Chapter 1:2

1766, September 3rd

A flash of recognition lighted his dark eyes. He gave me a nod before turning away his gaze and spurred the horse into a trot. I wanted to respond to him, maybe wink or say something, but bit back every possible greeting and just stared paralyzed at him. The day was warm but he wore the same blue coat and hat as last time we met. He was a much striking man, with his demeanor and proud way of speaking to one. People watched him in awe as he strode up on the street and disappeared around a corner. But he gave me one last glance before vanishing from my view.

"Mr. Kenway…" I whispered.

"Do you know that man?"

I turned to Alex, suddenly feeling shy, and awkwardly looked at my feet.

"I can't exactly say that I know him, it's just that…" I paused and tried to find something fitting to say. "His name is Haytham Ken—"

"I know," Alex interrupted and he had a strange look in his gray-greenish eyes. "Everyone knows who heis."

I couldn't help feeling offended. Why does he sound so jaundiced?

"What do you mean?" I asked when we hurried over the street. "I heard he saved the slaves and killed both Silas Thatcher and Edward Braddock. He helped us all when he got rid of those two spiteful men."

Alex grabbed my arm and hindered me from entering the baker's store. His otherwise so playful eyes were oddly serious.

"He only did those things because it helped him in some way," he replied with a low voice, examining a nearby passing group of soldiers. "I heard for a couple of years ago that he let burned down villages in Mohawk Valley. The Natives were furious with him and protested but he quickly quenched their voices as well."

I couldn't believe what Alex was telling me. Would Mr. Kenway really do something that cruel?

"What's your point, Alex?" I hissed. You don't know him as well as I do. And I know he's not a man who saves a little girl after having killed a whole tribe. He's not that cold-hearted.

Alex sighed, realizing I no longer wanted to listen what he had to say.

"I just want you to be careful around him. He's not as good as they want you to believe."

"And who are these 'they'?" I asked, knowing his answer. "Are 'they' us British?"

He shook his head and the grip around my arm tightened.

"You know I don't care that you are from England. We all originally are. Or most of us at least." He quickly added.

"But you can't say the same for the 'redcoats', right?" I gestured towards the street, pointing at another patrol. "These soldiers aren't the same as 'American', right?"

Alex hushed at me, putting his other hand on my mouth.

"Not so loud," he whispered. "You know that people are angry. We're at the brink of a civil war. Many people might die, maybe your aunt, maybe my parents. Maybe even you."

I had never seen such a soft side from Alex and I didn't know how to reply. Even though I was merely six years of age, I knew the dire consequences a war would result in. Too many innocent human lives would be in danger and possibly wiped out in just one day. I was a good pupil in school and history was my favorite subject, thus I was very well educated in that. Not so much in math though. A war would be the last option the British wanted to choose. I know that.

"Hey, are you alright?" His words mirrored what I had heard in the beginning of the summer, from Haytham Kenway. Images suddenly blurred past my closed eyes, images of my burning home and the screaming of my sister. Assassins.

"I'm fine, thank you," I replied and entered the store. The smell of freshly baked bread hit me like a cannon shot. "Do you have any proposals?" I continued and swept my arm over everything from yellow-crusted croissants, long baguettes to dark loaf and light rolls.

Alex smiled slyly and rubbed his chin.

"Give me a minute and I'll find something excellent for you, mademoiselle."

I raised my eyebrows at him and crossed my arms, but couldn't stop myself from grinning back.

"Why do you even try to talk French?" I asked and shook my head when he questioningly held up a blueberry-muffin. "You're pronunciation is affreux."

He shrugged and put back the muffin. Instead he reached for some cookies.

"I just wanted to try since you chose a French shop," he answered and frowned when I declined his offer again. "I didn't know you liked the French."

I could hear an undertone of irony in his voice but ignored it as rubbish. He's just a bit grumpy, that's all.

"I don't have any grudges against French people," I said with a low voice so that the shopkeeper wouldn't be able to hear. "I don't have any grudges against anyone."

I was suddenly spookily aware of a couple of eyes peeking at me and quickly turned around. Alex and I were alone in the boutique, except for the shop attendant, but that was no insurance. The person, or the persons, could've been stalking us from a window. I looked outside and saw that people were on their way home. Less and less were out now and I saw no children my age.

"Just take something; I want to get out of here, now," I said to Alex. He nodded and seemed concerned about my sudden change of subject but didn't say anything. It was clear that he had crossed the line when he commented about the French.

"Sure."

He hurriedly searched the rest of the shop and picked. My aunt had given him the money – and the responsibility coming with that money – and he paid the fleshly cashier. I, on the other hand, approached the window closest to me and stared out. There was nothing out of the ordinary but I couldn't shake off the unpleasant feeling of someone watching me.

"Shall we away then?"

Alex opened the door for me and we ran all the way back to my aunt's place, without taking any routes by the roofs. I couldn't shake off the feeling of eyes burning holes into my back.