Arno's breakfast lay on the silver platter. A third of a baguette, a wedge of cheese, and coffee in a fancy porcelain cup.
Arno had been given the space under the stairwell as his living quarters, her previous residence, while she had been upgraded to the guest room upstairs. Walking towards her old dwelling, it would be the first time she confronted Arno since the night she had brought him in with his injury. The others said he was not eating well. Perhaps they thought her loving presence would make more of an impression on him. But her chest was tight with anxiety. He represented the life she had left, betrayed. Worse, his words that night told her the Assassins knew she was a traitor, when she had originally assumed they would write her off as simply an unaccounted for death.
She arrived at the door and knocked.
"Come in," Arno said, muffled through the embellished door. It was a simple command, not at all inviting.
She entered, the man she had danced with almost a year ago glaring at her.
She approached the bedside. He did not move his arms to accept the plate. This was even worse than she expected.
"I brought you breakfast, Arno. Please, eat."
"Six of our kind, dead due to your treachery!"
She hurt. The Templars had told her most of the Assassins at the hideout had escaped, but she always doubted that claim.
"Plaît, Arno," she said empathetically. "Your hands are hardly clean. You took the life of Gabriel. He was Timothee's dear friends."
Dorian said nothing. They stood in an awkward stalemate. Finally, he reluctantly accepted the plate.
She took a seat in a nearby hard and simple chair.
"The Templars are not who you were raised to believe. But even if we are, both our orders can agree to the threat posed by the Illuminati."
"The Illuminati are your creation."
"The Assassin Order was once our ally too. What's your point, Arno?"
There was an angry silence. The muffled chatter of other could be heard through the walls. He could not find the words to fill it, so we simply took a bite of his bread.
He chewed. She had never felt so self-conscious in her life. Élise could feel his judgement.
After swallowing, he added. "I suppose you're right about one thing. Robespierre must die."
"Him and many others. The Illuminati is spread throughout Europe. They had lodges in Italy, Poland...and they've already turned a handful of our own here in Paris."
Arno did not say anything, but moved onto his coffee, taking a sip.
She wanted to say something comforting, or at least something to break the uncomfortable silence. She could try to relate to what he was going through, but she feared that might just make him angrier.
She decided to try for a conversational angle instead.
"Have you...met the others?"
"Timmy's the only one who comes in here. He doesn't trust me. He's right not to!"
This all hurt her deeply. How could she respond to that? Either agreement or denial would surely offend.
"I..."
She could not find the words.
She rose.
"I must be going. Take care, Arno."