Author's Note: I'm sorry for the delay. My classes are really starting to wear me down and my left wrist is currently in a brace (that's what I get for fighting walls…they always win, smug bastards).

I literally have a stack of about thirty books staring me down right now—dogging my dreams and filling my head with the words of ancient, dead historians—and unfortunately this is my last buffer chapter. If I can find some time to breathe, I will try to get some more work done. It just seems to be getting increasingly difficult to transition between 1920s America and Late Republican Rome (not to mention the show Supernatural eating up the little free time that I have…those guys are gonna drag me to Hell with them…).

Excuses out of the way, I hope you enjoy this next installment! It's more a transition chapter than anything, so I apologize for the lack of any real plot development.

Nine

Upper East Apartments

February 16, 6:21 PM

Carver found himself standing on the stoop of his old home, gazing up at the sprawling apartment block and wondering how much had changed. Was mother doing all right? Had she gotten that renovation in the kitchen she had been talking about? Was Gamlen still a worthless lout?

Was brother doing well?

He sighed—long and gusty, full of resignation—before turning to make his way back down the street. Carver wanted nothing more than to knock on the door and be welcomed home with open arms, but he knew there was something he had to do first.

The night was quiet and cool; the snow continued to fall at its own languid pace. By morning, the streets would be blanketed in white, but for now the soft flakes managed only to lightly paint the dark night with little pinpricks of pale light. As a child, Carver had always loved the snow. He remembered a time when he and his siblings had played in the white until their fingers and the tips of their noses had grown bright red. Oh, how angry mother had been, but in a way that was more worry than anything. And it was always Garret who got in trouble, more often than not taking the blame for something one of the twins had done. Even as a child, Garret had had that casual air about him that allowed mother's angry words to seemingly roll off his shoulders like so much rain.

That attitude of his had persisted through Bethany's death…just as mother's blame had.

Carver had almost forgotten about that.

Bethany's death had been…tragic, to say the least. Garret had been placed in charge of their care and Carver had insisted on playing near the factory district. The ground was perfect for playing pirates or knights with all the unused machinery and half-built foundries sticking up in every direction. Garret and Carver had climbed their way up some old scaffolding, pretending that it was the top of a king's tower. Together, the pair had teased Bethany for being unable to climb so high. But the Hawke stubbornness ran in her veins too, and, hiking up her skirts, she began the climb.

The fall wouldn't have been so fatal had the ground not been littered with so much scrap metal.

Carver had hidden in his room after the fact, but he still heard his mother's angry voice through the walls as she screamed and railed at Garret for his carelessness. There was the sound of flesh hitting flesh among the shattering of broken furniture during it all, but no matter how often Carver asked Garret what exactly had happened, his brother would not say. If one looked close enough, however, they would notice a slight limp in Garret's gait that persisted to the present.

The Hawke brothers loved their mother dearly, but Leandra was not the strongest of women emotionally. Without her husband's stalwart support, she had become little more than a brittle shell. Garret had taken it upon himself from a young age to serve as her protector despite the high price he had been forced to pay over the years. Carver had known this fact all along but had never before truly thought about it, taking both his brother's patronage and his mother's undying love for him for granted.

And how had Carver repaid his brother? With ridicule. Hatred. Condemnation.

The crux of it all was the fact that Carver didn't even care about Prohibition; he didn't care if people enjoyed their bootleg liquor or if Garret was the one who served it to them. No…he had gotten behind a cause that meant nothing to him, merely for the sake of spite.

There was a cold grip on the young man's heart as he trudged his way through the settling gloom. Hopefully it wasn't too late…

The Hanged Man

7:34 PM

Pausing outside the entrance to the bar, Carver looked up at the painted signpost of the Hanged Man. True to its name, there was a rather garishly depicted picture of a man who had been hanged by his feet. The image's hands were tied behind its back, its face red and puffy beneath a high collar. Someone had taken great care to paint the sign, lovingly adding in little details that made the hanged man really pop.

The tavern itself wasn't all that impressive: old wooden doors on an old wooden frame that seemed just as likely to chase a man off as invite him inside. Carver had only been to the bar one other time before, and even then he had only stayed a few minutes to harass Garret with a message from mother. He remembered how Garret had tried to stay patient—Carver could see the effort in the tight lines of the man's bristled jaw—but still he would not relent. Not until the tavern's large, intimidating bouncer had sidled up beside him and asked him to leave in a voice that was equal parts sincerity and danger.

Stepping through the old doors, the first face Carver saw, of course, was that of gruff Aveline standing guard. She glared at him for a long moment and Carver knew that she was trying to place his face with a name.

"I'm Carver," he said, and recognition clicked instantly in those green orbs.

"Indeed." Her glare did not relax a bit. "What do you want?"

"I'm here to see my brother."

Aveline regarded him warily, as if she was trying to determine the integrity of his words. Such a strange, terrifying woman.

"Garret's not here," she said.

Carver blinked. "Not here? Did he go home already?"

"No."

The word rung with such finality that Carver found himself hard-pressed to find the words that he needed.

"Well, um…when will he be back?"

Before Aveline could answer, a lilting voice behind him called out: "Aveline! Stop torturing the poor boy."

Carver turned to the bar where a beautiful, dark-skinned woman stood smiling at him. He felt his cheeks burn when his eyes were instantly drawn to the sloping planes of her cleavage, and he forced himself to focus on her face. The woman beckoned him closer to the bar; Carver offered Aveline an awkward bow—to which she only grunted—before complying.

Taking a seat, Carver found himself still burning as the supple woman leaned over the bar, her breasts on tantalizing display. He tried to focus on the grains of wood in the bar itself, flushing even hotter when the woman laughed.

"Oh, aren't you a cutie? Garret talked about you, but he never mentioned what a doll you are."

A little ways to his right, a pale-haired man snorted. "Don't torment the boy, wench. He's too young for you."

The woman ignored him as she leaned back and grabbed a couple of short glasses. Carver watched her slender hands as she opened a bottle of some dark liquor and poured a finger's depth each into the glasses before sliding one across the bar to him. She raised the second glass and then paused, watching him. Carver merely blinked at her, utterly confused.

"It's customary to share a drink with new acquaintances," she said, smiling.

"Oh…Oh!" Carver quickly lifted his own glass, staring down at the dark liquid within. Still smiling, the woman reached forward to tap her glass to his before downing the drink in one stiff swallow. Carver moved to follow suit, pressing the rim of the glass to his lips and tipping his head back—only to gasp and splutter as the strong liquor burned its way down his throat.

The woman threw back her head and laughed as the man to his right chuckled into the half-full glass of his own drink while Carver coughed up the harsh alcohol.

"First whiskey, I take it?" she asked, a mischievous glint in her dark eyes.

"Y-yes. Sorry."

"Don't worry about it, hun." She pulled another bottle from beneath the bar and filled his glass half-way. "Try this instead. Sip slowly."

Carver obeyed hesitantly, taking only the tiniest of tastes. The liquor was still strong, but did not burn nearly as bad as the whiskey had and it sent the flavor of smooth spices dancing across his tongue. Eagerly, he took a second, larger sip. The woman continued to smile at him.

"Fancy the taste of rum, huh? A man after my own heart."

The pale-haired man snorted again and she continued to ignore him. Carver looked between the pair for a moment before focusing fully on the woman once more.

"So…you know my brother?"

"Indeed I do." She extended a slender hand over the bar towards him. "Isabela."

Carver accepted it awkwardly, not quite sure what he should do. "C-Carver."

Still smiling, Isabela retracted her hand and leaned against the bar. "What brings you to the Hanged Man, Carver? I have a feeling that your brother does not know you are here."

"Actually, I was hoping to speak with my brother. The…woman at the door said that he's not here…"

"That's correct. Your brother is off on business."

"Oh." Carver looked down briefly at his drink then back up at her. "Do you know when he'll be back?"

Isabela shrugged. "I can't say for sure. Maybe tomorrow? Maybe early next week?"

"Oh. I see."

Isabela watched the young Hawke closely as he stared down at his rum. There was a certain similarity to Garret she could detect in young Carver's mannerisms, but at the same time there was something profoundly different about this young man. Something that Isabela couldn't quite put her finger on. Garret hadn't spoken about his brother often, but the few times he had Garret hadn't been able to keep a trace of sorrow out of his voice. He had confided in Isabela about Carver joining a detective agency and briefly she wondered if this wasn't some kind of sting. But she quashed that thought quickly: even those fools wouldn't be so stupid as to go after those dealers in illegal beverages. They were far too busy bashing heads in for pay; what profit would come from destroying a discreet tavern that few cared to see gone?

"Do you have somewhere to stay tonight?" she asked suddenly, causing the boy to jump.

"Um, well, not…exactly."

A runaway, then. Isabela's smile turned warm. "Tell you what, why don't you stay here until your brother gets back? We have plenty of rooms."

Carver stared at her apprehensively. "Are you sure that's ok?"

"I don't see why not. You are family, after all."

"Thank you," he said, offering a nervous smile.

Isabela's generous mood quickly began to darken, however, when she realized something. A sly grin broke out over her lips; catching the look, the pale-haired man groaned.

"Don't taint the boy, wench," he growled.

"Oh, mind your own business, Fen." Turning sly eyes on Carver, she said, "So, this is a night of firsts for you, I gather?"

Carver nodded slowly. "I guess you could say that…"

"Well then, how about one more 'first'?" Not waiting for Carver to reply, Isabela looked past him and waved. He turned just as a young slip of a girl moved to take a seat at the bar beside him, her dress cut just as scandalously low as Isabela's though there was much less breast to reveal.

"Aye?" the girl asked in a heavy Irish accent. "Whot can I do fer ye, Izzie?"

"Merrill, I'd like you to meet Carver. Garret's baby brother."

Before Carver could fully grasp what was happening, Isabela had moved down the bar to stand in front of the pale-haired man, leaving him alone with the young prostitute. Briefly, Carver wondered how it was that his face had yet to burn away completely.

"Garret's brother, indeed?" Merrill turned towards him slightly, a lop-sided smile on her dainty lips. "Well, it's a pleasure t' meet ye."

Carver shook the slim hand she offered. "Y-you too." He gulped nervously. "I…"

Merrill placed a soft finger against his lips, giggling softly. "Dunnae say anot'er word, my dear. Yer safe wit' me."

Author's Note: Honestly, I had wanted Merrill's introduction to be a little more fleshed out, but then Isabela took center stage and the story wrote itself the way it wanted to be read. I have little control over it all…my fingers move across the keyboard of their own volition. Besides, I think I've spent enough time (maybe too much?) on Carver's angst. Should be getting back to Garret and his mishaps next chapter.

As for Leandra: I like her character in-game to an extent, but I also found it a bit cruel the way she always seemed to throw blame at Garret (or Marian) for the death of Carver/Bethany as well as the way she fiercely protected the younger sibling from going into the Deep Roads but was all "Off to risk your life to bring back some gold for the family, then, dear? Well, good luck to you! Anything nice you'd like written on your tombstone?" That might be a little cynical, but this is the way I have always envisioned Leandra.