were looking at me. Guarded. Hostile. Alien.
Even his grandmother was stiff and wary. "Ratonhnhaké:ton. Where is Kanen'tó:kon?"
Connor blinked, like he was trying to remember. "He is dead."
He sounded so hollow. Connor had always been a man of great depth and passion - I had never heard his voice like this before.
"I killed him," he said, fixing those distant eyes first on Oiá:ner, then on me. "He is dead."
The old woman looked at him long and hard, and her eyes became mournful. "Ratonhnhaké:ton," she said, and her voice was strangely full of pity. "You must leave this village - and I do not think that you should return."
Those cloudy eyes focused, became sharp. "What?"
"You have made yourself a kinslayer," said Oiá:ner gravely. "By our clan law you are a criminal. A taker of the sacred life given us by the spirits. Banishment is our custom, for we do not place ourselves as givers and takers of life. Go - you are no longer welcome here."
All was silent, save for the rain. Slowly, all eyes turned to Connor - to us.
The fire of battle was still in Connor's blood. "All I have done," he said, voice raising, "I did for the good of this village. You cannot exile me from my home."
"It is your home no longer," said Oiá:ner. "You ensured that when you drove your blade through Kanen'tó:kon's neck. The exiled one has chosen his place among the white men - so go."
Around us, the people shifted - forming a band that blocked us off from the rest of the empty village, herding us toward the exit. In that moment, I understood why Oiá:ner was speaking in English, and not in Kanien'kéha - she wanted me to hear these words too. Connor was no longer welcome here, and neither was I.
Connor raised his chin defiantly, and his eyes blazed with fire. But instead of fighting back, he clenched his jaw shut, and when he blinked, I could see the fight drain out of him. He was Ratonhnhaké:ton the warrior no longer.
Without another word to his grandmother, or the rest of his kin, he turned his back on the village and walked out. I hurried after him, watching him warily - and anxiety gnawed at me when he did not look back, even at me, as we reached the horses.
He pulled his hood up, casting his bloody face into shadow, and mounted his horse. We did not speak for a long time as we wove through the forest, dejected and miserable.
Connor sat straight and rigid, pushing the horse too hard, leading us somewhere south. I tried to match pace with him, tried to glimpse his face, but he turned away from me each time, or urged his horse ahead of me.
Finally, I tired of the silence. "We need to get out of this rain."
"Charles Lee rides for Monmouth," he said like he had not heard me, "to reveal the Patriot plans to the Loyalists. The crown will win, and my people will never be safe."
"We will deal with it," I said, trying to soothe, "but we need to get out of this rain."
He turned his face up to the sky, then, like he had only just noticed that the rain was still pouring down between the trees. "Lexington is the closest tavern."
And that was that. We rode southwest for Lexington, hardly speaking. The summer night was unusually warm, but the rain made me cold. I did not remember ever feeling as helpless and wretched as I did then.
Time passed in a blur that I did not notice until we were hitching up the horses in the shelter of a stable, and when they were safely untacked, we opened the tavern door. Inside the Buckman Tavern was warm and dry and such a welcome sight that I could have sobbed. We both dripped water all over the wooden floors, and the keeper eyed us warily - a Native American and a colonial girl arriving at a tavern in the middle of the night could spell nothing but scandal - but accepted our money nevertheless.
We were too exhausted even to eat. Once we locked the door to the bedroom behind us, we set to ridding ourselves of our soaked outer layers.
Or, I did. Upon hearing nothing from Connor, I looked over my shoulder and found him still standing by the door, looking down at his hands. In the warm light of the room, the blood on his hands was dark red, the stain on his sleeve brighter. Water dripped from him, creating a small puddle beneath him, but he did not seem to notice. The distant, hollow look had returned to his eyes. I did not know him anymore.
"Connor?" I said softly.
"I killed him." Those strong, gentle hands clenched. "I ..."
I reached for him then, taking both of those hands in my own. He was so cold. He was trembling. "Come," I said. "You need to take your jacket off."
His eyes fixed on me, like he was seeing me for the first time. What a muddy wretch I was. But whatever words he did or did not have to say, he swallowed them, and allowed me to lead him deeper into the room.
Once I had managed to help him remove his coat, I hung it up to dry while he sat on the edge of the bed. And when I looked back, I knew: he was not Ratonhnhaké:ton the warrior anymore. He was the broken boy he worked so hard to hide, to build walls around and section off. Despair and sorrow bubbled to the surface all at once, and neither of us knew how to make it better.
"I killed him," he said again, in that hollow voice that felt like a stab between my ribs. "Kanen'tó:kon. He died believing I had betrayed him."
I crossed the room, caring not for my still-wet clothes and muddy breeches, and knelt in front of him, placing careful hands on his knees. "He was deceived," I said quietly.
He did not hear me. "My people think me a traitor. A murderer." A humourless laugh escaped him, and that is when I heard the strain in his voice, the fight to keep his emotions at bay. "I have made myself a kinslayer. I– I killed my longest friend with my own hands. I felt his blood, I felt his life leave him." A tear fell from his cheek. "My own people sentenced me to exile. My own family."
His voice broke on the last word, and so did my heart. I pulled him down in a hug, holding him close, closing my eyes as his arms wrapped tightly around me. He was shaking, and he was so cold.
I laid a gentle hand on the back of his head. "It's not your fault."
"I did it," he said, and I heard the pain in his voice, the tears that were forcing their way out. "I killed him and I can never return. Everything is gone."
"Even so," I murmured. "It's not your fault."
Perhaps that is what broke him. Perhaps something else in him shattered. I do not know - but I felt it. I knelt on the floor for a long time, saying nothing, stroking his hair, letting him weep and grieve and feel the pain he never allowed himself to.
When I closed my eyes, my own throat closed up, and my eyes welled. It wasn't his fault. The unfairness of it all made tears of rage, of sadness, spill down my cheeks. Kanen'tó:kon had not deserved to die - and Connor had not deserved to wield the blade.
Charles Lee was a monster. This, we knew. But now he had torn everything from Connor. His mother, his friend, his village, his entire family. Clanless, he had no choice now but to live out his days on the homestead and assimilate with the rest of the colonists.
We were still sitting like that when Connor spoke into the silent room, his voice thick with equal anger and pain. "It is a battle that Charles Lee wants. I will give him a war."
Chapter 52
Summary:
Pookie bears I am back from the dead !!!!!! Don't worry don't cry mommy's here now ain't NO grave gonna hold my body down.
I meant to publish this chapter this morning! But it was 7am and I was on the bus to college, the malfunctioning AC was blasting cold air into my face, and the only way I could reasonably keep my eyes open was by blasting Pitbull and J-Lo through my headphones. And honestly, I think that's a big contributor to my issues.
But I'm back now, and determined to finish this!!
During this hiatus, I have actually accomplished a lot. Got my degree, did a lot of self-reflection, broke down a few times, wore a bald cap to see Pitbull, started film school, found joy in the mundane. Not necessarily in that order.
Anyway!! I am back. And I have made several authorial decisions regarding the future of Cassandra and Connor ...
This one’s for you @SparklingFireStorm - thank you for never leaving me even when I am annoying
Stay tuned xx
Chapter Text
Connor was asleep.
Seven nights we had stayed at this inn, giving us time to rest, recover, and plot our next steps. This little wood-panelled room, with its singular window and the oil lamps that attracted moths and the bed that was only slightly too small for the two of us, had become a safe space, far from the blood-tinged breath of the Templars, far from the prying eyes of Achilles.
It was not yet dawn, but I was standing by the solitary window, hugging my arms to my chest, cold in spite of the warm air. For an extra bit of coin, we had managed to persuade one of the innkeeper's daughters to wash our clothes for us, and they hung on the rack behind the door.
The days had been getting ever warmer, hot enough to melt the wax candles, and just as quickly as the torrential rains had brought the mud, the sun was steadily drying it again. Even the nights were warm - perhaps that was why I was awake at this hour, wearing no more than a linen shift. Though Connor was not much better in terms of his clothing: he wore only trousers, baring his warm skin to the air while he slept.
We ran ourselves ragged in the mornings, pushing each other harder with every step. We practiced with our blades deep in the woods where none of the tenants of the inn could see us, and sometimes met with one or another of our recruits - Jacob Zenger and Duncan Little, usually - who informed us of the movements of the two armies. They were heading for Monmouth, but we were not far from there; so, we waited.
"Akhtsikhé:ta?" (my sweetheart) A soft, sleepy voice behind me. "Cass, where are you?"
Perhaps I should have seen that as the first warning sign, the first flash of red in a monochrome. I was never 'Cass' to him — I was 'Cassandra', or when the mood took him, 'Sassy.' Cass was a stranger from his lips; I did not know her.
"I'm here, darling." I looked at him over my shoulder. He was curled on one side, his long, dark hair spilling onto the pillow, and he had raised his head just enough to see me. The sun had not yet risen, but by the glow of the lightening sky, I saw him reaching for me.
"You are too far away," he murmured. "Come back."
And how could I refuse?
I padded softly back to the bed and sat on the lumpy mattress, still warm from my own body, and got under the blanket with him, sitting with my back against the headboard. "Is this close enough?"
"Almost." He shuffled closer, eyes closed, and his seeking hand found my waist, pulling me toward him so he could nestle his head into my hip. "You are too cold."
I rubbed his shoulder in circular, soothing motions. He was so soft and warm and drowsy. "How are you?"
"Konhnhí:i," (I'm okay) he mumbled, and that was when I knew that he was not fully awake; he had roused himself just enough to summon me back to bed, and no more.
I let him sleep, and brushed stray hair from his face. We had vastly different beliefs on life after death, and I found out very soon on that first night that my words of comfort could only carry me so far, so I used silence instead, opening the space for him to speak if he wanted, or to be silent.
We had different ways of coping with loss, too. Where I had given myself time to grieve for Thomas gently, Connor threw himself into his work, letting the distractions wash him away until he finished the day's work with bright eyes and a vision for the times ahead.
The upcoming battle weighed heavily on our minds of late, however. Charles Lee was surely planning treachery - and it was up to us to prevent it. It was a great responsibility for us to carry, but I was thankful that we carried it together.
I had found myself growing strangely maternal over him these past few days. He was so young, so vulnerable, even though he tried not to be, and I felt I needed to protect him - protect his gentle heart from the hate the world hurled at him. In sleep, he did not look troubled at all. The worry and tension had been drawn from his face as though with a needle, leaving behind the heart breaking reality: a twenty-two-year-old, resting in spite of the impossible weights on his shoulders.
The morning was warm, but his skin was chilly, so I drew the blanket up to cover his shoulders, tucking it around him gently, so I would not wake him. He only mumbled something incoherent, not quite English nor Kanienʼkéha, perhaps a mix of both, and shifted his head against my hip.
I stroked his hair idly, threading my fingers between the strands, teasing out small tangles. I had been feeling oddly low for several months, and more fatigued than I cared to admit. A harsh winter became a harsh summer, and food rations on the homestead were dwindling. Everywhere I looked, there was reason to mourn, to give up, but here we were, surviving.
If the hard conditions were having any effect on Connor, he hid it well. I considered myself good at concealment: I could hide myself if I needed to, but day by day I could feel that façade slipping, my resolve weakening. I was thinner than I had ever been, and this was alarming, for I had always been small, but never like this. I tired easily, and I was trapped inside my head more often than I enjoyed. It was only a matter of time, I supposed, before something irreversible happened.
I was tired now, but I could not sleep. Instead, I thought.
Something had changed in Connor since the night that he killed Kanen'tó:kon. Like a turtle pulling back into his shell, Connor was retreating into himself, sitting now in long periods of silence, or forcing us both through gruelling drills and strength training in the forest. His temper, too, was shorter, though he tried not to take it out on me. I could not always keep up with his sometimes-vicious training, and although he tried to be understanding, he was tense often, and seemed annoyed more frequently .
Except for when he slept. It melted off his bones like ice in the springtime, and he relaxed in a way I had seen less and less as time went on. Gone was the young man I knew so well, and in his place was something unknown.
"Are you okay?" I asked the silence. "Where have you gone?"
He did not answer, and slept on.
Since finding out the name of my father, I had been searching for a way to tell Connor. It was something that I needed to tell him, and I would have told him sooner, but there had been no appropriate time for such a conversation, and his recent moods had me unsure of how he might react. And now, with so much happening before and behind us, I did not wish to think of my father. I did not want to picture his face, or to look into the mirror and see him gazing back at me.
I had not seen Lydia and Gabriel since that day, either. Soon their new house on the homestead would be finished, and they would move in. Gabriel agreed to take up the accounts of the homestead, a task which had previously been upheld by Connor, Achilles, and me, but Connor and I were too busy now, and Achilles too weak (or so he said). However much I did or did not want my mother around more often than necessary, we needed Gabriel. Ryan had been informed of their changing address, and in a letter, he had promised to try and visit during his Christmas break. Of Meredith, there was no word.
Soon the sun had risen enough to cast shafts of light between the thick line of trees, and we left the inn as quietly as we had arrived. We were riding for New Jersey, across the Hudson river, where we would find Washington's army following after the British, headed by Sir Henry Clinton, to Sandy Hook, New Jersey. Washington's ego was injured, we well knew - in the last year, the British had had two substantial victories against the Continental Army, resulting in their occupation of Philadelphia, which had only lifted at the beginning of this month when they learnt of America's official alliance with France.
After mere minutes in the sun it became near intolerable, and the sun was only just past rising. The wind was hot and dry, providing no relief; to find a patch of shade was a blessing, and we passed through them as slowly as we could.
We were not far from Monmouth, only a few hours away, and we maintained a steady pace until we reached the river crossing. This part of the Hudson was wide and fast-flowing, swollen with run-off from the mountains. The tips of the white-capped peaks lapped over the boards of the wooden crossing bridge, to the dismay of our horses. But still we pushed them on.
Once we had crossed the river, the camp was not hard to find. It was hastily arranged at the edge of the sprawling forest, a wooden barricade separating it from the open, dirt-tracked clearing between the Continental Army and the red coats of the British. During the terrible winter of '77, one in four American soldiers died; diseases and injuries, which would normally have been no more than inconveniences, were made rapacious by poor shelter and few provisions, yet enough still massed to gather at Monmouth this day.
The camp was bristling with barely contained energy, the kind of feeling when one holds too much water in one's mouth and cannot swallow, but must wait for it to spill over. Battalions and dragoons, foot guards and artillery, all were set up and stretched far around Comb's Hill, a lucky few getting to reside next to a tributary branching off Wemrock Brook, or by the West Ravine.
I could see other women here, too - nurses behind the lines; others by the artillery, whose jobs were to load the cannons; others on the front lines, joining their husbands in battle. Some had endured the hard winter at Valley Forge alongside their husbands, bleeding and dying with them. Behind us sat a mostly abandoned house, which the nurses were in the midst of converting to a field hospital, getting soldiers to carry equipment and supplies in for them as they arranged beds upon beds for the inevitable wounded that were soon to come, and had already come.
A small group of officers were standing in a cluster, leaning on their muskets like staffs as they listened, nodding every once in a while, to the words of the young General Lafayette, who stood at the centre of their circle, his wig-clad head bobbing with zeal.
"We must hold this position for as long as it takes," the Frenchman was saying. "If the enemy is allowed to push through, we will lose what precious little ground we've gained. The sacrifices your brothers have made today must not have been in vain!"
Stamps and shouts from the men around him. General Lafayette was young - my age at best - but he commanded the very air around him. He looked each man in the eye. "Now go. Bring the fight to our enemy - make them rue the day they marched on us."
When we were close enough for his eyes to fall on us, General Lafayette shot us a rueful smile, thin-lipped, as the officers around him dispersed. "You have arrived," he called to us, "just in time to bear witness to our glorious victory!"
He threw out an arm to show the levelled battlefield where the treeline ended. Traces of gun smoke lingered over the grass, which had been cleared of casualties, but beyond the clearing, there were flashes of red between the trees - the redcoats, but why were they so close?
Connor stared at those soldiers, a casual hand on the soft twine of his tomahawk. "Where is Charles Lee?"
Lafayette spat into the grass. "That bastard." He whirled around and pointed an accusing finger in the direction of the Continental camp, where, I assumed, Lee was cowering, close enough to Washington's arse to lick it.
I squinted past the camp again, trying to catch a glimpse of the opposing army. While the British, under General Sir Henry Clinton, had occupied New York, the Crown had offered freedom to any slave who left rebel masters - England was the first country in the world to outlaw slave trade within its borders. Many of these now-free slaves had joined the redcoat army, and were standing against us today. Some had joined the Continentals too, but most didn't, as the thirteen states were still riddled with slavery, though daily more and more abolitionists spoke out against it.
Massachusetts was the first colony in America to legalise slave ownership, and as far as I knew, it was still one of the main centres for slave trade. I'd witnessed a few auctions before, in the streets of Boston, but I had never stayed long enough to hear the auctioneer calling out the final prices. There had been less sales of late due to abolitionist riots.
Lafayette left us to join Washington and Lee outside the canvas tent serving as Washington's quarters, and the trio stood close together, tension rippling from them like electricity. Connor and I, of a single mind, inched closer.
"–going to take these five thousand men and strike the rearguard–" Washington was saying.
"No." Lee cut him off and shook his head. "They won't be able to do it, sir. These men are still weak after the winter."
"Are you questioning my command, General?" Washington's voice was dangerously soft.
"No, sir," Lee said, loftily. "Just the men whom you wish me to command."
Washington stared him down for a moment, his gaze livid, but Lee did not flinch. Then Washington said, "Fine. Lafayette, you will take five thousand men and strike the rearguard. General Charles Lord Cornwallis will not expect an attack if you do it carefully."
"Yes, sir." Lafayette saluted.
"That's not right!" Lee blurted out. "You cannot possibly send General Lafayette, sir, he is barely out of his teens!"
"And yet possessed of more courage than you," Washington said coolly.
"I will lead the men," Lee declared, shooting a glare at Lafayette. "All five thousand."
A pause - and then Washington nodded stiffly. Connor and I looked at each other with wide eyes, as Lee broke from the group and mounted his horse, riding to join his men. We waited until the dust settled behind him before we retreated from the gathering to find a quiet place to lay our plans, ignoring the sounds of the army regrouping at Lee's shouted commands.
Minutes crawled by. Already the heat of the day was steadily climbing, and it was nearing noon. Over the distant roar of the two armies advancing on each other, I could hear my heart thundering. I was an Englishwoman, through and through: I was not built to withstand this heat.
Dry grass cracked under the furious thundering feet, and dust billowed up behind, as two sides advanced like waves about to meet the shore. We watched from a distance, and waited. Connor disappeared into the camp to talk with one of Washington's aides, and I visited the women who were cleaning the cannons, and found myself engrossed in conversation with a middle-aged woman named Amelia.
Then, after two hours had inched by, something happened.
One by one, then gradually more, and soon almost half of the five thousand American troops were retreating back to our lines, stumbling over their feet, coughing against the smoke. Sweat dripped down their faces, though there was not a drop of blood on them. No casualties lined the ground as of yet - there had been no major conflict, but rather a lack of leadership on Lee's part. They pushed past us in a panic, ignoring all shouts and orders from their superiors.
One of the army's auditors, Major John Clark, reached Washington's tent, panting wildly, and delivered the news: that Charles Lee had lost control of the vanguard, and had called for a general retreat. By the time this news reached the main body of the army, his men, now a mere two thousand, had already crossed the ravine. Against Clinton's force of ten thousand troops, he stood no chance.
For the first time, I heard Washington swear viciously, and I later learnt that this was the first time he had ever done so in front of his men; the virtuous and most excellent George Washington, all powdered wigs and loud-spoken confidence, but with a rotting mouth full of wooden teeth.
Somewhere out there, among the retreating soldiers and thick gunsmoke, was my father, and I hated him. I wanted to see his face up close, and examine his features for any trace of myself, if he had my freckles or my green eyes; but I knew, even now, that I would find no gentleness or love in his ugly countenance, for neither of those existed in the soul of Charles Lee.
A cowardly man, and a traitor besides. I was nothing like him.
I hoped I was nothing like him.
On the edge of the camp, overlooking the clearing that should have been a battleground but was instead dark with bodies passed out in the heat, and rumbling with many hundreds of running boots, Lafayette was red with anger. One of Washington's aides, a short, pasty ginger man, was at his side, trying to help him to organise the remnant of the Continental army. "Send word that we are falling back!" the Frenchman cried. "Everyone to me! Now! Now!"
Behind the fleeing soldiers, the redcoats advanced, and the echoes of their shots rang out, though I could not say if they landed or not. I did not even notice Connor leaving my side until I saw him at Lafayette's; it was this heat, I told myself, this heat was dulling my senses.
"I will hold the area," he was saying to Lafayette, "until you bring them to safety."
The Continentals were dragging their heavy artillery to the front lines, loading them hurriedly and ducking as they blasted at the British. Thick smoke began to fill the air, which was stifling enough without it.
Duty and honour spoke with my own voice. "I'll go with them, and cover their retreat."
The ginger aide was nodding. "If we tarry, we die."
"Best we go!" cried Lafayette.
With hardly more than a good-bye, it was settled, and somehow I was back on my horse, spurring her faster, faster down the dirt road, chasing the dust trails left by the retreating army.
Through the trees we weaved. I crouched low over my mare's neck, the brave and gentle creature, and if she was cowed by the deep booms of cannon fire behind us, and the thickening smoke around us, she was not cowed.
Her hooves clattered over a wooden bridge over a too-shallow stream, and we started to pass by the running soldiers. Some were stopping to fire at something behind us.
In the marsh just beyond the bridge, Lee was attempting to marshal the last of his command, and when Washington approached on horseback, seething, he looked up expectantly, as though seeking praise for the retreat.
"Sir!" he called out, panting slightly, but was cut off and uncharacteristically lost for words when Washington snapped, "I desire to know, sir, what is the reason whence arises this disorder and confusion?"
As he continued to yell at Lee, a gunshot, far too close, had my horse rearing in shock, and I fell from the saddle, landing painfully on my shoulder in the dust. I bit back a cry just in time to dodge a bayonet coming for my head, springing to my feet to face the British soldier, whose brow gleamed with sweat. When he made to stab me again, I yanked it from his grip and swung it; it struck the side of his head with a crack and he collapsed in a heap.
Gritting my teeth, I blocked an advance from a second soldier, who earned himself a bullet in the foot for his troubles and a boot to his face for good luck.
By now, Lee was attempting to explain himself to Washington, who appeared to have regained some of his composure. "Sir, I received faulty intelligence on the matter, and was informed that the British army was smaller than we see it to be. My officers saw the numbers and panicked - I tried to stop them, sir, but they fled without my orders, leaving me with no choice, sir, but to call for a full retreat." Even from my distance, I could see his pale eyes narrow, like those of a snake, as he said, "I might remind you, sir, that it was you who ordered the advance this morn."
"All this may be very true, sir," Washington spat back, "but you ought not to have undertaken it unless you intended to go through with it."
Saying no more to the scorned and shamed Lee, Washington rode away to rally what troops were left, as the main body of the Continental Army was still in the process of arriving. After a few moments of hesitation, Lee followed, bewildered.
I was nothing like him. He was nothing to me but blood - and even still, that must be shed, too.
It became obvious, then, that he had been relieved of command. Indeed, Washington turned control of Lee's men to Lafayette and General Anthony Wayne.
The dirt was hard-packed beneath my feet as I ran up the tree-lined path, pushing through a sudden burst of dizziness that almost sent me sprawling, and followed it to a small village, recently evacuated. Bullet holes speckled the wooden houses, the red-painted barn. Empty powder flasks littered the dry grass, and the air tasted of death.
I kept running toward the noise ahead of me - the redcoats had caught up to the retreating Americans, and had started to open fire - clumsy shots that went wide, but they filled the air with smoke.
Three of them had cornered an American soldier, and had lined up for his execution. On one side, the British captain was calling the commands, and the muskets raised–
I got there first, and kicked the legs out from beneath the man closest to me, and he went down with a yelp. The shots rang out, but went wide in the soldiers' shock.
Wrenching the musket from the man's grip, I swung it butt-first at the first soldier that ran at me, and it thudded into his stomach. Wheezing, he doubled over.
The American soldier was running. The captain had drawn a flintlock pistol, and for a moment seemed unsure about which of us he ought to shoot. He ended up shooting neither, as I opened his sides with my wrist blades.
I did not stop to make sure he was down; the abandoned town was thick with smoke, and all sounds around me were muffled. I could hardly see where I placed my feet. Somewhere in the distance, a horse screamed, but I could not see where.
Colours were flying around me, swirling like paint on a palette, muted greens and dusty browns and bright, startling reds. Onwards I ran, along the dry beaten path, fighting the ache in my lungs and the stars before my eyes, until I came to a stream, and the wooden bridge crossing it was shattered. With no choice but to wade through it, I splashed into the shallows, caring little for my shoes and stockings. The cool water was a welcome relief.
A stone moved under my foot, and it sent me tumbling. I sank under for a moment, snorting water, but finally staggered to my feet.
When I stood up, he was there. With a gun raised in line with my forehead, Tobias was standing rigid, his eyes blank and far away.
I went still. "Tobias."
"Cassandra." His hand did not waver.
"Why are you here?" My own flintlock was wet, and useless against him. If I wanted to get past him, or defeat him, I would have to keep him talking long enough to edge closer to him. "Did Haytham Kenway send you to be his spy?"
"I am a soldier," he spat. "I will do my duty unto death."
That last part was true enough. "You are a Templar," I said, inching forward. "And you're fighting on the wrong side of this war."
The muzzle of his flintlock followed me. His finger was tense on the trigger. "I might say the same to you. We could have ended this long ago, Cassandra."
We could never have ended this. I had the distinct feeling that he was not actually bitter at my spurning him, but was simply using words as his weapon. Did he think me so soft that I would fall for them now? Smiles did not grace his face, a face I might have once considered pretty, but time had hardened it, turned the skin coarse and the scar silvery, and I felt only revulsion for him. "Too many years have gone by for us to still be having this conversation," I told him, standing a foot away now. "I am bored. Let's talk about something different."
"Yes." His feet shifted so he could keep me in his eyeline. "Tell me, Cassandra - what is it that the Assassins are planning?"
"You know what we are planning: the total annihilation of the Templar Order."
"You Assassins." His green eyes rolled to the heavens. "You act so virtuous, but you're no better than the rats in the gutter. For all your talk of freedom and peace, you leave a lot of fresh blood in your wake."
"Only the blood of those who deserve it." By now, I was close enough to stare down the barrel of the gun. One twitch of his finger would blow my face off.
"Who judges who is deserving and who is not?" he demanded. "At whose word do you swing the sword? I look at my Templar brothers, and I do not see evil in their faces, but duty and honour. Where is the disgrace in that?"
"Honour?" I took a step closer, and he edged back, maintaining the distance between us. I was out of the water now, and standing on the slippery edge of the river bank. "In whose countenance do you see duty and honour? Was it William Johnson, who bought and sold Iroquois land from under the feet of those living on it? Or perhaps it was John Pitcairn, who commanded the slaughter at Bunker Hill? No, it was Thomas Hickey and his counterfeiting ring and his whoring and his drinking, wasn't it? Or Benjamin Church, turncoat and thief, or Nicholas Biddle? Yes, you're right. Your sworn brothers were good men. I'm sorry I did not see it until now."
"Do not hold a man's vices against him when he commits his life to the generation of a new world."
"A new world steeped in blood, and controlled by the Templars." I lifted my feet out of the water.
"Is it not better to have a singular stable leader than a thousand small ones?" he demanded. "The people are fickle; they swing this way today, and that way tomorrow. They will believe what we tell them to believe."
If Connor were here in my place, Tobias would have been dead five times over. He was stronger than I was. The leather of my wrist blades was tightening on my arms, reminding me of their presence, an extension of my hands. "I will give you one chance to leave," I said. "Leave now, or I will kill you."
Tobias gave me a look loaded with disdain. "Where is your flintlock? I do not see it. Show it to me and prove that you are a threat to me."
If he thought he could scare me, he was mistaken. I had seen too many monsters to fear a man now. With one swing of my arm, the blade at my wrist shot out, and I hit Tobias' forearm hard enough to loosen his grip on the pistol. He let out a shot, but it went wide. Disarmed, he backed away from me, but I followed, keeping my blade out. "I told you to leave."
"You're a girl," he spat. "You cannot touch me."
"That scar on your face has healed nicely," I said. "Though it does take away from your looks. Would you like another, to even things out?"
Tobias took pause, then, and I watched him consider the situation at hand: me, with my blades, him with his empty gun. The realisation of his defeat was sweeter than any honey.
He spat at my feet and backed up a few paces, and this time I let him, and watched him retreat into the forest. I did not move until long after he was gone and the trees had stopped waving his absence. It was only then that I realised my vision was swirling, and the ground was slipping and sliding under my feet.
Adrenaline, I decided, but I knelt down and splashed a handful of water into my face until the ringing in my ears stopped. The world was silent when I stood, and still. Even the crashing sounds of running soldiers had faded - so I hurried along the path I had been following, pushing my legs faster, fearing the worst.
I came across no more executions, no more floundering groups. Nothing but dry undergrowth greeted me: dehydrated leaves brushed my legs, dead twigs snapped under my feet. Soon my breath was burning in my lungs, and the black spots dancing before my eyes were stubborn in their persistence. Over my head, the sun was beating down, and even the shadows of the forest could not offer me shelter from the close, pressing heat.
I could not say how long I walked - only that the treeline ended suddenly, and I was facing a cleared area bustling with soldiers. Dusty their coats were, but under the grime I could see the blue of the Continental Army, and the exhaustion in their limbs. Horses were wheezing with exertion, glistening with sweat, and the men looked no better. Several were lying prone on stretchers, passed out in the heat while field nurses attended them. A few had sustained physical injuries, though there was startingly less blood than would be expected of the aftermath of a battle.
The shrill cry of a horse had me turning my head and scanning the crowd for the familiar face, and there I saw her, my runaway mare, ears flattened with the remnants of her fear. Her reins were firm in the hand of Connor, who was trying to soothe her, though his eyes were distracted, roving the faces of the gathered soldiers, looking up at every sound. He was grubby and sweaty, and his hands were black with gunpowder.
I wondered what, or whom, he was looking for, but could not ask, because his eyes had settled on me, and once there, he did not look away. As I approached, I saw how tightly he was holding my horse's reins, and realised what sort of shock he had felt to see my riderless horse come running.
Instead of speaking, he turned away and scooped up a ladle of water from a bucket, holding it to my dry lips with quiet patience until I had drank my fill and the black spots started to fade a little, and it was only then that he said, "You made it."
"So did you," I said.
We might have said more, but the group of soldiers ahead of us parted to allow Lafayette to pass. "Well done, my friends," he called. "You have saved many lives today."
One of the pacing soldiers turned around slowly, and it was only then that I realised that he was not a common soldier, but George Washington. He regarded us with cool wariness. "Connor, Cassandra."
The raging fire that we knew as Connor sparked to life once more. "Charles Lee has betrayed you. I am sure he will spin a tale saying he was outnumbered, or we were somehow to blame. I will say it one last time: that man is your enemy, and he will not stop until you are dead or dishonoured."
Washington's blue eyes betrayed nothing. "I will investigate this at once."
"The time for that is long past." Taking me by the elbow, Connor turned us both away. "Should you choose to spare Lee's life," he said over his shoulder, cold as the snow, "then I will take it myself. Enjoy your victory, Commander. It will be the last we deliver you."
I hated to admit it, but there was a touch of arrogance in Connor, and it emerged now, though I could not say that it was unwarranted. As we picked our way through the hastily-erected encampment, retrieving Connor's horse along the way, I stayed close to him, fearing that I might fall. The heat was only getting worse, and a small, weak, scared part of me thought that if I did not rest soon, I would collapse.
Just when I was mustering the courage to ask Connor to stop walking, we paused to mount the horses. Perhaps he had seen my exertion, because he helped me onto my mare's back, and in my exhaustion, I thought that his hand lingered a moment too long on my leg.
But then it was gone, the fleeting moment passed, and Connor was on his own horse a few paces ahead of mine. Meekly I followed, happy to keep the silence and conserve my energy, and for many miles, it was so. I did not want to talk. I wanted to drink until I burst. I wanted a decent meal. I wanted to curl up in my own bed and be comforted until I fell asleep.
But I had to tell him about my altercation with Tobias, and as the day drew into a long evening, I did, in as few words as I could manage, and he listened in unreadable silence. When I was finished, he gave a singular nod, and mentioned it no more.
It was a few days until we got home and I could execute this plan to lie down and sleep, and after a quick greeting to Achilles, I did just that, and hardly seemed to blink before I was curled up small on my bed, too tired to even draw the covers over myself. It was in my bones - this weariness, this heavy weight pressing down on me.
I dozed off as soon as I closed my eyes, but it could not have been for long, because I startled awake as my bedroom door tentatively opened and Connor stepped softly in, quiet on shoeless feet. In his hand was a steaming cup.
I was facing the door, so he could see that I was awake. The bed dipped as he sat next to me, and placed a warm hand on my shoulder. "I made you some coffee."
I would sooner fall asleep in the cup, but I could not tell him that. Giving him a small smile, I took the cup and wrapped my cold fingers around it. "Thank you."
He tilted his head. "Are you all right? I have never seen you like this."
"I'm tired." The last few weeks had been a lot. A lot of work, a lot of training, a lot of stress. I was tired, and wanted to sleep for a thousand years. I was hungry, but the kitchen was empty.
He rubbed my arm to soothe me. "I know."
The words were out before I could rein them in. "I saw my father on the battlefield."
"Your father?" Connor frowned. "But you do not know who he is."
"My mother told me, the last time I saw her." This news was best delivered sitting up, where I could, in the very least, look him in the eye. Careful not to spill hot coffee all over my bedsheets, I sat up, and his dark eyes followed me, narrowed with concern. Where should I look? At his eyes, and see the betrayal there? At the wall behind him, that I might ignore him? I settled for the space between his eyes. "My father–"
"Connor!" Achilles' voice echoed up the stairs. "A word?"
Visibly suppressing a sigh, Connor stood, and when he reached the door, he looked back at me. "We will talk later."
I nodded, but I knew we wouldn't. I watched the door close behind him, and then I was alone once more. He had made the coffee a little too bitter, but I didn't mind - it helped to warm me up. Perhaps it was concerning that I was this cold on a hot summer's day, but I could not think of that now; instead I wondered whose turn it was to make dinner, and dearly hoped that it was not mine.
I fell asleep before I could decide.
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