Chapter 5: Leaving Tonight

I do not own Assassin's Creed 3 characters. I do own MaryLynn, Madame, and The Maverick brothel.

The lyrics provided in this chapter are from the song, "Down in the Meadow," as performed by Marilyn Monroe.

Italics: Same meaning as usual. Native tongues and memories.

There's a path running under the city

Where the stones and the hills divide

There's a path we can walk through the loss and the pity

She's out of the light, she thought it'd be safer

She said I wanna go home

Eyes turn grey like her face in the paper

She said I wanna go home

-"Leaving Tonight" by The Birthday Massacre

One Month and a Half Later

"Ow…Ooww…Ouch! Why must you be so rough?"

"I'm not rough, dearie. These damn waves of yours are thick! Now, if you wan' me to cut your hair all nice, you'll 'ave to le' me brush it out smooth first! Now stay still, ya little-"

MaryLynn sat upon a wooden stool in the kitchen while Madame stood behind, trying to brush through the hot mess of hair upon the younger woman's head. The one night she does not brush out her hair before sleep…

Once every two months, the Scottish woman would cut her best girl's hair as per request. Madame was not one to do too many favors for her girls, but something as maternal and simple as brushing another person's hair seemed to please her. She never had children, losing potential offspring to miscarriages. Unfortunately, women frequently experienced a few miscarriages before bearing an infant that, thankfully, survives. Sometimes, even the mother would not make it through the delivery. It was not meant to be.

And yet, a gaping hole in the older woman's heart still remained. Assisting in motherly tasks for her girls (menses, unexpected pregnancies, men trouble, etc.) gave her a quiet sense of purpose that she could not savor from a blood-child. Of course, the reserved Madame would never tell of this. She preferred her emotions to be kept in check and hidden, deeming it "not good for business and all."

Smoothing out the pale golden hair in one pudgy hand, Madame reaches over with her unoccupied hand for a pair of scissors lying nearby on the wooden counter.

"Cut jus' where your neck starts, righ'?" the older woman wanted to confirm before snipping away two inches of hair.

"Yes. I swear, the moment my hair is long enough, men like to pull on it during a session. I don't understand it, Madame. It doesn't feel good; it hurts! I pull their hair back in retaliation, but they seem to like it instead!"

The older woman chuckles aloud, trying to settle down in order to concentrate on cutting hair. Her big red curls were loose, framing her round, flushed face.

"It's instinct, I presume," mumbled Madame, snip, snip, snipping away at the golden hair.

"Well, short hair seems to detract them. Besides, I quite like it short. I don't really care for the longer hairstyle that women fancy these days. Let them stare at me like a baffoon; I prefer my hair short and neat. It doesn't get in my way as much."

"Wha'ever makes you happy. Good thinkin' on the 'short hair' bit. If it works, it works."

After a few minutes of the crisp sounds of twin blades cutting away dead ends of hair, all was finished. Madame brushed away clumps of strands from MaryLynn's shoulders with a rag, tapping her shoulder twice to signify that she was done.

"Thank you," said the blonde woman, smiling as she combed her fingers through her now shorter hair.

"Anytime, dearie," sighed Madame, brushing away her red curls from her perspiring forehead.

Just as MaryLynn was about to stand up and leave the kitchen, Madame had halted her with a whistle.

" 'ey, don' leave yet. I wan' a word with you."

MaryLynn turned to face the older woman, who was discarding the clumps of blonde hair into a waste bin. 'Why does she insist on using that tone with me? I am twenty five years old, not a child! Besides, I have not fallen behind in business. What could-' Her speculations were interrupted with a blunt statement from the seemingly omniscient older woman.

"I know tha' Native man has been comin' here. The one in tha' long white coat."

MaryLynn neither denied nor attested to this statement. Smoothing out a minor wrinkle or two in her maroon skirt, she awaited more words.

"Wha', you're not goin' to say anythin'? I don' care what you do in tha' bedroom of yours, but if he is-"

"He is not seeking me out for sex, Madame," MaryLynn spoke up, rubbing her chest where the crucifix hid beneath her blouse. "We have done no such thing. He is not a threat, and he only comes through the window because he respects your rules."

"If he respected my rules, he would not be botherin' one o' my girls."

"Connor is my friend, Madame."

"So he has a name..."

Blue eyes widened, shapely brows knit in a flustered expression.

"Of course he has a name! I don't like this antagonistic tone, and I don't like you insinuating that he bears malicious intent."

"Well, I'm sorry if my 'tone' is unpleasan', but you'll 'ave to deal with it, now won' you."

"What exactly are you trying to say about him, hmm? He hasn't been here in a month, so if something has happened, do not blame him."

A month and a half. Six weeks. She did not wish to dwell on the thought of Connor's absence. Men came and went; it was not something that she was unaccustomed to. Still, that tapping at her window...Sometimes she imagined that he had tapped at her window, expecting to see a dark figure behind the glass. No such thing awaited her when MaryLynn would look. Just her imagination..

No matter. Yes, no matter. A man was a man. He had business to attend to, that is all. 'Then why does this bother me on some level? I guess I just miss the one friend that I honestly talk to. I hope he is alright. I hope he is alive.'

"Nothin' has happened," Madame answered to the younger woman's sass, snapping her back to reality. "Now shut your pretty mouth and le' me speak."

MaryLynn bit into her lower lip to silence herself. Collecting herself from losing her patience, Madame spoke in a firm voice, her eyelids heavy hooded.

"Friend or not, he is still a man. Even women of our business can fancy a man from time to time. However, when I got a good look at tha' man, I saw tha' he was of the troubled sort."

"He's harmless!" she protested, her emotions for the Native assassin peeking through.

"I said he was troubled, not capable of trouble. It wasn' the weapons strapped to his waist that tol' me this, but the hard look in his eyes. He's a Man of War, MaryLynn."

Madame leaned her elbow atop the wooden counter, collecting her words carefully so that the younger woman could understand the experience she was about to reveal to her. Perhaps this maternal moment was not one of Madame's personal favorites.

"They all 'ave tha' hard look, them fighters. I don' care wha' color their skin is or wha' land they were born on. All Men of War have tha' same haunting look abou' them. These men don' last long when a woman is of concern. I'm simply warnin' you: should you decide that you start somethin' with this man, don' expect it to be smooth sailin'."

"I'm not in love with him," MaryLynn quickly denied the presumption, her eyes drifting away. "He's a lovely man, and he is my friend. In fact, he's the boy I met a few years ago during the massacre."

"Wait…Tha' boy shaking in his bear skins? Tha' same boy? You said he was an adolescen' when you tol' me abou' him. Christ, wha' three years can do to a boy! He grew into the size of a bear!"

"Yes, well, he's rather built in stature. I was shocked too when I saw him for the first time since that day."

Madame was not a woman to be easily fooled. The soft look in the blonde woman's blue eyes failed to hide the quiet affection she had for this "Connor" fellow. She had said that she was not in love with him, but there was indeed a little spark that was ignited. Rubbing her eyes, the older woman mulled over her next sentence, about to share a part of herself that had been long buried.

"Well, if you do fall for him, dearie, be careful. War can be a man's spouse, while the woman he loves serves as his mistress. One overcomes the other sometimes, and there's no doubt in my mind tha' these rebels are goin' to start a war to bring down the Crown. These colonies seem to attract the bloodiest of messes ever since I first came here in the 1750's."

Looking away, Madame clears her throat, stifling any emotion to peak through from her past. Her small brown eyes drifted to the rag that lay abandoned on the counter. She took hold of the old thing, rubbing it between her pudgy palms.

"Jus' be careful, MaryLynn. He migh' be a good friend, but probably won' be a good husband."

'How bizarre,' thought MaryLynn. 'Madame never speaks to me like this. I've always wondered about her history. Am I seeing a new side to her?' The blonde woman wrung her hands, feeling nervous to ask questions. However, having known the older woman for years, having been taken care of by this woman...she just had to ask:

"Madame…d-did you love someone who fought in war?"

The older woman's rubbing of the rag had slowed down, her eyes still avoiding MaryLynn. She ran her tongue over her teeth, appearing to be overcome with recollections flashing before her dark eyes.

"It's not importan', MaryLynn," she finally said, dismissing the rag by throwing it aside. "Now, go off to the market with Emmaline. I'm out of potatoes, and I'm cravin' them like whiskey these days."

"Yes, Madame," said the younger woman, respecting her wish for privacy.

An unsettling knot in her stomach pestered MaryLynn as she ran off to complete her chores. 'Am I going to end up alone in this life? Am I going to end up like Madame? What happened to the man she loved?' She sighed aloud, shaking her head. 'Gosh, I hate thinking about the future. The unknown is the most dreadful monster I can possibly fear..'

Rotating his shoulder to ease the ache, Connor stepped onto the narrow dirt path that led to the city of Boston. His previous mission on the Aquila had taken longer than expected, having been gone for more than a month, he presumed. The Caribbean Sea was a beauty from afar, the water a deep shade of cerulean mystique. However, the sights could not be properly appreciated with the chasing of ships withholding stolen cargo along the islands. The winds were not too kind either, and steering the Aquila was harder than usual. He groaned aloud as he felt a "pop" in shoulder, hoping it would relieve the tension. 'I'll stretch later. Maybe after my meeting with Sam and Stephane.'

It was wise to check in with his allies from time to time. There was Templar activity going about in Quebec, and sending off Stephane alone would not be the best tactic without sending backup. Luckily, Connor's concerns were relieved not too long ago today.

Earlier this morning, he had recruited a young man named Clipper Wilkinson, who proved himself to be a valuable asset to the Assassin Order. Having heard of Connor's successes in stunting British oppression, Clipper had sought out the Native assassin to cease the recruiting of unwilling men and boys to fight in the British army. Some of these men had willingly joined due to their siding with the Loyalist movement, so this was not an issue. Others, however, were not willing to fight for their oppressors. This unfortunately had led to impromptu executions right then and there, on the streets, for all to see and cower in fear.

Clipper, nineteen years of age (same as Connor), was against the Loyalist movement, despite his family's siding with this movement. Having eliminated the conscription agents with Connor in the southern distinct, Clipper had extended his gratitude by identifying the British officer who was responsible for the conscription and assembling of men to be recruited into the British Army. Working together as a team, the two young men assassinated the said officer. Clipper's marksmanship skills had served as a valuable asset to the liberty mission.

Connor was quite impressed, to say the least. Clipper's dark eyes glistened with excitement and gratitude over the deed they had both executed.

"I am in your debt, Connor," said the young man breathlessly, wiping away perspiration from his forehead with the back of his sleeve. "Anything you need, you ask of me."

Quickly mulling over the compatibility of Clipper's expertise with Stephane's, he decided to extend an invitation to join the Brotherhood.

"I would be honored to have you as a part of the Assassins' Order. We seek to eliminate the Templars, a group of men who have a hand in this oppression you experience with the British. Do you accept this invitation?"

"Yes, yes! Anything to right the wrong in this city. Hell, anything to right the wrong in all these damn colonies. Thank you!"

Clipper, unaware of Connor's touch aversion, had grabbed his left hand and shook it enthusiastically. Caught off guard by the young man's excitement, the Native assassin was not sure how to receive the gesture. However, he slowly shook the young man's hand in return. He nodded, quietly appreciating Clipper's gratitude.

"Good. Your skills will be needed, and you have proven this. We will keep in touch. I have another recruit living here in Boston. Perhaps you know him.

Returning to the present moment, Connor had entered Stephane's quiet tavern, a little abashed to find two unfamiliar faces sitting at the bar with Sam. The statesman's dark eyes, framed with crinkles of laughter, captured sight of Connor's arrival, waving his hand for him to come closer.

"Connor! Perfect timing. I'd like you meet a couple of 'like-minded' men, if you will."

The greeting was rather awkward. The unknown men did not expect a Native man to be fighting alongside them, but seemed to accept him nonetheless. Connor resorted to his infamous nodding of acknowledgement. It was a favorable gesture of his, not having to say a word and yet the gesture communicated enough without speaking.

"Connor!" Stephane called out in a thick French accent from the kitchen, making his way out with a rag in hand. "So you've returned, mon ami. I have been receiving information in secrecy on the whereabouts in Quebec."

"I am glad to hear this. I have a new recruit to aid you in missions over in Quebec. His marksmanship skills are very good, and he will serve you well. I have given him your information, so I hope it is alright that he arrives sometime soon to learn from you."

"Excellent. I look forward to meeting him."

Business talk progressed amongst the gentlemen. William Johnson's whereabouts were under the radar as of now. However, there was still some activity detected near lands where Iroquois tribes resided. Were secret meetings being held? Had the man progressed in his efforts to purchase lands that did not belong to him? Connor picked away at his leather gloves, his eyebrows knitting tightly over the thought of this man's incessant need to thieve precious homes from his people. It was not welcomed at all.

Sam's information gathering on Johnson was spot on. He had kept his promise to Connor, after the Boston Tea Party, to keep track of William Johnson. Little by little, the statesman was gaining Connor's trust. And yet, the young man was still hesitant to fully accept him as an ally, as a friend. The dreaded nipping away of "what if" scenarios never seemed to leave his mind. In truth, he trusted no one. However, in this upcoming war, he had to gain allies or fight the masses alone. It was business, and it should be kept business.

Once the meeting was adjourned, Connor had pulled aside Sam for a moment, choosing his words carefully. The pair of men stood before a long window, the afternoon sun peeking in on their hushed conversation.

"Sam, I must ask you something," he spoke quietly.

"Yes, Connor, anything. What is it?"

"Where is King's Chapel located?"

"Oh, King's Chapel. Luckily, it is not too far from here. Once you step out of Stephane's tavern, you…Erm, may I ask why you wish to know? I don't think your people practice Christianity, unless my ignorance has just embarrassed me, ha ha."

"No, my people do not practice your religion. However, I am asking for the location of this religious place because I have a friend that wishes to visit."

"A friend? Do I know this friend?"

Connor looks away with hesitance, focusing on the faint dust particles dancing the sunlight. He crosses his arms before his broad chest, clearing his throat. He shrugs his shoulders slightly, the only response he could muster.

"Aahh, I see," chuckled Sam, finding the young man's reluctance amusing. "Alright, alright, I won't ask for her name. Just remember that King's Chapel is a place of worship. Even though sermons have not been conducted in that chapel for years, it is still a sanctuary."

"I understand. I would never desecrate a place such as this," Connor affirmed this, his arms uncrossing and his gaze firm.

"I know you wouldn't Connor. You are too noble and disciplined to be a thoughtless young man."

Noble and disciplined. Those words seemed to echo in Connor's mind, over and over. They were favorable adjectives, the sort of adjectives he was not accustomed to hearing from colonials. "Savage" was a common racial slur had he learned to brush off. However, to hear Sam compliment him, and to keep his promise just as he had said he would, Connor felt just a little…secure.

"..Thank you, Samuel," murmured the Native assassin, looking the older man dead in the eye.

To the outsider, these manners were expected. To the ones who knew Connor a little better, this was a big step for him, for he began to learn to trust, to show an iota of his vulnerability. However, he quickly withdrew from the moment, bidding goodbye to the group of gentlemen as he exited the tavern.

"What was that about King's Chapel?" asked Stephane, his hearing as sharp as a dagger.

"You listened in, you nosey bastard?" Sam asked with a loud laugh.

"I am a keeper of a tavern. My ears and eyes are everywhere. Fear me!" joked the Frenchman, making his way around the dark wood bar to stand across from where Sam had stood.

"Connor was curious over where King's Chapel was located. For a 'friend,' he had said. He seemed introverted over the mentioning of whom this friend was."

Stephane snorted at the observation, his beady black eyes narrowed with mischief.

"Une femme. A woman."

"Exactly."

"I have heard of taking a woman to a nice tavern, or perhaps to a theater exhibition, but a chapel? He's an odd young man. Acts much too old for his age."

"Can you blame him? He is dead set on fighting an oppressing organization. That can age a man very much, my friend."

"Ahh. That is a recipe for a drinking problem, I'm afraid."

"Speaking from experience, ol' boy?"

"Tais toi! Shut up!"

"Old lady black bird

Flirts with the scarecrow

The scarecrow's waving at the moon

Old Mr. Moon makes

Hearts everywhere go

Bump…Bump…

With the magic of June.."

A month away from her velvety voice felt like an eternity to Connor as he sat atop the same wooden awning. His awning. As odd as this was, having been MaryLynn's dear friend for months, Connor still enjoyed the secrecy of listening to her sing. If he was alone to listen in, it was as if she sang just for him, only him. The inner child within him wanted to keep her a secret like a wonderful dream that would disappear if set free.

Each time Connor heard this particular song, the rare mercy of Time had pulled the Native assassin's consciousness away and into the moments where he was just a little boy, roaming around in the woods like a proud lion cub. He was curious, not easily startled, and never failed to read the clues nature left behind to lead him home to his village. MaryLynn's voice brought him into the tall grass of the deeper woods, rustling about fallen leaves and broken twigs. He could feel the sun's embrace around his little body, the spirits guarding him like sentinels running after their little prince. All was peaceful. All was secure. Ista (Mother) was still alive, calling him home after staying in the woods longer than he was permitted.

The song ended with the rumble of men shouting and clapping. Connor was thieved of his peaceful memories and dropped back into his nineteen-year-old athletic body, realizing Time had ended this extension of mercy. Sighing aloud, he pulled the pointed lip of his white hood further over his eyes just before jumping down to the cobblestone streets. MaryLynn was due to be finished with her singing routine at the Green Dragon Tavern. He intended to meet her unexpectedly in her bedroom, just as he usually did before leaving for the naval mission.

Swiftly navigating the back roads of the alley, he easily located The Maverick and began scaling the wall of the right side. Up to the blonde woman's window he went, passing it as he reached the roof. Connor planned to locate MaryLynn leaving the tavern and entering The Maverick before awaiting her at the bedroom window. No use in hanging by the window's ledge like an empty headed fool.

Ten minutes passed by before Connor spotted a woman leaving the Green Dragon Tavern, a black handkerchief scarf wrapped around her head. Frizzed locks of pale gold poked through the scarf, alluding to her identity. Once MaryLynn entered the brothel safely, Connor began to make his way down the brick wall and to her window. It was not too long before she had entered her bedroom, locating a matchbox on her nightstand to light a couple of candles. Once she did so, a golden glow illuminated the room. THe blonde woman looked up to find a dark, undistinguishable figure at her window.

"Dear Jesus!" she yelped aloud, grabbing the material of her bodice in a small fist.

MaryLynn heard the dark figure shyly knock three times with the back of his knuckles. Sighing softly, she recognized those knocks immediately. Partially relieved, partially excited to see her dear friend, MaryLynn rushed to the window to unhook the lock, opening the window panes to find a white hood, a pair of full lips, and dark copper skin that glowed every time he stepped into the ethereal candlelight.

"Connor, it's you," she breathed, her voice barely there.

Her pale hands remained on the window panes, her eyes wide as she slowly imbibed the pleasant sight of the Native assassin at her window after having disappeared for a month.

"MaryLynn?" Connor was befuddled over her lack of attention. "May I come in or am I not permitted?"

"Oh! Oh, I'm sorry. I lost my focus for a moment. You're always permitted to come in."

The blonde woman steps back to grant Connor space to step in. He brings the subtle warmth of the spring night with him as his heavy feet make contact with the wood paneled floor. His nervous eyes look to her own pair, glittering in his direction. He felt his nervous tension increase over the woman's warm smile. He knew he hadn't visited her in a while, and he had felt guilt despite the importance of his missions. Connor began to rub the back of his head, attempting to collect his words.

Folding her hands before her stomach, MaryLynn knew him well enough that when the Native assassin took more than a moment to speak, he was trying his best to muster up the words. She patiently awaited his deep voice. Ceasing the rubbing his head, Connor squared his broad shoulders and his hands dropped to his sides.

"I…I have not been a good friend to you recently."

"Connor, I'm not offended-"

"Please. Allow me to finish."

She remained silent, surprised by his urgency to speak. He usually preferred to be the recipient of the conversation, not the initiator.

"Our last meeting ended in an awkward manner. I did not intend to upset you. I have been on a naval mission since then, and have returned about two days ago. I wish to redeem myself for this absence, MaryLynn."

His hands had left his sides, his palms facing the woman as they spread out before him.

"I wish to take you to King's Chapel."

"Wh-what?" she stuttered, her folded hands coming undone as her lips parted in surprise. "I-I-I don't know.."

'No, no, not the panic. This is just a surprise, not a threat. No one even goes to the chapel anymore. Those women won't be there. Relax, for Christ's sake.' She turns away from Connor with her thoughts. The last time she had visited King's Chapel she had left upset, embarrassed. Laughter. Whispering. All about her.

She did not wish to remember at the moment. Her mind shooed away the unpleasant recollections.

"What is wrong?" Connor asks. "You had told me once that you wished to return to King's Chapel. I can take you there."

"I-I understand. Be patient with me, please. It's just been so long and I did not expect this."

He nodded, hoping that she would accept his surprise offering. He watched as MaryLynn made her way to the wooden desk where her trinkets and looking glass lay. Déjà vu, as Stephane would say. This moment had occurred once before.

Peering down at the looking glass, the blonde woman came to meet the shy girl that returned the gaze. An index finger traced the outline of the looking glass, mulling over the offer. It had been about ten years since that dreadful day she stood at the entrance of King's Chapel. That woman and her husband were long gone. The woman had deemed a young MaryLynn to be a harlot to the women in her social circle, when it was, in actuality, her husband who had laid his greedy hands upon the adolescent girl without consent.

MaryLynn growled at the thought, shaking her head.

Enough.

That woman was a twat! Who was she to judge her for something she did not commit? The woman once took care of the orphaned MaryLynn as if she were a daughter, her husband having brought her in from the chapel. However, her warm touch quickly became a cold slap in the face when her husband claimed, "This girl is trouble, my love." There was no way that woman was going to affect MaryLynn ten years later. Not like this. Not when she was the one who had done nothing wrong.

"Not tonight," she firmly whispered to herself, the recollection of the women's soft laughter in the back pew of the chapel fading in the background. "Not tonight" was the golden statement to rescue her from a potential panic episode.

"I understand," said Connor, disappointment softening his voice.

"No! I did not mean you, Connor. I was thinking out loud concerning something else."

Like a child, his eyes widened with relief at her words. The blonde woman tightened the black handkerchief scarf around her head and neck, a look of determination jutting her chin out and firming her gaze towards Connor.

"Well? Shall we?" she spoke in a clear voice, differing from the withdrawn, breathy voice from before.

Connor fought to stifle a smile from gracing his lips. He hid the expression by pretending to scratch the bridge of his nose.

"We may have to take an alternate route to the chapel," he had informed, a stoic expression chasing away the quiet glee in his eyes.

"An alternate route?" MaryLynn reiterated, raising her eyebrows. "What do you mean?"

"Umm…It is better if I show you this rather than tell you," he advised, a subtle smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

The Native assassin came close to giving up on trying to hide his happiness in front of the blonde woman in this moment. Oh so temptingly close.

The Boston streets at night were not the wisest way of travel. Patrols of red coats were tighter at night, believe it or not, in case rebels skittered about in secrecy to locate their next meeting place. With the slaughtering of red coats and taxman over the past several months, security in the city became tighter. This information only made Connor smirk. This was an opportunity to make use of the Freemason Tunnels. He hadn't visited these underground tunnels since he was fifteen years old. Sam Adams had introduced him to the location on becoming incognito after being chased by red coats during the Boston Massacre.

Navigating through the alleyways, Connor would advance on the balls of his feet to certain corners, motioning for MaryLynn to follow his movements. Holding her hand might have made this situation easier, but the thought did not cross his mind. He often worked alone, and usually an ally held their own during missions. Even if the idea had came to Connor, he would rather hide away in a haystack. The warmth of her skin both intimidated and intrigued him, but, nonetheless, it was better to not touch his friend. The line had to be drawn, especially if his time was inconsistent. She deserved a man's full attention, anyway. At least Connor thought so. One personal touch, and he would be drawn in to her allure. It was too nice to risk when it was only meant to leave him with cold, empty hands. The Native assassin's heart was not ready to open.

The pair had arrived at the entrance of the underground tunnels, avoiding the patrol of four red coats positioned in front of the building. In the back area of the said building were the slanted rickety doors of the entrance to the tunnels. Illegible messages had been carved into the deteriorating wood, the words sloppy and hardly carved in a straight line. MaryLynn began to finger the beads of her rosary as she watched Connor quietly open the doors wide. The color in her face drained away as her gaze lingered on the darkness that lurked past those doors.

"What's down there?" she asked, grasping the onyx beads for comfort.

"Underground tunnels. They lead to numerous areas of Boston. It is meant for clandestine travel, away from peering eyes."

The darkness lurking about in the unknown was unsettling. Usually, the dark meant danger, where a monster awaited to latch on and harm her. In MaryLynn's case, the darkness of an alleyway had always alerted her of the possible dangers hiding in the corners.

"Do not be frightened," Connor assured the woman, softening the tone of his voice. "I have been down there before. Nothing will hurt you."

She exhaled deeply just before agreeing.

"Alright. If you say so."

"Believe me, these tunnels are safer for you and I to reach the chapel undetected. There are red coats patrolling about during the night, and we have a better chance of accessing King's Chapel through these underground pathways."

"Will you promise me that you won't lose me?"

Connor withheld a meaningful gaze with her wide eyes, seeing that her fist clenched her rosary out of habit.

"You have my word," he spoke firmly, his eyebrows rising in a comforting expression.

He motioned with his hand to follow him as he stepped down into the pit of darkness. There were steps that she could not see. She decided to trust his words, and slowly stepped down onto the first step. Once she reached the second to last step, Connor had rushed back up the steps to close the rickety entrance doors.

Darkness.

Nothing could possibly be seen.

"C-Connor?" MaryLynn stuttered, her fist tightening its hold. "I want t-to go home."

"I am still here," came the deep voice she had grown to feel secure when hearing it.

His voice came from the right side of where she stood. Within a few seconds, a lantern was lit. Connor had held the lantern at shoulder height as he looked to the startled woman. Was she shaking? It amazed him how MaryLynn could be a woman one moment, and a little girl the next. She was an odyssey at times.

Connor's face was illuminated in a deep golden glow. The fear she experienced when looking into the darkness of the tunnels had dissipated once he stepped up to her, bringing the glow of the lantern's light with him. The blonde woman was now bathed in the golden light as she looked up to his face. The shadows had exaggerated the hollow of his cheeks and the deep set eyes that stared down upon her.

"There you are," MaryLynn exhaled aloud, her hand leaving the onyx beads of her rosary.

Connor cleared his throat, looking away from the dancing fire that reflected in her glistening eyes.

"Stay close," he advised curtly, walking away from MaryLynn. "Oh, and do not be alarmed if you see rats down here."

"Rats? You did not tell me there would be rats down here! Uugghh. Pesky little bastards..."

Author's Note: Hello everyone. Once again, thank you for your patience. I am still training and getting used to my second job (how's a 4:45 a.m. shift sound? :P), but I am writing here and there. More information on MaryLynn's memory of the women laughing at her in the chapel will become more clear in the next chapter. I kept it brief because I plan on ML telling Connor this story. The woman is the wife of the man who found a young ML in King's Chapel and brought her home to take care of (as mentioned in the Introduction of this story). No worries, as I said, it will be clear next chapter.

Thank you from the bottom of my heart for all of your support. I appreciate you all very much for your time and am happy to hear you are enjoying this story. Again, I am sorry if I have not been PMing as I usually did before, so I hope a general "Thank You!" and "I love you!" is alright.

Have a lovely week!

~take care