ZIIO

Until now, Haytham had said very little. Ratohnhaké:ton had been the one to stare dumbfounded, blurting questions like bullets. No doubt I'd raised so many confusions...and I was barely halfway through my story. I paused to take a breath; my heart was still hammering with the effort. Haytham sensed this at once. He took my sweating hand and pulled me into his shoulder. My every muscle relaxed at his warmth. But something was wrong: Haytham had stayed close – almost protective – while I spoke, but there was a clenched expression on his face. A cold stare, which hardened at each detail.

"I'd kill Johnson," he murmured, "if he were alive."

My ear against his chest, I heard his ribs rattling. It was the low rumble of a feline hiss; I sat up to ease him. "There was nothing you could've done. Goodness knows that I'd be free if there was."

There was an ominous sigh from the three of us. I was barely six months into my sixteen years, and we were all exhausted. This would be a perfect time for a distraction...

"Ratohnhaké:ton. I find you have a new name."

Haytham relaxed against me at this change of subject. "A little easier to pronounce, too."

"Connor Kenway." I beamed at the sound of it. "The family name suits you."

"I know. He certainly is a Kenway."

Although this conversation seemed unnatural – two estranged parents praising their son together – Ratohnhaké:ton played along. "And nonetheless a Kanien'kehá'ka."

"What should I call you now?" I chuckled lowly. My eyelids flickered open, to see Haytham gazing back at me. "You've two identities."

"And so have you."

It took me a while to realise he was talking about Ruth. Runaway-Ruth-the-slave. "That is no identity: only a label, given by others. Even Soyala knew me as Ziio. She was the only one who mattered."

Ratohnhaké:ton looked troubled. Perhaps worried that he'd hurt me by bringing up the slavery subject? Even from the age of four, that Kenway lip would tremble when he was afraid. Nothing had changed about him – with the exception of his voice, and his English.

"Sorry, Mother."

"Don't be."

My sentimental smile eased him like warmth. He murmured: "In answer to your question...you may call me as you wish. Father knows me as Connor –"

"You call Haytham 'Father'?" I shouldn't have been surprised, but I had to make sure this was real.

Haytham nodded. "He's 'son' to me. Or Connor. I'd butcher his name if I tried. Rado-Radonh –"

My laugh was genuine this time. I sank back into Haytham's warm chest, feeling myself fall further. "Your pronunciation has become no better. You should have Connor give you some private lessons."

"He is a lost cause," my son laughed back.

Silence. We needn't have spoken: our unity spoke for itself. I studied Ratohnhaké:ton – every inch of him – and took a moment to emit my pride. This grown man before me was my little boy. Humble, well-spoken, kind, sharp-witted...Not only did I have my child back, but he was more than I could ever ask. A buried sadness moved in me: I had missed the process of his growing up – I only saw the finished result. How had he become this gentleman? Had Haytham anything to do with it?

Haytham. Apart from the silver in his hair, and a few creases in his face, he hadn't changed at all. Just how a Templar like him could bond with Ratohnhaké:ton was beyond me. There had to be a story behind it. There'd be time for that later; right now I was swimming in the oppressed excitement of his closeness.

I needn't have said it, but did anyway: "I have missed you."

"I've missed you so." I didn't have to look at Haytham to know he was smiling.

There was a quiet knock on the door. I jumped from Haytham's shoulder, hastily shuffling across the bed. My robes scraped dirt and debris across the sheets, but I ignored it. "Come in."

The door opened slowly. The face that peered around was cautious; it winced, feeling like an intruder. I smiled to put them at ease. "Hello, Soyala."

At the sound of her name, Ratohnhaké:ton and Haytham looked her up and down – probably thinking how she looked too old to be a child. They were right: the little African child was now in her late twenties, but the youth still sparkled like the sweat on her face and robes.

"Sorry. Am I...?"

"Interrupting?" I finished, a little too keenly. "Not at all. What is it?"

"Jack has come to a decision: we destroy Church's ship. They are soon to set it on fire. Would you like to see?"

Haytham, Ratohnhaké:ton and I exchanged nonchalant glances. As much as I wished to keep talking, seeing Benjamin's ship go up in flames was a healthy closure. But would it be difficult for Haytham, seeing that Church was an old friend?

No. he was no friend, trying to kill him. "We will join you in a moment."

Soyala's eyes traced Haytham and my son. Looking them briefly up and down, she closed the door after adding: "Very well. I will inform Jack."

The two of them were still contemplating Soyala, by the looks of things: Haytham chewed his lip thoughtfully – which he often did – and Ratohnhaké:ton looked troubled.

"Are you alright?" I asked him.

"Me? Y-yes, fine."

Haytham shot a look at my son: they were communicating their impressions. I left them to it for a moment: they'd had enough shocks in the last half an hour; they needed to think some things through, join the dots. Eventually I stood up; they did the same. I tried to sooth them, like children at my hip – but a smile did very little.

"Come," I encouraged. "We can forget this for a while."

The sky was dark when we stepped outside. The sea breeze soothed my lungs like honey, but the cold did not. My shoulders were heavily covered with the Assassin robes; on either side were Haytham and Ratohnhaké:ton. The chatter among both crews was dutiful, with a grim, triumphant tone. A group of three men stood in a circle. One of them saw me, and began to approach.

"Ziio," he greeted, in his French accent. "I've 'ad no chance to see you since ze battle. How goes it?"

"Thank you, François," I replied. "Well, thank you."

He eyed Haytham – but not my son. "So zis is ze man you spoke of. "'Aytham Kenway?"

"I am he," Haytham replied.

"Ah!" François clapped his gloved hands. "My wife used to work for you, as a maid. Rose?"

He gasped. "Yes! Goodness, that was years ago...I knew she married a Frenchman, but...I'd no clue he was an Assassin."

The Frenchman chuckled deeply. "Well, at zat point, neither did we. I am François Matieu."

"Pleasure." Haytham shook his hand...but I couldn't tell if he was putting this on. "So, erm...how is Rose, these days?"

"Wonderful." François beamed at the mention of his wife. "Zough I daresay I did 'er no favours, leaving her alone for three months with ze children."

"How are your two? No, three!" Haytham corrected himself. "I forget: Rose was with child when she left."

"Hard work. Especially leetle Louis, but he grows every day and behaves. God bless that he will stay 'ealthy. He was not at all well when born."

I nodded grimly. "Rose came to visit me after he recovered...and his illness had taken a toll on her, too. Her eyes could barely stay open."

"Visited you?"

I swivelled to the sound of Ratohnhaké:ton. Of course, he was the curious one, and he'd only heard the slavery side. "The story is not finished yet, remember?" I muttered in our native language.

François could feel a tension among us, so cleared his throat. "Well, I assure you zere will be plenty of time to catch up, Kenway. Perhaps I may be of service to you, in some way."

"Thank you."

As François walked away, I turned to Haytham. "Are you alright?"

"So that's why the ship is named the Belle Rose," he replied thoughtfully.

It hardly helped when – from the bow of the ship – charged both of the twins. "Ista!" they called. In the night mist, only their small silhouettes were visible, but I called back to them in Enlgish.

"Hush! This is a sombre occasion!"

Once in front of me, Aaron apologised. "Sorry, Mother. But when will Eva light the gunpowder on the Welcome?"

"Any moment now, I hope."

"We cannot see the boat," Alexa moaned.

If George were listening, he'd playfully cuff her around the ear: the Welcome was a ship, not a boat. "Then move to the bow of the ship."

"We tried," Aaron retorted. "Please, Mother. I thought you would be strong enough to lift us."

I tutted. Oh, how he had a way with negotiation... "That I am, but tall? I am not." Suddenly I had an idea; it filled me with warmth like the fire we were about to see. "Haytham, Connor...would you mind lifting Aaron and Alexa? That they can see the flames."

My son seemed vaguely surprised that I called him 'Connor', but soon realised I was acting for the children. His wide brown eyes flicked to Haytham. In turn, his father gave some sort of consent – a nod, or a sparkle of his eyes in this dark.

"Of course," Connor replied.

Alexa gathered the hem of her dress, allowing him to hoist her – effortlessly as lifting a finger – onto his broad shoulder. Alexa murmured a thanks in our native language, and I knew that internally she was grinning. Haytham, on the other hand, seemed hesitant. The pit of my stomach plunged: what if he disliked children? Perhaps all the virtues I'd told the twins about him were wrong.

My fears subsided. He knelt to Aaron's height (exceptionally tall for his age) and did the same. Aaron shuffled a little, bunching up Haytham's cape. He didn't mind, though – only laughed.

"Thank you," Aaron said politely.

"Yes. I'm sorry to ask this of you, Haytham."

"Don't fret," he replied, as if there was no child clinging to his neck. "It won't be long before his bones stretch to the height of mine."

"Ready? Eva has lit the gunpowder!"

We turned at the sound of an Irish voice: Hamish Wolf, perched in the crow's nest. Soon after followed a distant splash. I leaned over the side of the Belle Rose. From afar was the figure of Eva – gliding like an eel through the water – away from the Welcome. Robert Faulkner's ship floated so close to ours, it almost blocked the view. All I saw was the ghostly deck and mast: too tall for its own shame.

"When will it burst?" Aaron murmured to Haytham.

"Any moment now."

An energetically grave silence was screaming. All around me, men and women stood with anticipation. Not me: I began to purr with satisfaction. Seeing the twins so comfortable on Haytham and Connor's shoulders gave me visions. Visions of a future we could have together; visions of a unity. This was why I let Aaron and Alexa on this voyage: they were desperate as I to complete the Kenway picture.

But is there space for two more?

It'd take years, to achieve what I yearned for. But in that moment of emptiness, I saw space for endless opportunities. I was looking through a glass prism, and right before my eyes was the end result.

With a boom that could've split the sky, the gunpowder exploded. Fiery flares of red, orange and white spilt into the night. Almost immediately, an oddly glorious flame glowed across the Welcome. The fire danced across my eyes, rolling like waves. Watching this war dance from afar gave me a sense of security: Church was dead, and this time in my life, I was out of the fire's reach.

"Wow," Alexa breathed next to my head.

I flashed an agreeing smile, but saw that Ratohnhaké:ton trembled at the sharp snaps the fire made. That was when I remembered: he'd seen his mother swallowed by flames. He was bound to have an unspoken fear of them.

Haytham stood with satisfaction. Not a gladness of Church's death, nor his soft-centred relief from earlier. It glowed, such that the fire could not accentuate his pride. I didn't realise what it was until he glanced up at a wide-eyed Aaron. I could've laughed out loud at his already paternal nature.

No, Ziio. Wishful thinking as ever.

I focused again on the flames. Eva was no longer in the water, but had climbed aboard the back of the Belle Rose. From behind Faulkner's frigate, I watched the Welcome's mast sinking. The blaze sucked slowly on the wood, like red moss to a rock. As the height of it grew, and slowly died away, the murmurs of other men became apparent.

"Just to think Church is on there," Soyala murmured.

"Good riddance," sniffed the voice of Prudence. She never was the forgiving type.

"You should harbour respect for the dead," came Soyala's response.

"Hm. After all Church and Biddle did to our Brotherhood? I think not."

"Ladies, please!" It sounded like Toby Collins. "Don't dash this ritual for me. A moment of composure is hardly a great ask..."

A moment's composure was quite hypocritical, coming from the Virginian joker. The thought of it made me snigger. Quite why the sinking ship gave me a sense of humour, I wasn't sure. It was hardly a lighthearted occasion, nor had any occasion been remarkably spirit-lifting since my abduction. So why was I remarkably lifted?

Think later. Enjoy the happiness while it lasts.

A few minutes later, the crew members retreated into their respective stations. My eyes were still glowing from the earthly sun, but the sky was dark again now. Eva began to walk to the hatch – dripping wet – when I stopped her.

"I have left many gaps in the story," I whispered into her hood, "and I believe Soyala's appearance in Assassin robes has confused them further."

Eva's cat-like eyes flicked up and down, the way they always did when savouring information. "How much do you intend to tell the Kenways tonight?"

"As much as possible. Although, I would much like to speak to Ratohnhaké:ton alone. Not only did he seem moved by the fire, but I have questions for him."

"Concerning...?"

Had it been anyone else, I'd have snapped at them to hush, for Connor was just behind me. But this was Eva; I felt I could do no such thing. "I wish to know about my tribe. My mother, my closest friends and neighbours..."

Her face became sympathetic, even under her menacing hood. "Understood. Should I call Haytham from the cabin, then?"

"That would be helpful. Thank you," I murmured.

"And..." The Assassin looked past my shoulder, to check if the Kenways were listening. They weren't: Connor was helping Alexa off his neck, while Aaron badgered Haytham about why he was so strong. "Perhaps I could have the twins on this, too."

"What do you mean?"

"Come on, Ziio. They were hardly too short to see that explosion. All they wanted was an excuse."

Eva needn't have explained: I knew they'd wish to be close to the Kenways (Haytham in particular) after all they'd heard about them. "I see. What do you propose they do?"

She shrugged. "Some way of spending time with Haytham would do them the world of good."

I thanked her and we separated: Haytham and Ratohnhaké:ton stated at us restlessly. I hurried back to them, holding both their hands for security.

"Ready?" I asked.

They nodded bleakly (well, it was easy to tire after so many revelations), and we headed back to the cabin.

"What were you asking Eva about?" Haytham said eventually.

"Oh...just wondering if dinner was ready," I lied.

"And is it?"

"No."

I opened the cabin door and sat heavily on the bed. This time, it was Ratohnhaké:ton who sat beside me. Haytham perched himself awkwardly – like a dinner party guest – on the bed opposite.

"Where was I?"

"You and Soy...however you pronounce –"

"Soyala." Haytham was never good with names.

"Sorry. You tried to escape?"

And like it were written on paper, I plunged back into the story.

It could've been hours; it could've been minutes Soyala and I spent huddled together. Being a slave extracted my sense of time. All I needed to do was switch off to the world. This proved to be more difficult than in previous years, especially as my emotions changed like the weather. On a scale of Thomas Flood to Soyala, today I was on Flood's end: cold and angry.

This room reminded me of Charles' cellar. The dusty air was so thick, I could've sliced a knife through it. It lingered in the air like icicles. As I breathed in, they filled my spine, fearing what would happen next. They also grew inside my head, bracing it for death.

But as you know, we did not die that day.

Flood re-entered some time later. It was very similar to my Templar abdication: he bound our hands by ropes. Poor little Soyala – who had never faced punishment – trembled like a lamb bound for slaughter. After Flood had finished, he wolf-whistled to summon his right-hand overseer. With a sideways look at him, Flood grumbled: "You know what to do."

The two of them herded us into the back of a horse-drawn carriage. Again, it was no carriage: a cage with thin wooden bars was a better description. It reminded me of the wagon that had brought me here in 1760, except it was not covered by a sheet. Flood's assistant bundled me into the cage, pushing me like I would otherwise resist. I hadn't the energy to do anything but snort disgustedly. The two black horses did the same, shaking their heads and making the cage move. As Soyala was shoved in next to me, Flood exchanged a few words with his assistant and left.

The assistant climbed onto the front of the wagon. He cracked the whip against the horses' backs; I watched as the hills – ringing with the sounds of labour – rolled away.

Weirdly, I remember nothing from the journey. Not even what I was feeling, whether Soyala spoke to me, or even what time of day it was. Perhaps I fell asleep? Not that the discomfort was a problem, sleeping in a hut every night. What I do remember was when we arrived.

Flood's assistant opened the cage door cautiously. It was a fairly lush spot of land, despite the fact that buildings littered the horizon. I would come to know this place, and this view...but not in the way I knew my last home. The building I stood before was made of new stone. The four windows at eye level were flanked by red painted shutters; the porch was that of smooth, pearly marble.

He has come to sell us, I thought.

The assistant pushed us to the door and wrapped his knuckles on it. Finally, it was opened unto him...by a man who looked both surprised and familiar. I scowled.

"Daniel?" It was Johnson, of course. He wasn't wearing his formal red coat, but a more relaxed shirt and breeches. "You must've come a long way."

"Apologies, William," replied the assistant. "It couldn't wait."

"What brings you here?" Johnson eyed us – me in particular – and was probably guessing why Daniel had come.

"These two are bad apples," he said gruffly. He shook the ropes binding our wrists; I swayed and growled at him. "Tried to escape only today. Thomas felt that – for the time being, at least – they'd be better off in your custody."

I was putting two and two together now: this must've been Fort Johnson, William's home. We were becoming his household slaves.

Indeed, Johnson took us in with barely any negotiations. He took hold of my wrists, leading me and Daniel (guarding Soyala) inside. The place was similar to Charles' household: stone walls, red rug, wooden floor...but instead of servants along the (smaller) corridor, there was a well-clothed negro slave. Was this my fate? To polish hallways and serve William personally?

"Take her straight to the kitchens," he ordered Daniel, indicating Soyala. "And see to it that she is clothed appropriately."

I must admit, that was a form of of relief: Soyala's long, brown garment was matted as a wild dog. I flashed her a look to say 'good luck', then watched sadly as she was dragged – whimpering – into another room. Johnson took me by the shoulders and spun me round to face him.

"Runaway Ruth. Is that what they're calling you, now?"

"I see your arm has recovered," I hissed. "Perhaps one of these captive men fixed it for you –"

"Look at the state of you," William interrupted. "I will find something to clothe you suitably."

Was that...sympathy in his voice? No. Surely it was a trick to gain trust. Still, I didn't object to the thought of new clothing. I was still dressed in the white blouse and brown breeches Haytham had lent me. Except now they were bathed in dirt, sweat and blood; it was difficult to know where my skin ended and where the blouse began.

"Christ, I told Flood to take care of you..."

"Oh, really?" I spat. "Of course he took care of us. Feeding us the bare bones, only to keep us alive. Punishing us at random. Flogging any man, woman or child who dared to say a word! If that is your image of care, then think again."

Johnson almost stepped back, eyes bulging. "What?"

"Shall I continue?" I bellowed. The negro man polishing behind me flinched, and fled the corridor. "Venting his drunkenness on the slaves. I'm almost certain people have died at the site. We are nothing but Flood's livestock...and you wonder why I tried to escape!"

Johnson sucked on his lip, trying to drink in the picture. "I never knew," he murmured. "I told Thomas to lose his gin, or lose his job."

"He has lost neither."

"If what you say is true," he said coolly, "then this is the last time I employ him. Flood has been slipping from my trusting hands for too long. Thank you for sharing this, Ruth."

"I do not answer to that name."

"You answer to whatever I give you." The harshness was back in his voice, even though he spoke reluctantly. "Now, what job to assign to you..."

The decision was made. I was taken upstairs and through another red door. Inside it sat a young woman – perhaps five years younger than myself – reading a book on her bed. I didn't notice at first, but there was an ornate baby cot swinging next to her. She had long black hair, with every known feather entwined in a pinned-up braid. She glanced up at us, then straightened her long skirts.

"What is this, William?" She spoke Mohawk...and very irritably.

"I have found you a new maidservant, Molly," replied William, also in Mohawk.

Have you guessed, my son? This woman was indeed Molly Brant: Johnson's native American wife. Her Mohawk name of 'Degonwadonti' – meaning 'Several Against One' – was a perfect description of her. I'd come to know that whenever she expressed an opinion, it was a polar opposite of what any other man thought. She was an odd woman; her kindness and patience would change radically. But more on that later.

At this moment, Molly's eyes narrowed. "I do not wish for a maidservant. I can care for myself."

"My love, please be reasonable. The child is but a week old. You'll need a hand to help you."

Molly glanced at the contents of the cot. Was there a baby inside it? I supposed so. "All I need to help me is privacy. Besides..." She indicated me half-heartedly, but I didn't scowl. "Look at the state of her."

Well, she had a point.

"I was hoping you could equip her with a serving gown."

The woman emitted a deep sigh. "Very well. In the wardrobe."

Johnson carefully cut the ropes from my wrists, before ushering me into the wardrobe. The gown was clean, at least: black with a white apron and cap. It reminded me of Rose, I thought sadly. But Haytham never enslaved her – he employed her. Molly did not even want me here. That was clear from day one.

I could tell I'd be better off here. On that first day, I was clothed, fed and given a place to sleep. Fort Johnson was about the same size as Haytham's house; the eight slaves (two women, three men too weak for labour, Soyala and I) slept in a side-room from the kitchens. The room contained a fireplace for the winter, and – thank heavens – these slaves spoke English. But I would not meet them yet. First, I had to see to Molly Johnson.

Maidservant. The lowly word lurked in my ear as I dressed. William left the room; the baby in the cot began to cry. What did I do? Was I supposed to reach for the child and comfort her? Perhaps that'd anger her mother. Besides, Molly didn't want me here. I turned my back and slowly tucked my hair under the cap.

"You."

I turned on hearing my native language. Molly lifted the sobbing baby from the cot, cushioning her against her breast. "William never mentioned a name. Do you have one?"

I frowned. What sort of question was that? But I was oddly relieved to have someone else who spoke Mohawk. "Ruth."

"No, your real name."

"Kaniehtí:to." Even under my befuddled relief, I wasn't giving her my colloquial name.

The baby fell silent, snuggling into her endless wraps and blankets. Molly stroked her fragile head; it reminded me of how you – my own son – used to hush when I held you. I bit my lip to hide emotion.

"Hm, a Kanien'kehá'ka. I am from Canajoharie myself." As she spoke, her initial distaste for me melted. But whether to trust it...? I remained silent: if you learn one thing from being a slave, it is only to speak on command.

"Fetch me a cloth from the kitchens," Molly ordered, quite suddenly.

Begrudgingly, I did as I was told. I memorised where Daniel had dragged Soyala earlier, and when I saw her with two other negro women, I relaxed a little. Johnson had provided Soyala with the same black serving smock. She looked fresh as the water on Mohawk Valley.

"Ziio," she breathed when she saw me. "Where did Johnson take you?"

I told her that I was to be serving Molly; the two other women – known as Kona and Yenpu – grimaced. They knew of Molly's true nature long before I did.

Molly Johnson was a strange woman. She did not support my enslavement: in fact, one day while I sat braiding her hair, she wished aloud to have me released. And yet, she never hesitated to order me around – often in the same sentence as showing empathy. She treated the slaves with respect on most occasions (though I was the only one who saw her frequently). However, the cynic in me knew that if she really respected these men and women, she'd have them set free.

Something told me that she'd had an episode with Kona and Yenpu before. In the slaves' quarters that first night, Soyala and I wept at our misfortune. We were so close to freedom – so close – and now we were so far from it, the possibility of seeing daylight again dissolved. Kona and Yenpu rushed to comfort us, whispering: "Hush. If the mistress hears you, she will punish you."

Part of me wanted Molly to punish us. I wanted to seal my distrust for her in physical scars. That was what slavery had reduced me to: finding pleasure in my own pain. Perhaps that was because my pain rarely surfaced? Even though the living conditions were better here, I was no happier. My pain began to crush me to a pulp; when it did, it turned my emotions to vicious wolves. I would distrust everyone who came near; speak in a dark voice even to Molly. Then one day, the arrow would fire from the pressure of the string: I'd be too trusting, pouring my emotions over people – it never mattered who. More often than I'm proud to admit, it was to my own mistress.

When Molly fell pregnant again in July – newborn Elizabeth now three months old – she quizzed me on my pre-slave life. And so I told her of Ratohnhaké:ton; how he was believed me swept away by fire. She would sit in her bed and just listen. In hindsight I think she was intrigued. Molly could relate to me in many ways: she was Mohawk, and – like me – she was lonely. This mutual weakness made us fall back on each other; it made us succumb to our emotional radicalness. Like every woman, Molly's mind, heart and body changed throughout pregnancy. It was during those nine months that I saw her more pleasant side...and also her vicious one.

All this time, I also had to care for her eldest son: Jacob. The boy was three years old, and often clambered into the bedroom to see his mother. Almost immediately, Molly would say sharply: "Take him away."

So I did. I would pick the sickly boy up and move him. I felt no motherly connections to Molly's children: I meant nothing to them, either. Sometimes little Jacob stared up at me with pleading eyes, wanting me to entertain him. And unless ordered to play with him, I'd stare back with stony eyes and refuse. Jacob never even mentioned me by name. Whenever I fed him in the morning, he always looked straight through me. He had his father's eyes – that certainly did not help matters. Jacob was barely able to speak, and he was able to recognise that I was less-than-human.

Fort Johnson was humane enough, but the tension in the house slowly stirred me to madness. William and Molly's marriage rested on a knife edge. More often than not, Johnson would venture out on 'meetings', but I knew Haytham would never call meetings too frequently. What was the real reason, you may ask? Being a cynical slave, I assumed Johnson had several other mistresses. Perhaps that was why Molly seemed so bitter and lonely. Whenever her husband spoke to her (no matter how sweetly), she'd always respond in a disinterested tone. She would never play with Jacob, and would hesitate before picking up baby Elizabeth.

When Magdalene Helena was born in 1762, I was present at the scene. The doctor didn't hesitate to order me about: he made sure that I saw to the most menial, most grizzly tasks. I had no medical experience; only basic native knowledge from my healer of a father...not that the doctor knew that. He reminded me of the man who treated me at Haytham's homestead, only younger.

At last when the baby was born, Molly lay exhausted in the dark. The naked child cried against her chest; she made not a flinch to soothe her. The doctor had left to fetch Johnson. The other slaves – Soyala, Kona, Yenpu and the two men – were in the kitchens filling bowls of cold water. I sat at the foot of Molly's bloodstained bed, glancing at the baby.

Not that I was concerned, but I said: "The child is cold. You should warm her in some blankets."

"She is fine," Molly grumbled back.

The pitiful shrieks grew louder. How was she ignoring this? "I can fetch some cloth from the kitchen –"

"The child belongs to me," Molly snapped. The baby girl was startled by her mother's voice, and bleated even louder. "I will decide what to do with her, Kaniehtí:io!"

I tensed, wanting to yell back. It was hardly worth it: Molly was too tired, I was too tired and the doctor would be back at any moment. I stared out of the moonlit window. The candlelight reflected an image of me which I barely recognised: a Mohawk forced into a colonial society. Perhaps that was what Molly was, too? But she was here by choice. Still, she clearly cared as much for bearing Johnson's children as she did for me.

When the doctor and Johnson entered the room, the drama flared like a heat wave.

The doctor rushed up to Molly, gasping. "My god, quickly! Clothe the child before she freezes to death!"

Johnson's face was wild with distress. As the doctor snatched the baby from Molly's loose grip, he spoke to her angrily: "Molly, why did you leave her bare? You know well that could kill her!"

"It was Kaniehtí:io!"

Icicles stabbed at my fingertips.

"I told her to fetch some cloth for the child, but she refused! I told her again and she moved not a muscle."

I gasped, leaping from the bed. She didn't. I didn't trust Molly particularly, but this! "Such lies! It was me who advised Molly to cover the ba –"

"I see," panted William, explosively quiet. "Thought that'd be a form of revenge, did you? Simply let our daughter die?"

"That is a lie –"

But Johnson would have none of it. He whipped me from the room and thrust me – kicking and struggling – against the wall. He yelled at me for the first and only time. He called me a heartless savage, a beast, a killer. He bruised me on my eye and cheek; it took months for the incriminating scars to fade. Johnson was generally a negotiator, not a fighter. It was difficult to forget that his outbursts of rage were what slaughtered my father and brothers. Now, I knew what they'd witnessed in their last moments.

My punishment was more than just a beating. It was being locked in the slaves' quarters for a whole week. Soyala would try to sneak me bread and water from the kitchens, but I'd lost my appetite. I staggered in from Johnson's beating, lifeless as my own soul, and vomited. Molly's twist of the knife was enough to set my hatred. I despised this place. I despised the owners. The children. The land. The atmosphere. I'd even lost interest in freedom: all I wished for was a cold, dark oblivion. And for one week, that was what I received.

It was never enough.

My fits of tears were more frequent than ever. The number of times I wanted to throw my head against the wall were countless. I knew there was no hope of escape: the land surrounding Fort Johnson was under the glare of mankind's greatest stone walls (not that Johnson ever let me outside – just in case). Quite simply, my remaining time at Fort Johnson were almost the worst years of my life.

Again, Soyala worked to serve as my sanity. Now almost a girl of fourteen, she was finding her own maturity. Still the youthful, yet dangerous naïveté remained...and so did her fearless optimism. Quite how she managed to remain positive struck me as impossible. I supposed she had never known freedom; she had never known any differently. A morbid blessing in these darkest times.

I still recall one conversation we had, huddled by the winter fire. The other four slaves were sound asleep; Soyala and I were still shaken from witnessing young Elizabeth fall with flu. Johnson assigned us to see to her needs (as Soyala was the kitchen's least useful slave, and Johnson wanted me to nurse the children as some sort of punishment). The snow on the New York plain had glittered from Elizabeth's window.

"It is a beautiful trick of nature, no?"

I made a low-pitched grumble. "A curse in disguise as a winter gem. In the forest, the snow strikes year by year. It bites the hares to death...and our children live hungry."

"But still a gem."

Silence. We listened to the sounds of the crackling fire, wondering about the forest at that moment. Was Ratohnhaké:ton eating well? Did he have the 'flu', as the doctor called it? Were his feet numb to the bone like mine, and was his heart – struck by tragedy – healing, unlike my own?

"What would you do?" Soyala piped up. "If the door was open now."

I hesitated. There were a thousand things I would do, and I was in no fit state to name them without crying. "I would climb the trees. Hunt in the forest. I would return home, to my son. Hold him. Tell him...tell him I loved him."

Soyala half-frowned at my use of the past tense. Not that I had lost love for my son, far from it. The fact was, I'd lost hope of holding him ever again. I sighed, desperate to keep the tears at bay. I'd wept too many in the past month.

"You miss him...don't you?"

"Not a day goes by when I do not." My voice rose and fell, like a spider on a web. This was not the time to sadness; quickly I returned to her: "Sorry. What would you do?"

"I would see the city." She paused, tucking her hair under her cap. "I would stand by the docks and breathe the sea air. Perhaps I would learn how to paint."

"Paint?" This struck me by surprise. "Why?"

"I have always loved the art here," Soyala murmured energetically. "All these portraits Johnson has around the walls...it is enchanting. It colours the soul, like it colours the walls."

Of course. Soyala was so gifted with her words, and with her silvery singing voice. Art would complete her soul like liberty, I thought. "Haytham had many paintings, also. He..."

"Are you alright?" she asked, as my voice suddenly broke.

"Yes," I choked. "Fine."

Thinking about Haytham weakened me more than I ever thought. He was a symbol of my past; of all the use I'd been to anyone's conscience. Now he was far away, perhaps even farther than my son. Haytham never visited Fort Johnson; none of the Templars did. Whenever Johnson was at 'meetings', I'd always wish that one day Haytham would visit. That way I could bang on the slaves' quarters' door, shout to him and tell him to let me out. What a sweet dream that would be.

Admittedly, I thought of Haytham almost as often as I thought of you. He gave me something to remember; anything to visualise rather than death. If he knew of my captivity, he'd surely slay Johnson. That in itself was a minute spirit lift: someone, somewhere, would kill my abductor for me. Except it wasn't Johnson who ill-treated me. It was Molly.

I didn't frequently condemn her. I am a very cold woman; that, there is no denying. But I would never wish death upon anyone unless they really, really deserved it. Johnson had murdered my father and brothers. Although that was over twenty years ago, time did not seal the void in my family. I could easily have murdered him with a knife from the kitchen, if I wanted to. Why did I hesitate? Because it would take me nowhere. It would starve three (legitimate) children of a father, and a woman of her husband. Although I hated Molly Johnson more, I never wanted her to die. Not even in my most miserable days.

I continued to serve Molly after her selfish betrayal. While she fed little Magdalene, I could not look her in the eye. Rather than apologise, she pretended the blankets incident never happened. She tried her hardest to be civil – feigned it, at least. She asked me questions on when Ratohnhaké:ton was a baby. How big was he? Did he cry often like Jacob, or was he quiet like Elizabeth? From whom did he inherit his eyes? Hair? Nose? Mouth? Again, I began to fall back into the trap of confiding in her. In return, she confided in me. She'd use my trust to her own advantage; the cycle would continue.

We were not stationed at Fort Johnson forever. You know very well that Johnson Hall – with my own sweat sealed in its bricks – was completed by late 1763. Again, I remember little of the moving process. I remember little of my slavery years, if I am honest: my mind locks them out as malignant memories. I recall an image of five-year-old Jacob, skipping to the carriage outside excitedly. I groped the bars of my cage sadly, wishing this move was a blessing for me. Was I ready to return to the hell? What would become of all the slaves that were under Flood's employment?

"My mother was sent to a plantation, many years ago," Kona explained. "Johnson may have them transferred."

I was unsure which fate was worse: mine, or theirs.

As I would come to discover, it would be mine. The fate that befell me at Johnson Hall was one I will live with forever. The end of its tunnel is a blessing to this day...but how can I call it a blessing? The scars of the worst day cover me like parasites. Still they haunt my dreams and often, dash my ability to love. Out of all the things that happened – the fire, the kidnap, the labour, the punishment, the insanity – this was the worst that happened to me.

Suddenly, I felt Ratohnhaké:ton's grip tighten around me. I'd become rather weak, telling my Fort Johnson years: they were my darkest, after all. Both of the Kenways stared at the floorboards, mortified. If their guesses were visible to me, they'd be as horrific as the earlier storm. The sad part was that they were right. Neither of them voiced their guesses. Neither of them wanted to.

"Do you mind if...I continue later? Only, I think you have received too many blows for now."

"Of course," Haytham said sincerely. "Please take your time, Ziio. We prefer it if you are comfortable."

I could barely help it: the memorable bells of 'Such a gentleman' sounded in my head. I said nothing when I meant to thank Haytham: I was too transfixed by him. How had he sustained those youthful, silver pools in his eyes? Those eyes melted my mistrust when we met. They were here with me. Here.

From not far off, Eva shouted my name down the corridor. Torn from my trance, I craned my neck to listen: "Ziio! Where are you?"

"In here," I called back.

Almost immediately, she opened the door. That was odd: how did Eva come that close, that quickly? Was she...listening in behind the door? I half-relaxed at that thought: she had brought a diversion at the right time. Eva had changed out of her Assassin robes and into a more elegant dress. "I was perhaps wondering if I could have a word with Connor?"

"Me?" Ratohnhaké:ton barked in surprise.

"I'll be no more than a moment," she assured him.

He glanced at his father and me in turn. What could Eva want from an Assassin she'd just met? Either way, he shrugged his broad shoulders and stood. "Of course."

Eva smiled, then flashed a knowing look at me. I did not return it: what was her plan, in any case? To give me some alone time with Haytham? To ask Ratohnhaké:ton about the Order? I turned to Haytham cluelessly as Eva led Connor out of the room. She shut the door cautiously; I heard her footsteps leading my son far away.

Haytham moved to sit next to me. I welcomed him at once, flattening the bedsheets again. When he twisted his torso to face me, I knew what he wanted. The puzzled expression faded; it was replaced with a soft – but quietly horrified face. His hands were shaking; he held them half up to me and stopped.

"Ziio," he choked.

The heartbreak in his eyes pierced me. I took both of his warm, trembling hands. Mine began to shudder, too – and it was not from the October air. I knew what Haytham was about to say.

"You...you were assaulted at Johnson Hall," he whispered. "Weren't you?"

I gripped him tightly, as if forcing the truth from my skin. "Yes."

Haytham pulled my entire body into his arms. I closed my eyes and pictured us on the last night at his homestead. Could we simply resume our feelings now? It was clear that before I left, both of us teetered on the brink of revealing our hearts. But I would leave Haytham heartbroken, that way. Minimalising the damage was the least I could do, after all he had done to heal me. Did it still matter now?

I was far too tired to think about it. Instead I focused on the sweet warmth of his chest. He was protecting me from harm, even though the damage was long done. Inside his ribs, I could hear a war drum of sadness, anger and sympathy. The only way I could thank him was to stay in his embrace.

Finally he pulled away, tears in his eyes. "I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry."

"It was never your fault," I said quietly.

Silence. We inspected each other up and down again, longing for the same thing. Why did we hesitate beforehand? Purely because Ratohnhaké:ton was with us? What if Haytham was comforting me amicably – after all, who wouldn't be sorry for a woman who faced rape?

I was wrong. Finally – overdue as the time we'd lost – he cradled my face and kissed me.

Sixteen years of emptiness was filled in that moment. What should have been time together, spoken words and intimate kisses was made up for in our passionate reunion. I held him like he would slip away: this time, I was not letting him go. What happened after this journey didn't matter. Haytham was here with me; that was all I could think of.

His lips withdrew reluctantly, as if he still thirsted for the moment. I let the blood rushing in my head settle somewhat. Now more than ever, these past few months barely seemed real. My face still buzzed from the tips of Haytham's fingers. I blinked to look at him – and like me, his eyes gleamed with ecstatic satisfaction.

"I meant to do that earlier," he laughed in my ear.

"Then why didn't you?" I teased softly.

"Shock," he grinned. "Though still I think I will wake any moment now."

Daringly, I stroked his hair and kissed him again. "How about now?"

"Not yet," he laughed. "Not yet. We've sixteen years to make up for."

Oh, how I missed him.

Hey guys!

Another reeeeeeally long update (no surprises as to why it took so long!) And I know loads of you have been going "Now, kiss!" throughout part 1 – so here it is. There's SO much more to come, though – believe me!

I suppose this has raised a few questions; I'll answer them as quickly as possible in the next chapter! By the way, is this system of 6/7K words better than 2/3K weekly? There's a lot of explaining to do and I think it'd get kinda boring in little drippy-droppy bits.

Anyway, hope you guys are enjoying summer! (Well, it's summer here anyway.)

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