"When in doubt, make a fool of yourself. There is a microscopically thin line between being brilliantly creative and acting like the most gigantic idiot on earth. So what the hell, leap." -Cynthia Heimel

-O-

Connor looked ready to breathe fire.

After being left to their own devices in Boston, he and Jacqueline had run into an acquaintance of Achilles', a man named Samuel Adams. He had shown them around the freezing city, which now hungered for their blood, and taught them to lower their notoriety. Hours of searching for wanted posters was the worst part, with freezing fingers and noses, and adrenaline being their only fuel against the redcoats that now seemed to swarm the city and make up half its population. Bribing town criers and printing presses was easier. Navigating through stinking, wet, rat-infested tunnels under the city had been the least fun Jacqueline had had all week.

Dealing with Samuel had been a pain her arse as well. She had no problem with the fellow, though he seemed somewhat arrogant and a little condescending toward them. Connor was another matter entirely. She had seen that he had no love toward white men, and she wondered where that stemmed from. It got to the point where at first, he refused to shake Samuel's hand. Although, being Native American, she could see even in their short time in the city a small part of what he had to deal with. An acquaintance of Samuel's had accidentally called him "it."

But now, incognito and basically cleared of all charges, they had returned by boat to the Davenport Homestead. It had been a few days since the massacre they'd gotten tangled in, and Connor was seething.

"Listen, Ratonhnhaké:ton, before you go storming in, maybe you should take a minute to cool down…" Jacqueline trotted to keep up with his irritated pace.

"Why should I?" He asked. His stride didn't even slow.

"I'm sure Achilles' heart was in the right place." She beseeched.

The door to the manor flung open, and she closed it behind them as Connor went on ahead. He checked each room before coming to the last, the sitting room. Achilles was sitting straight up in a chair, waiting for them. A wooden box was on the table next to him. "Welcome back!"

"You left us in Boston!" Connor growled.

"The training we've done here is all well and good, but experience is a better teacher by far." Achilles said sagely.

"And what of my father?"

"Into the wind, I'm afraid."

"We have to find him!" Connor's tone was so venomous that Jacqueline was almost afraid to be near him, like a hot stove would radiate heat.

"And we will. After the house has been repaired."

"But he's out there, planning who knows what!"

"And what would you do when you found him?" The old man asked with a little of his old impatience in his voice. "If you found him? You're a boy with a couple years of training. He's a man, full grown, who's spent decades honing his skills. If you're going to stand a chance against the Templars, you're going to need these."

Achilles held up the box from the table. Connor glared at it before snatching it away. When he opened it, all semblance of aggravation was gone like a bad smell. Inside, lying in soft red satin, were two bracers that contained hidden blades. They were finely crafted, with the Assassin symbol emblazoned on the out-facing side of each.

"Go on, before I change my mind." Achilles waved a hand to Connor, and he couldn't put them on fast enough. Jacqueline helped him, pushing back his sleeves and tightening the admittedly complicated straps. It was a rite of passage of sorts into the Brotherhood, one that she had already undergone as evident by her own bracers.

Once they were on, Connor held out his arms at angles to his body, palms out, to model the new addition to his arsenal. Achilles gave a small nod of approval.

A banging on the window interrupted their mini ritual. A man was there, slamming his fist on the glass. "Help! Help!" Connor walked outside to meet him, Jacqueline not far behind. "You sir, please, help. He's going to die!"

Without any explanation he ran off, and Connor with him. They seemed to be heading toward the river. Torn, Jacqueline hopped back in the house. "Well?" Achilles asked.

"I think they're going to the river." She said. "But I don't know."

"Get after them, then!" He waved his walking stick to make a point. Jacqueline rolled her eyes, but ran out of the house. Connor and the man had made a good swath through the deep snow, but they were way ahead of her. Beavers scattered from the trail as she tore by. Snow sprinkled on her from the tree branches when wind kicked up. The sound of the river rushing was like a flock of birds taking flight. As she got closer, she could hear faint wails of panic and uneven splashes. Bursting from the line of trees, she caught a glimpse of Connor hauling arse down the river's shore, through fallen trees and over slippery rocks a few feet into the water. Floating downstream a little ahead of him was a man clinging desperately to a log, holding on for dear life.

The man from earlier was jogging after Connor, and Jacqueline caught up to him. "What's going on?" She asked loudly over the rushing water.

"Yer friend there's saving Terry from drownin'!" He cried back, pointing. He had an atrocious Scottish accent.

Even as they watched, Terry's log got caught on some brambles at the end of the river, and Connor dove into the water as he slipped off and into the current. Jacqueline and the man ran to rendezvous with them, and reached shore in time to help Connor drag Terry onto dry land. The former fell back with an exhausted gasp, soaking to the bone. Jacqueline knelt by him and helped him to his feet.

Terry coughed up an absurd amount of water onto the snow, unable even to speak. "What this nob-end's tryin' to say is, he's forever in your debt, sir." The other man said gratefully.

"Who you callin' a nob-end?" Terry managed to get out, waving his arms dazedly above him. He also had a strong accent.

"You, 'cause you are one."

"What were you doing on those logs?" Connor asked, getting his breath back.

"One of the danger's o' lumbering. We got a camp set up a few rods off o' here, as we're cuttin' timber. We're hoping to open a mill in the area."

"There's a good place not far from the manor on the hill where we're staying." Connor pointed in a general direction.

"Ha, I like you already. We'll have a look." The man tapped Terry to get his attention, now standing and wiping water from his rust-coloured beard, and they went off up the trail.

Jacqueline gave Connor's arm a harmless smack as they set of toward the manor. "Next time, try not to go running off."

He smirked and gave her a little push back. They wound their way up to the manor, and it seemed that the lumberjacks were more industrious than first glance. By the time they reached the hill, Achilles was standing outside, observing the work of their new neighbors. Logs were being sawed, nails hammered in, short yells were being snapped to warn others of wood being moved.

"I'll miss the peace and quiet, but we can certainly use the wood." Achilles sighed.

"The manor needs a lot of work." Connor agreed.

"That and other things," The old man said cryptically. "Both of you, meet me by the small shack by the shore when you have time. There's something else you need to see."

"Which would be?" Jacqueline asked.

"An…asset." He answered simply, already hobbling away.

-o-

Connor and Jacqueline looked over the edge of the cliff and at the water below. The wreck of a ship was floating in the bay. The cliff was carved away in such a manner that where they were standing, at the very top, was the furthest point out. It curved inward from there, leaving only deep water below. On the opposite shore, a small shack sat among the trees, and a gangplank led to an old wharf that may have once docked the wrecked ship.

"He doesn't honestly expect us to go down there. Does he?" Jacqueline asked the question without expecting an answer.

"I think he does…" Connor muttered.

"How are we supposed to get down?"

"We could go the long way." He pointed out the long, far curve of land around the bay. "That is probably the only way to go."

Jacqueline felt a hand on her shoulder tauntingly push her forward, and she instinctively flinched away from the sharp, long fall that waited. Looking to the grinning Connor, she did the same, a small push that was just a little more forceful. He also started, stepping away. The dare game went on for a few minutes, each of them pushing the other slightly closer, laughing when the other would flinch. Eventually they were standing right at the edge, dangerously close. Jacqueline nudged Connor forward, and he pushed her back with a little more force than usual. It would have been fine, but her foot slipped in the snowy grass when she jumped back. She fell back hard, landing on her bum, and skid forward on the grass that grew forward to the edge. Her nails tore at the grass, her feet hanging off the edge already. And before either of them could react much further, she promptly slipped off the edge.

Her breath caught as adrenaline exploded in her veins. A little cry of pure fear squeaked from her as she fell, and it was snapped away on the wind. Her arms flailed helplessly through the air, and right before she hit the water she managed to get herself straightened out to a half streamlined position. There was a split second of utter silence before she struck the black water.

It was freezing, freezing cold. There was a distinct possibility she even broke a thin sheet of ice. The water was dark, and she swam to the surface—she had plunged a good thirty feet under. Gasping in the cold air, she wiped her hair out of her face. It had come out of its braid upon hitting the water, and now sat heavy and dark on her shoulders.

Seeing nothing better to do, she started swimming to the other shore. Every nerve in her body stung; she had hit the water a little sloppily in her panic. On the plus side, she felt very alive. Her heart was pumping like mad—her blood was fire. Across the cold bay she drifted, making a straight beeline for shore. The white of her robes and the black of her hair contrasted like yin and yang in her wake.

It took her a while to actually reach shore. The bay was deceptively large. She passed by the shipwreck on her way, at one point close enough to the hull so that she could actually reach out and touch it. The ship was a corpse, absolutely destroyed. It was gutted, headless and deader than a skeleton. The paint had long since worn away, and the old wood was all varying shades of gray. One of the masts had broken in half, and drifted at an angle in the water. It wasn't frightening, like it was haunted. More that it gave her a nostalgic feeling. It must have been a fine vessel in its prime.

As she reached shore, her legs almost gave out. Through sheer willpower she stayed standing, and took off her boots one by one to dump salty water out. Her hair dripped in her eyes, and she pulled it all to one side of her neck. Footsteps made her look up to see a stricken Connor. He stared at her; she watched back, and finally settled on a glare. He got the message instantly—he was about to get his arse kicked.

He turned on his heel and ran toward the shack. She sprinted after him. He may have been stronger, but she was faster, and caught up with him easily. Throwing her whole body weight forward, she tackled him into a deep drift of snow and fallen pine needles.

"Argh, Ratonhnhaké:ton!" She slapped his shoulders as he twisted around so he wasn't facedown in the snow. "I could absolutely kill you!" She continued her rant in angry French, mussing his hair and pinching his nose.

"I did not mean to!" He protested, trying in vain to wave her off. "You think I wanted to push you off? You could have died!"

"If I had died, then Achilles would have killed you and hung your head on the mantle!"

"Well, I am glad you survived, then!" He pushed her off into the snow and fixed his hair with his fingers. She glowered at him from where she sat, half buried. He held out his hand, which she grudgingly took.

As she got to her feet, she brushed the snow off of her clothes. Then, before they could start walking, she kicked him hard in the shin and went running off. "Achilles! Achilles!" She rounded the line of trees and saw their mentor standing outside the small shack. "Achilles, Connor pushed me off a cliff!"

"I did not mean to." Connor insisted, limping around to them.

"Both of you shut up." Achilles snapped. He threw out his cane to smack Jacqueline in the gut. "No one likes a tattle-tale." The cane then went to crack Connor on the shoulder. "Don't throw people off cliffs. Now apologise."

This was a ritual they had gone through a number of times during training when something like that happened. They both muttered apologies for their respective crimes and shook hands.

"Good. Now," Achilles held out his hand to the shack door. "How do you say it, Jacqueline? Entré vous?"