ZIIO
I had cocooned myself as much as I could.
Despite all my training, I never left Philadelphia once. I stayed within an area I knew to be safe. Eva restricted the time I spent outside; even when I did accompany her on missions, I was to keep a low profile. Eva made it absolutely certain that there were none of Johnson's contacts in the area before I ventured out. She was paranoid in that way. Paranoid, yet effectively shielding.
So why was I still discovered? It all began when George received a letter.
It was from a doctor in New York. He and George had worked together before – and as it happened – this doctor had cooperated with many of the colonies' most renowned physicians. He was inviting George to a type of gathering – a reunion, if you will. Many others would be attending. And so George accepted the invitation, hoping to meet like-minded men.
The night he dressed up and left was the night the Assassins held a meeting.
When Eva opened the door, François – the last to arrive – stepped straight past her, and came to throw his arms around me. I struggled in his grip: I was never one for unnecessary affection.
"Ziio!" he exclaimed, kissing both my cheeks. "'Ave I heard correctly? You 'ave completed your training?"
I rolled my eyes at Eva, who stood with her mouth wide open. "Yes, François, that I have. But keep your voice down! Aaron and Alexa are sleeping."
It was fortunate that they were asleep. I never told my children that I was an Assassin, or that any of us in this house were. To involve them in any of our work posed a risk greater than I could imagine: losing them. What if – one day – the Templars reached out to Ohitekah and Imala? They had a pattern of trouncing innocents, to achieve their goals. All the twins knew was that Eva did some work for the community, and all the others were members of her group. Imala had her suspicions, even at her age – but she never questioned. For that I was grateful.
In fact, I was also grateful for François being in that meeting. He came with a new idea.
"Ze British army are now given a material to cover our faces," he explained. "I am told zis particular cloth is rare and expensive to manufacture. But it is effective."
"And what of this...cover cloth?" Prudence asked.
"I, erm...I was wondering if..." François cleared his throat. "Should we be able to obtain zis fabric, we could fashion a disguise for Ziio. Zat way, she could venture out on missions without ze risk of being recognised."
A sudden elation came over me. Would that mean I could leave Philadelphia undetected? I could go home! I could see my son, my village, and Johnson would never find me!
"Was this cloth easy to see through?" Jack asked.
François winced, playing with the buttons on his blue coat. "Not so. I saw zat many of my enemies stumbled...but I am sure that Ziio could adapt."
Eva nodded, expressing neither favour nor criticism. Soyala often covered her face when she went on missions – but now, she'd earned a reputation as the Assassin with the scarf pulled over her nose and mouth. George had spotted a wanted poster in the window of a tavern. It only proved: our work did not go unnoticed. This explained Eva's next, carefully chosen words.
"Well...if you're suggesting we steal these supplies from the redcoats, we should at least consider the alternatives. Is there not a more economic material? Not that our Brotherhood lacks in money, it's just..."
"Just?" I pressed.
"Not even fabric can mask our kills. Nor our robes, nor even the dead of night. I could silence every witness – if it weren't against an Assassin's conscience – and our deeds would still be discovered."
"It never stops you."
"No, but the situation differs. Say...say on a mission, there is the chance that I could be tailed home. Then I won't come home, that night. I would never impose that danger upon my family. I could safely remain away from home, without fear of being recognised. Can you?"
"So the answer is no," I sighed glumly.
Eva bit her lip. "I'm sorry, Ziio, really I am. One day – when all the threats are eliminated – I will return you to your village. But now more than ever, you'd bring trouble to their doors if you returned. Trouble in the form of Templars."
Empty promises.
It was never that I mistrusted Eva; far from it. It was not that I denied the danger of me returning to Mohawk Valley. But now, I was beginning to feel her arguments lacked reason. I was aware of Eva's natural paranoia. This? This was ridiculous. François had offered me a lifeline – one which shortened the road to home – and Eva had taken it from me, before he could even explain his plan. If she let me train as an Assassin, why would she not allow me access to home?
Eva's paranoia was soon to worsen.
George returned two days later; his spirits were raised like a flag in the wind. He was thrilled to be back, of course, though he had much to tell of his trip. George (and Eva) had expected this rendezvous to be dull and professional. Professional though it was, this doctor had met some wonderful men. They all traded their methods: which chemicals they used and when, how they calmed a patient, which medicines worked for what ailment, and so on.
One gentleman – "awfully nice man" – shared his formula for some remedy or another. In return, George shared a Mohawk medicinal remedy I had told him about. It required a rare herb (sassafras, as George named it) which did not grow in this man's region. George had heard of sassafras before he met me, but never believed it would be effective. Now he stockpiled it in his surgery whenever there was a supply.
"Thank goodness I met you, Ziio," George chuckled. "I would never share such knowledge without you."
Perhaps I was a good influence, occasionally.
"I am glad to be of use," I shrugged. "Where was the man from, if the herb was not from his region?"
"Oh – the Boston area, I believe."
Even the word 'Boston' brought bittersweet nostalgia. For a moment I wondered if it was Doctor Walters, the man who had (ever-so-reluctantly) treated me in 1760. Even Haytham was a better doctor than him. By far, less judgemental too.
"What was his name?"
"Benjamin Church."
No.
The contented ambiance came crashing down. Everyone in the room – even Ohitekah, who was putting plates away in the cabinets – froze. Soyala's eyes raced like beetles from under her bonnet. From me, to George, to Eva...then back to me. I was too surprised to even speak; my whole body tensed, waiting for Eva's unpredictable reaction. Her hands hung loosely by her sides. Too slackened to be natural. Even George noticed this; he cocked an amber eyebrow.
"What? What is it?"
"Aaron," Eva breathed, facing the wall. "Go and play outside."
"But –"
"You heard her, Aaron," I murmured. Then, in Mohawk: "Please, Ohitekah. You are dismissed."
His eyes flicked in both directions, before he placed his plate on the table. His eyes were fixated on me as he left.
Mother, what is happening?
I am unsure, I signalled back. But Ohitekah was gone.
The moment we heard the front door close, Eva sprung to life.
"Of all people you could've met," she seethed. "It had to be him! Benjamin Church. Benjamin...bloody...Church."
Soyala and I glanced at each other: Eva only cursed when she was truly, truly vexed. For a moment I felt sorry for George.
"What? I don't understand. Why are you acting this way?"
"He's a Templar, George," she yelled, "and a goddamn powerful one, at that!"
Understanding settled like cold, harsh snow. His face turned whiter; the colour even drained from blue eyes. "What do you mean?" he frowned. "I – he wasn't wearing the ring. Nor the necklace! Well...not visibly. Are you sure that Church is a –"
"It is true," I said gravely. "He is one of Haytham's closest subordinates."
"I – bu –" George stammered, before his eyes centred. "Oh, Lord..."
Eva paced the room restlessly, her blue skirts sweeping like waves. George stroked his forehead, burying himself in unnecessary guilt. How was he to know? And surely talking to Church did no harm? He would never, ever mention anything to do with the Brotherhood. Not even after a drink or two – and even that was a rare incident.
"Was he...was he one of those behind your –"
"Kidnap?" I finished, then nodded.
"Oh, dear Lord. I'm sorry, Ziio. So, so sorry..."
"You weren't to know," Soyala soothed. "Besides, we are the Assassins, not you. Why should our affairs restrict whom you speak to?"
Suddenly, Eva swivelled. Her braid whipped around defensively: a fox's tail. "Why do you think?" she snapped. "It could endanger Ziio. Give away her residence! Bring the Templars straight to our doorstep. If you rather fancy those things, Soyala, then of course. Why not let George gossip with Templars?"
Normally it'd be her husband to cool the ambiance. In this situation, George was occupied: sinking in a despairing marsh Eva had created. Soyala sat stunned that Eva would bite back at her. Not all of Soyala's reason was...well, reasonable, but Eva had never whirled on her like this. The impossible happened: I was the peacekeeper.
"Eva, Eva, wait. Soyala's words may be optimistic, but there is an element of truth. George was never to know who he would meet." I watched as her mouth opened, ready to fight back. That only angered me: as you know, Ratohnhaké:ton, I cannot stand contradiction. "If anything, you are to blame for not suspecting it. You knew that Church was a physician. You should have warned him before he disembarked!"
I had never insulted Eva. Never wilfully, at least. But this made her eyes curl into sharp daggers. "And how are you any less to blame? You knew Church was a physician; more so than myself!"
"As long as George told him nothing..." Soyala interrupted. Her usual silvery tone had vanished. "Not where he lived, whom he knew, nothing...then we've nothing to fear. Is that not so?"
"Soyala, I appreciate your argument," George murmured at last, "but I will handle this. Why don't you...help Ziio put the children to bed?"
I never found out what was said, that night. There were no raised voices from downstairs – only exasperated sighs from both Stirlings. That was a relief: Imala was bound to prod at the situation. Fortunately, she did not: I left Soyala to tell sing the twins an African lullaby.
You would think they'd have outgrown lullabies, and so would I. For some reason I stood outside the door and let the music cleanse me. I knew not what the language meant. I didn't need to. Soyala's voice washed over me like a silver stream, temporarily drowning my troubles. It was a luxury I was seldom granted: my anxieties and past would seize my throat, often by the hour.
As soon as she stopped singing, I opened my eyes. Back to reality. Back to the gravity of the hallway, and the door opening. Soyala crept out of the room, whispering her final goodnights.
"Thank you," I whispered.
She smiled (tried to, at least). "Are they still talking?"
I nodded bitterly. No doubt they were thinking of more safety measures to obstruct me from my son. Just when I thought Eva couldn't be more insecure. Why did this have to happen? The problem did not lie in what Eva and George were doing. It was why they were taking these actions. It was all because of me...and since I came to Philadelphia, I'd been nothing but a burden.
The same went for when I served under Molly. She never took me on by choice, but even to the Stirlings, I had been a waste of space. The twins? Two extra mouths to feed. My training? What use was it, if I could never leave the city? My ideas? Almost none of them were used. What was I but unwanted cargo?
"They only want to keep you safe," Soyala whispered. Her yellow sleeve wrapped around my neck, pulling me into a hug. I accepted it – battling back tears – and thanked her once more. Though it solved nothing, Soyala made me feel I was not alone.
We cannot read minds like we read books, Ratohnhaké:ton. But Soyala came incredibly close.
I knew she was right: the Stirlings were trying to protect me. I was fortunate to have those who cared in that way. Like the leader of a Clan, Eva took every one of us under her wing. That was the worst of it. I was surrounded by people who cared for me. So why did I feel so alone?
Even these lifelong friends – soulmates, if you prefer – did not love me in the way I'd known. I missed the unconditional affection from my son; the unnecessary but intimate kindness Haytham showed.
Haytham. It had been years since we parted, on the brink of expressing our feelings. He must've been married by now – that, or he'd taken a mistress. Even though Haytham was a gentleman, he was a man nonetheless. He wouldn't remain celibate. He'd believe me dead; he'd have moved on long ago. Like a leaf fallen from a tree, I was no longer part of his life.
Not even Ratohnhaké:ton's life. My own son.
Had he moved on now? Yes, he must've done. I only hoped his grandmother would raise him lovingly...because he was born out of love. Love that was long lost, but love all the same. I missed him so sorely; he was all I could think of.
When once my time was filled with training, now I had nothing to strive for. I was an Assassin...who stood for no-one. The time was instead filled with memories. Like quicksand they seized me; they became so powerful that sometimes I would stop breathing.
Soyala had always commended my bravery. All I could think of was senseless panic.
What had I to do, but dwell on the past? I was no use to anyone. I never had been. If Eva stayed this mistrustful, I never would be.
That night (and for several that followed), the nightmares worsened.
They occurred regularly; they had done since pregnancy. By now, it was all routine. I bear enough scars already, I would repeat to myself. Just another. Usually I would wake up, walk around, perhaps creep in and watch my children sleeping peacefully. I'd do anything to remind myself that my life was secure.
But instead of just reliving my assault, my mind began to twist its spear. The face of the rapist would morph; change into my children. They'd hiss at me, their tongues like snakes, then retreat into the dark walls of the slaves' quarters. I would look round – and see my father and brothers. They stared with eyes black as berries, whispering a sermon in languages I never knew. The Templars would creep in from the walls. Their faces and fists formed a single, blurred colour: blood red. The face of the twins' father flashed one more time...and I awoke with a hysterical gasp for air.
I told no-one of this nightmare. It was probably wise after the Benjamin Church dilemma. Luckily, if I had any talent at all, it was hiding my emotions. Years of slavery had taught me to press any woes to fluid. Only occasionally would this backfire – for example, my episode of trauma in front of Molly in 1764. Today was one of those days.
As the six of us sat at the breakfast table, the silence was far from empty. Still, the echoes of my dream slithered through the wall. Imala watched my chest rise and fall – and when the adults had gone, she and Ohitekah confronted me.
"What is wrong, Mother?" she asked.
"Nothing."
She frowned, the stubborn sort. "No. You have been quiet all morning. Please, tell us what's wrong!"
Firmly, "Nothing. I'm fine."
"Stop lying! If something is the matter, perhaps I can fix it."
"Imala, please. George will be leaving in minutes. You should be ready by now."
"I won't leave until you tell the truth!"
For some reason, my blood rose to the boil. My temper was vicious as a wolf, as I snapped: "Why must you question like this? I told you to leave me be!"
"Why should we?" Now it was Ohitekah. "We're trying to help!"
His face furrowed, outstaring me. And that was when it happened. One moment, two vexed young faces frowned at me. The next...my body felt like it was falling. The dark brown in their eyes rippled into a cold, stony grey. Ohitekah's sealed lips were somehow bared. Growling. Imala's face flashed with a hunger I'd only seen once. A hunger which I never wanted to see again, yet witnessed every night. Their golden skin was absorbed like water in dust. They grew bloodless...yet bloodthirsty.
In my own children, I saw him.
The hisses and echoes from my dream snaked in. I whirled in terror, to find the words diving upon me like bats. What was this? The air was so thick with menace, I couldn't breathe.
And as quickly as this wraith wrapped itself round my throat, it released me. I doubled back; choked uncontrollably, my lungs losing strength with every cough. The salt of my tears stung my eyes. It hailed onto my hand, wrapped delicately round my flaming throat. My head contained a panic, beating on the walls to escape. I was telling myself to escape from my children.
My own son and daughter.
As their faces returned – from irked to alarmed – their words blurred to mist around me. They called my name, asking if I was alright. But I was still fixed in the frightening vision. Why would my mind do this to me? It was unpleasant, reviewing my rapist's face night after night...but I survived. Yet this? What sort of manifestation was this?
I could never see my children as the qualities of their father. Lustful, selfish and violent – I had not raised them like that, nor even related them to my nightmares. Why had this happened? Why was it drifting into my wakening life?
Eva's delusions. The void of time, every day. Missing you. Missing Haytham. Reliving my past. Perhaps I truly was going insane. That was the first of similar episodes to come. Even the Stirlings noticed that – by 1774 – I was flaking. Eva was seldom a source of comfort, but George would listen. He'd understand my chain of internal, ear-splitting rage. But he could not cure it. No encouragement from Soyala, or hugs I gave my children could cure it.
But that was soon to be the least of my worries.
It turned out that – when he met Church – George hadn't exactly told him nothing. While he hadn't mentioned me, he had given his contact details. Church wrote to him throughout 1773, asking if he could come and pick up sassafras samples. George never replied to these letters – but he never told anyone of them. No wonder he wasn't his usual, satisfied self. There were times throughout the year when he'd seem almost as reserved as me. Perhaps he was afraid of Eva, blasting like a barrel if she found out?
Of course, Eva did find out. She was not angry about the situation, but she was angry that her husband had kept it secret. The night she discovered the stack of letters was the night a row erupted downstairs. Soyala and I retreated to her chambers and listened.
"When you finished medical training, you swore an oath," Eva bellowed, "to nurse others to health. And what of your health? What good does this do to you?"
"Never mind my health. I was shielding you. Shielding all our family!"
Much as it moved me that George called us family, the house did not feel wholesome tonight.
"By leaving the situation to simmer? Why did you not tell me in the first instance? I could have prevented this!"
"How? By slitting Church's throat?"
"Oh, quite possibly," she sneered.
"And what does that solve? Eva...all his death would give is your bloody footprint in the sand."
"And all your ignorance gives is a suspicious Templar on our tail. Don't you see? You should reply to Church and tell him the deal is closed."
"I couldn't! He'll grow more suspicious, that way."
"You can't avoid him forever, George!"
And so the row continued. Soyala was excellent at guising the sound downstairs – that, or she was an excellent actor. She set to work on a painting of hers, while I sat on her bed uneasily. Once again, I was the cause of yet another row. What if I was ruining Eva and George's marriage? I knew what it was like to have a romantic relationship gashed by others.
"Ziio, you mustn't think like that," Soyala said when I voiced this. "Look. We have lived here long enough to know they've a happy and stable marriage. If this was your fault, why would George have accepted us here in the first instance? He cares deeply for us. And for the twins. All we have to do is wait."
I would've been wholly convinced, had I not known that Soyala was acting. If there was ever a disagreement, she was the worst affected. Yes, in many ways, Soyala was stronger and wiser than anyone in this house. But even as she grew, she remained sensitive. More sensitive than Ohitekah, even.
Speaking of my son, he and his sister came into Soyala's bedroom. They'd been woken by raised voices – or rather, Imala was awake anyhow and shook her brother to stir him. She heard my name among the (not quite angry) words. What was the meaning of this, she questioned, when neither me nor Soyala were involved in this argument?
"What are they quarrelling over?" Ohitekah asked, seated beside me on the bed.
What to tell him? Nothing but the truth. "A man I used to know."
"Haytham," Imala chipped in.
"No," I replied, forcing a laugh. "No, not Haytham. A...friend of his. Someone he works with."
"What does he do?" Ohitekah fired curiously.
Now I truly was beaten. If Haytham couldn't answer the question himself, how could I? "He is a sort of soldier. He runs an organisation, a little like ours..."
My words were wasted. At 'soldier', the twins' eyes leapt from their faces. "Soldier?" they cried in unison.
Soyala glanced across at me. Well handled, she signalled, before playing along. "Oh, yes. I have never met him, but I have heard he has killed many who deserve his blade."
Imala and Ohitekah looked at each other, smiles wide as the gaps between their teeth.
"Wow," Imala breathed. "How did he do that?"
I often wonder the same thing, I thought, but refrained from saying. "You would have to ask him."
"Can we?" Ohitekah pestered. "Can we meet him? Would he come here?"
Those words struck like a poison arrow. Its venom seeped through my heart like bad blood. No. Haytham had forgotten me. I was dead, in his view, and in Ratohnhaké:ton's. If I stayed here with Eva for the rest of my days, my children would never meet him.
"I'm afraid he couldn't," I sighed, "though I'd be hopeful if he would."
"Why not?" Imala whined.
That was when I decided. My children were nine years old now, and still had not grasped why I was here. Was it wise to tell them the truth? Absolutely not – and I would despise doing so. But did I think of it as unwise then? Absolutely not.
While I didn't tell them everything that night, there were several details which horrified them. I explained about Flood; about Johnson; about how I'd met Soyala: my only friend. I told them about Molly, too. I still recall Ohitekah vowing to chop off her head after all she'd done. Soyala and I chuckled at that. I also said how Eva and George had bought us – seemingly as property – then gave us the love and respect we deserved.
By the time I had finished, the scene had changed. Soyala abandoned her painting as not to miss the storytelling. She helped me recite the worst moments of my morbid life in a lighthearted, child-friendly way. We'd had laughs between us, gasps, some tears and a generally bittersweet night. The moon melted into mist, and the sky was much darker. We'd exhausted them. Imala lay across my lap; I sat cross-legged, stroking her beautiful black hair. Ohitekah was still awake – just – but he drooped against Soyala's shoulder, on the brink of sleep.
And so we carried them back into their bedroom. By this time the yelling had stopped; the Stirlings had retreated into the study to solve the issue. But that seemed so far away now; so untouchable. I hadn't felt this peaceful since the day the twins were born. I had been dwelling on the hurricane of memories, which whirled in a violent cycle. I had spoken to no-one. But sharing it with people as innocent as the twins made the storm die down. In fact, telling the story with Soyala had given a different insight on my life. I had faced so many misfortunes, it was almost comic. Not that I found my suffering a source of amusement – but I did laugh when Ohitekah threatened Johnson.
Johnson. I often thought about him. When would be the day he called me back from the plantation, discovering that I was never there? What would Flood tell him? Was Flood even still alive? Yes, he had to be. Eva would've said if he'd been struck down. I hoped he would be struck down. No, I wished that he would come to Philadelphia. Just for one day – so I could venture out; slit his throat and watch the blood and the thirst for suffering drain from his body.
That never happened...but something equally satisfying did.
In July 1774, William Johnson was reported dead.
There was word that Molly had fled to the North, because she feared persecution from her husband's killer. But who had the privilege of striking William down? Why did they do it? These were just two of the questions I fired at François like bullets when he told me.
The Matieu family had come over for a meal; François was recently in the area around Amsterdam. Yes, Amsterdam: the town four hours from Johnson Hall, where Molly had disposed of us ten years ago. There were witnesses: members of the Iroquois Confederacy who watched it unfold.
Since I had been 'safe on a plantation', Johnson had explored other ways to slither into the precursor site. The Revolutionary War began; he decided to win the favour of our people. Negotiating with tribe leaders – Kanien'kehá'ka included – he made a plan to buy their land. That way, he vowed to keep it safe from any attacks...but there was room for trickery.
Johnson did not expect our people to read between the lines of the contract. But they did.
And so William pleaded more desperately, until he held (what was meant to be) a peaceful meeting. This was about as true as any of Johnson's promises were. Towards the end of the gathering, a tribesman who protested was shot dead. He wasn't the last, either: all of them sprung to arms – and consequently – many fell to the ground, musket balls lodged between their eyes.
That was before the party was gatecrashed.
It was a man, apparently, who had leapt from the rooftops and struck Johnson with a tomahawk. When François heard this, he thought nothing of it. But then he asked the witness what the man's motive was. Why had he killed Johnson? What did he gain in doing so?
The answer: he was an Indian. Immediately everyone thought he was another member of the Iroquois leaders, though he'd seemed reportedly young.
The Assassins even held a meeting to discuss this man. Jack was swift to dismiss this as a coincidence. Johnson's killer was clearly a man who sought vengeance for the plots to buy land. After all, that was reason enough to step in and cut him down. Prudence immediately agreed with Jack; reluctantly, so did Soyala. But Eva had different ideas. What if this man had other reasons to kill Johnson? Could he be an Assassin, striking him down for his Templar heritage?
No, Prudence argued, he couldn't be. There was barely any evidence – and she was right. But why did Eva feel so strongly about this? It was an instinct – or that was her argument.
It lacked in any logic at all. In fact, what were the chances? There had been no word from the Assassins for years (not outside our own Brotherhood, anyhow). So why did I still believe Eva? Perhaps I wanted to. I wanted to believe that Assassins were out there, striking down the danger which kept me from home. Danger I could easily deal with, as a fully-trained Assassin...but clearly did not think so.
That was another thing: Johnson was dead. There was hardly any risk in going back now...was there?
To my amazement, Eva agreed with me. All right, there was far from no hazard – but Johnson's death had lifted a burden from her. Nobody would try and recapture me, now. Nobody except Lee, Hickey, Church, Flood...possibly others? I was unsure. But this time, if they did capture me, I had an entire brotherhood behind me. Even during this humdrum war, the Templars would still be searching for precursor information. They wouldn't kill me.
We stood outside the house to wave everyone off. Suddenly, I felt as if my spirits breezed like sails. There was a possibility that I could go home! I could leave Philadelphia: the first time in ten years. It would take a lot of meticulous planning, of course. Jack and Eva would take far too many precautions, of course. And, of course, there was the issue of Ohitekah and Imala. Was to venture out with them as to put them in danger? I'd be risking the lives of two of my children, just to see another. Was that fair?
The concept was mentioned in meetings to come. My son...the memory of you – the visions I had on my good nights – was within reach. My nightmares became scarce in the weeks that followed. I felt my disquietude drain away like a waterfall. I wasn't going to stay here for the rest of my life.
Although my anxieties died down a fraction, Eva's rose again. She waved the Assassins off, the night of that meeting. All of a sudden, she stopped. Her eyes centred – even in the summer dusk – and flashed with concern.
"What's the matter?" Soyala asked.
"I thought I saw...never mind," she sighed. "There was someone standing on the footpath."
"Are you sure?" I frowned.
"No. Perhaps not," she murmured eventually. The colour returned to her face, though she was white as cotton anyhow.
And we thought nothing of it. It was just a man, standing on the path that led to our house. It was nothing to be alarmed about.
However, the next day, there was a knock at the front door. Ohitekah and Imala were at school; George, at work. I was sat in the kitchen skinning a hare. But when I heard it, I shrivelled into the least visible place by the window. Why I always did that, I didn't know. If a guest knocked on the Stirlings' door who they were not expecting, I felt the need to hide. An instinct I'd honed from Johnson Hall, maybe? Even with my master dead, the memory haunted me down to my mannerisms.
It was Soyala who answered the door. I watched her from in the kitchen as she greeted the man silently: slaves were not meant to talk like equals.
"Is your master in?" It was an English-sounding voice.
Soyala shook her head.
"Never mind. Might there be anyone else within the walls?"
It was at that moment when Eva decided to walk down the stairs. She stopped in the hallway, and – almost with a snap of the fingers – changed from relaxed Assassin to elegant wife. She breathed in; stood a little taller. Shoulders back, she padded to Soyala's side. "Good afternoon, sir." Her voice had a soft, nasal quality. "I assume it is my husband you seek?"
"Well, preferably so," the man replied. "Yet...I'm sure you can accept this gift for him. I am a partner in trade of Stirling's, you see, and I happened to be within the area. Thought I'd replenish his stocks of this antiseptic. Could you do that for me, ma'am? Tell him I distilled it myself. And I'm awfully sorry to have missed him, but I must return home."
"Of course," Eva said with excessive politeness, "though I must say...forgive my curiosity, but my husband never mentioned a visit from a trade partner."
By now I was becoming curious. I wanted to glimpse the man's face, just to have an idea of the happenings. Was it worth walking across the hallway to have a look? Soyala did. Why shouldn't I?
Hiding be damned, I abandoned skinning the hare and left. Soyala eyed me uneasily as I walked – I should've known then. As the English voice continued bluffing like a salesman, his voice stopped when he saw me.
That was when I braved a glance...and the sight of him made me want to keel over. His slate eyes alone were enough to hurl me into a void of my past. A void of all the memories, no matter how irrelevant or how dreadful. The sight of him set my heart pounding against my chest, my instincts screaming at me to run.
Benjamin Church. I knew it.
I stood transfixed, wanting to say his name. I tried, but my throat was dry as dust. His eyes shrank to the size of musket balls. They pulsed in my direction. Not in surprise, but in something I knew all too well: greed.
Why wasn't he surprised to see me?
Immediately I scanned for his Templar cross. Surely enough, a cross-shaped pendant bled in the light outside. Every gap in my chest, which should usually allow air, only had room for adrenaline. With every heartbeat the command grew louder.
Run. Run. Run. Run.
I couldn't ignore it – so quickly I shuffled into the drawing room.
As I recovered, my breaths slightly scarce, Soyala rushed to my aid. She caught me by the elbows and lowered me into a chair, telling me to calm myself. She asked no questions: just swooped in to help. Exactly what she'd done when I met her. Rubbing my back to soothe me, she whispered: "Why were you so frightened? Is that man –"
"Church," I choked softly. "Benjamin Church. Don't you remember him?"
"Yes," she said, having thought for a moment. "I thought he looked familiar. And he held a box of medical items...and the cross. The Templar cross...of course it was Church. Ziio, are you alright?"
"Better, thank you," I whispered.
We listened in to the conversation in the hallway. By now Eva's voice had grown darker; more serious. Away with elegance, her swan-like etiquette had turned defensive and impatient.
"Which one would that be?" she asked, her voice low.
"The one in the lilac dress," Church replied.
Oh no. I was wearing a lilac dress.
"The Indian?" he pressed.
My lungs froze over, ready to begin choking all over again. I knew now: Church had come for me. No wonder he didn't seem surprised. The antiseptic was a disguise; an excuse to visit a partner in trade.
"My regrets, sir," Eva said, without a feather of regret, "but the Indian is not – nor ever will she be – for sale."
"Ah, you see, I could offer –"
"I will send my husband your regards," Eva cut across him sharply. "Thank you for stopping by."
"Wait –"
Too late. Eva had closed the door on Benjamin, and stormed crossly into the drawing room. After a succession of curses, growls and empty threats to Church, she finally asked if I was alright.
I was, I said, although I was equally concerned about the situation.
"I knew I saw a man on the pathway last night," she fumed quietly. "Wearing the exact same emerald coat, in fact! The outline of that excuse for a wig included. I might've known."
"What did he want from Ziio?" Soyala questioned, still cocooning me like a child.
I shook free from her grip, gently. "He looked like he had been...expecting me. Perhaps that was what encouraged the fear."
This only made Eva more troubled. "But how did he discover you being here? Any connections to do with Johnson are gone –"
At that moment, the three of us looked at each other in revelation. Johnson was dead; Flood would tell the rest of the Templars the truth about me. I wasn't on a plantation. I had been bought by a ginger-haired woman and her almost-as-ginger-haired husband. From that, Benjamin could have deduced exactly where I lived. So he had come for me. He'd covered up his visit as a delivery...when in fact he was after me. No wonder he wasn't surprised at my presence.
What concerned me more was my reaction. What was this sudden weakness? I knew – by law, at least – Church could not harm me. He had little interest in the precursor site, in any case. Johnson was always the most enthusiastic. But I was supposed to be an Assassin; I was trained to kill Templars. So why – when so much as eyed by a Templar – did I become so hysterical?
My past. Was it not the reason I was an Assassin? Even Soyala could look a Templar in the eye; kill them if she wished. Was it the shock? The surprise? The greed in his eyes, repeated in the eyes of my attacker?
I used to think that the past made me. Now it made me, all right. Made me weak.
I had become the woman I'd feared most: relying on the cushioning of others to keep me afloat. Drowning in dread, the moment anyone rocked the boat. I would have to learn to control this. I hoped this wouldn't be a regular occurrence. But if Eva wouldn't let me outside of Philadelphia (and doubtless she wouldn't let me leave the house, after the day's events), how would I learn? Like a wolf cub weaned far too late, I was unprepared for anyone who may have harmed me again.
When George came home that evening, he apologised over and over. He seemed even more guilty than I did, though I said he shared none of this blame. It was nobody's fault but Church's. I had come to this conclusion with Soyala, after my needless remorse many months ago. If your own hands do not upset the balance, Ratohnhaké:ton, you've no reason to feel the ripples.
It had to be said: everyone felt the ripples of our visitor. Even the twins.
Only a week later, it was Flood's turn to come knocking on the door. Eva peered through the window, saw who it was and sent me to answer him. It was a confidence exercise, I think. Perhaps she felt to blame for my hysterical reaction to Church. I initially refused – and while the six of us sat at the table squabbling over it, Ohitekah volunteered.
We listened intently to their conversation. Not even a hello; an Irish voice boomed for the boy to fetch his (Flood hesitated) father. Ohitekah glanced sideways at George, who shrugged.
"Tell him I'm out," he mouthed.
"I-I'm sorry," my son bluffed. "I think he is out."
"Where?"
Again, Ohitekah stumbled, eyes darting everywhere. He'd been caught in the blast of this – and now, he began to panic. Just from the tension in the hallway, I could feel Flood's anger thickening like a thundercloud. I could almost smell the alcohol on his breath – like every morning on the works.
"You're lying to me," he snarled. "Don't you lie to me, you little –"
I didn't hear the rest of the sentence. Flood had done his fair share to hurt me. He'd left scars and bruises, in ways no man should witness. He'd gone out of his way to buy us back, just to ruin our lives a little more. He could do what he wanted with me. But never – ever – would he insult my son.
The anger rose like hot steam inside me. I didn't notice where it came from. All I felt was it swirling as I jumped from the chair, fists clenched; teeth bared.
"Ziio –" George tried to stop me.
"Mother, no!" Imala's turn.
Too late. I strode into the hallway, shaking off George's protective hand. By now my skull was simmering. Flood's voice had raised to muffled shouts. I didn't hear the words. I only saw my son, statue white, as a stranger shouted at him. Heart punching, I grabbed Ohitekah by the shoulders and pulled him out of the way.
"Leave the boy alone."
Part of me – hushed – still told me to stay away. But I was no longer afraid. I glared up into Flood's hawk-like eyes; he surveyed me with an entertained pity. While I stood there with my arm around Ohitekah, Thomas laughed.
"Well, well, well...Ruth. Thought I might run into you here."
"I know," I hissed. "You came for me. Tell me, how is Johnson Hall these days? I hear it's a little...empty."
Where was this bold voice coming from? Twenty years ago, comebacks were a reflex for me. What a great moment for my wit to make its return. And Flood's insulted stare only encouraged me.
"How does it feel? All your glorious work, gone to waste. Is that why you came for me? The last token of your efforts?"
"You've a bitter tongue, savage," he breathed darkly. "It'll kill you one day, I swear."
"The bitter killed your tongue long ago," I shot back. "I seem to remember...it lost you your job."
Surprised that an Indian could respond with any wit, Flood backed away slightly. Not that it stopped him. "Might as well be down to it. Where is your master?"
"I am here."
All three of us turned to see George. He strode down the corridor, rigid as iron. He was just as good – if not better than his wife – at changing from gentle George to man of the ménage. The placid, yet ice-cold look in his eyes...it mirrored that of Eva's on the day Flood lost the auction.
"You should teach your slaves some respect, Stirling," he growled at him. "And your redskin children, at that."
"Aaron? Dismissed," George said coolly.
Ohitekah was unfortunately caught in the middle of this, but returned to the kitchens. There would be time to explain later.
"How do you know me?" he demanded of Flood.
"You don't. But I do believe I know a man who does."
"Benjamin Church," George murmured, the blue eyes turning ever-grey. "If this is concerning the Indian, no. She is not for sale. She never will be for sale, thank you very much." He cleared his throat awkwardly. An excellent actor though he was, George's weakness was saying 'no'. "And do be so kind as to ask Mister Church to cease our...corespondency."
Flood frowned. "He never mentioned a correspondency."
"Precisely. Mister Church must have...feigned whatever reason to contact myself and my wife. I would appreciate for this madness to end."
"Who do you think I am, Stirling?" Flood's blonde queue lashed round his neck like a snake. "Benjamin's personal manservant?"
"And about the Indian..." He cut across the Templar swiftly. "Not for sale. Are we clear?"
"This won't be the last time I visit." A growl boiled in Flood's voice, hotter than hatred. "And thank Jesus, Mary and Joseph I didn't come armed."
And we knew he never would.
Over the next few months, Church's various henchmen wrapped their knuckles on our door. Oddly enough, we were never visited by Charles Lee or Thomas Hickey. Could Church and Flood be the only ones who knew? Not including their associates, of course. We recognised them instantly: the Templar ring was the giveaway. Without question, we learned to slam the door in their faces.
But throughout 1775 and this year, the men who arrived at our homestead had no ring. No necklace. No obvious Templar giveaway. In fact, they were (more often than not) dressed in red coats. Yes...the Redcoats. Soldiers in the British Army, no less, asking if the Indian was for sale. Why was that? Had Church and Flood teamed up with the British Army? Had they gone their separate ways (for on one occasion it'd be Templar visitors; the next, British Army visitors)...or would we never understand?
These soldiers even hid in street corners; watched George walk the children to the schoolhouse.
They were planning something...and their presence was just a reminder of that. They loitered like death, saying in their very being: "We are watching."
There was one thing I never grasped. Why hadn't Flood simply ransacked the house; killed Eva, George, any witnesses, and taken me? That was what happened to Prudence's husband, ten years ago. Or what if the British Army asked the authorities to search the Stirlings' homestead? Maybe it'd be noticed if our house was targeted. George was a valuable member of the town, after all. There was another aspect of Templar logic that disgusted me: if George had not been a doctor – or perhaps even a little less wealthy – they would've long killed him by now. Ironically, the small, valued pebbles George held made the greatest breastplate of all.
But how long could we hide from our visitors?
By now, we had to explain the entire situation to the twins (the rape included, which proved an ordeal, to say the very least). Could we risk them – and even George – being dragged into a war that was not theirs? We never wanted to.
In fact, now even Soyala was forbidden from leaving the Stirling's land. That made sense to me: what if she was recognised? Eva restricted even the twins' freedom. Whenever they ventured into the woodland, she accompanied them. Imala was slightly irked, but understood it was for the best. Ohitekah – an adventurous boy by nature – felt caged.
So he began to release his energy indoors. I received whinges from Imala for weeks afterwards – her brother had thrown a ball at her, her brother had damaged a challis, her brother this, her brother that. Even I had to laugh. My daughter had a sense of humour, yes, but not the bold, lively wit of Ohitekah. Imala would become annoyed at her brother for the smallest of misdemeanours – which I always responded with: "You sound like his mother!"
Often Imala would retreat into the library room. It wasn't a library, as such...more of an ornamented bookshelf, with a room of its own. It seemed so different from any other room in the Stirlings' house: disinherited. Unused. The dust was almost decorative, only to show the isolation from the world. Imala was a very bright girl, and until now, she'd had little interest in books.
I think Hazel Matieu had been a positive influence on her. Once in 1775, Rose and François visited. Hazel had found her way into the library, leaving handprints in the dust of the book covers. A marking of territory. She sat at the little desk, feasting on knowledge for what seemed like an age. Ohitekah came bounding up to me and asked where Hazel was. She'd disappeared while playing hide-and-seek, he told me. We had barely noticed her gone; perhaps we assumed she was upstairs with her brothers and my children.
And so the adults went looking. Rose eventually found her daughter, indulged in untouched volumes. What was most strange was the type of books that Hazel was reading: chemistry, the human body as we knew it, anatomy, medicine...what eleven-year-old took interest in such profound science? Or (as Rose pointed out), why was a girl reading these books at all?
I never knew that Rose was so...conservative. She was one of – if not the – kindest, non-judging and most generous women I'd ever met. Her views on her daughter's role in society differed from mine. She said that science was for boys; older men at that. I think that must've been when George stepped in.
"Let her read. A healthy interest does no harm, does it?"
Rose did not necessarily agree – though differing opinions is consequently what makes us whole. Those were Soyala's words – not my own – in case you wondered, Ratohnhaké:ton.
It was that night that François revealed new information. John Pitcairn – a Templar in Haytham's inner circle – was dead. He'd been cut down last year, in circumstances we had seen before. Assassinated from above – or that was what François heard from his fellow Patriotic soldiers. He was now a member of the Continental Army (though in Philadelphia, he had very little to do). He was close enough to the action that he heard the rumours: a man in a white hood slashed Pitcairn's throat with a tomahawk.
Yes, a tomahawk. The same weapon used to kill Johnson.
What more evidence did Eva need? Two dead Templars. One weapon. A white hood. She named this stranger the "Boston Assassin".
Of course, Johnson had not died in Boston; Pitcairn had. Who would be this man's next target? Would we have to wait and see? Was he even an Assassin, or was this all assumptions?
Frantically, Jack wrote to Achilles Davenport one last time. He asked him if he truly had recruited an Assassin, and if he had done, why had he never told Jack? Did he expect him to discover the Boston Assassin alone? He explained our situation, though refrained from mentioning me (in case the letter was intercepted. It seemed Eva's protection would never falter). Why was Church bothering us? Was Benjamin even a Templar anymore? Did Achilles know the answer?
That wasn't the only detail in the letter we wrote. There was something – I suppose – more important than the death of Pitcairn.
One day, George came home from work, face flaked like snow. He had arrived at his surgery – only to find that all his supplies were gone. Ointments, herbs, blades...gone. Crates and crates of a rare substance (which was distilled with care, and as of yet, untested)...disappeared. That was what George was most worried about. Having told him of a Mohawk traditional treatment, I'd inspired the doctor to make a new medicine. Now, someone had stolen it.
We all knew who it was: Church. Who else could it be? Benjamin was the only one who knew of George's medicine. But what did he want with it? If this was to tempt the Assassins out of hiding, why not – as Toby would put it – "face us like a man"? And so we were caught in a new dilemma: we couldn't pursue Church, for that would endanger everyone in our family. But George needed his supplies. He would have to turn down patients: destitute, dying, whatever the scenario, he could provide no treatment. More than anything, it hurt George that he would have to refuse patients. He loathed saying no; letting people down.
Predictably, Eva summoned the Assassins for a meeting.
Some of the outcomes of that meeting were positive. We all gathered at the table...and Jack announced the news. For the first time in years, Achilles had responded to Jack's letter.
Yes, the old man was still alive. Yes, Johnson and Pitcairn's killers were the same man. His name was Connor; he had recently succeeded in assassinating Thomas Hickey (Thank the spirits, I thought, remembering all that bastard had done). In fact, that was why Achilles replied: Hickey had pinned a conspiracy theory on Connor – he told the authorities that he was to kill George Washington. Achilles happened to be in New York – the same place as Church – as he'd organised a rescue for Connor from execution.
Achilles heard rumours that Benjamin was not a Templar, but a physician in the British Army. In fact, fearing that Connor would target him next, he had fled further south. Achilles still couldn't explain where the medical supplies came into this. Perhaps it was a way of reminding the Assassins that he was still a threat; perhaps he needed expensive medicine for his own selfish profit – and knew he could find it in Stirling's possession. Perhaps it meant both.
What it did mean was that at some point, Church had been in Philadelphia. But where was he now?
Prudence volunteered to track Benjamin herself, but Jack refused. Why not try and contact Achilles first? Why not attempt alliance with Connor? François adamantly stated it was dangerous to focus on the British Army. What about Flood? It was only a matter of time before he drifted back into the picture.
Eventually, Toby (who usually never focused in meetings) formed the most sensible solution. He would explore Philadelphia – right now – and find any evidence of Church's presence there. Everyone had to agree with him, there. That fed his fit-to-burst ego; he stomped on his sudden display of intelligence with a proposal.
"Sorry, George," he smirked, "but I may need your help. I'm not to know what I'm looking for without you."
George was reluctant to leave, only because he wanted to hear the rest of the meeting. Eva was shocked at the thought. What if they ran into Flood's associates? They wore a different disguise every day; there was no method of predicting them now. That was one of the only times I'd seen Eva rise up in horror at an idea. I have little idea how she agreed.
"I have seen Toby fight, Eva," François reassured her. "Flood wouldn't approach us again, with Collins as a convoy."
Eva spun to François in protest...then stopped. She sighed deeply. "All right. But please be cautious, George. There's no way of knowing –"
She was stopped immediately: George rose and kissed her. None of us expected it – he rarely showed affection for his wife outside the family. He was supposed to be fearing for his job, reserved, quiet...it defied every aspect of his nature. François began a chain reaction of oohs and aahs as Eva relaxed.
"I'll be fine." George pulled away, blushing lightly. "You see to our guests; I will dig for what we need."
"Wow," Toby breathed from behind.
"What?" Eva and George spun and spoke simultaneously.
"I should treat you with more respect," Toby drawled. "Didn't know you were such a cavalier."
Eva – who seldom found these jokes amusing – rolled her eyes playfully. "You could learn a lesson from him, Mister Collins."
Toby rolled his humorous eyes. "He can teach me on the way. Come on, George, before your woman turns her attentions to me!"
"In your dreams," I drawled sarcastically. At that, everyone around the table laughed.
But it wasn't a wholly happy meeting. In fact, pandemonium struck when the two men returned that night. Well, I say two men. They seemed to have acquired an extra.
It was already late when they left; in the early hours of the morning, even. Our meetings generally never started until very late, because we couldn't risk the twins overhearing. George and Toby headed first to the nearest tavern. At this hour, any potential witnesses to Church's being here were loose-tongued.
That was – they were headed for the tavern, when the bells in the tower chimed one in the morning. Toby cursed. It would probably be closed by now. Nonetheless they waited at the door. And they were out of luck: a man in his thirties opened the door to the desolate cave. He was tall – taller than the tavern door, as Toby remembers – with tightly-curled, strawberry blonde hair. In his hand he held a case, with leather that shimmered like black moonlight. A fiddle case.
In an Irish accent, the man said: "Sorry, I think they're locking up for the night."
George thanked him, though cursed inwardly. Toby only scoffed in irritation. "Come on, George. We should find another tavern."
The Irishman nodded, watching the two strangers turn a corner. He knew they should've expected trouble, walking around at this time of night.
Only minutes later, Toby and George turned once again to the Irishman's voice.
"Sirs!" he called out breathlessly. "Sirs, wait!"
Across the poorly-lit cobbles, the man plunged towards them, worry wide like his eyes. Both of them stopped.
"There were men in the building when I left," he panted, upon reaching them. "And they spoke of assassinating a certain George Stirling. They planned to poison his drink...that wouldn't be you, would it?"
It would. But before George could even concern himself, a voice pierced the lonesome street like a spear.
"There's the sneak! Get him!"
Toby was slightly intoxicated; he was unprepared as two of Flood's familiar subordinates charged at him. George leapt back – not in this fight – and looked around wildly for a way out.
"Look!" the other Templar called. "It's that Stirling fellow. You take the Assassin. I'll complete the task!
George froze, like the cobbles were quicksand. What could he do? Toby's only weapon were his hidden blades; the said Templars had raised what looked like swords.
The Irishman was torn between cowering behind Toby and fighting the latter. He wasn't armed...well, not as such. But could a fiddle case do any damage? Not exactly.
A dagger. No, one of them had a dagger. And he was raising it...to throw at George.
With what George described as a "godlike flash", the Irishman raised his fiddle case to George's head. The blade slashed the black leather with a dull ripple. George couldn't believe it, upon opening his eyes. Firstly, Toby had slit the first guard's throat, and secondly...he was still alive.
And the fiddle player didn't stop at that. Furiously, the surviving Templar lashed at him. Toby cried out to the man; told him to dodge. The bayonet soared towards him, diving like a kite on the end of the musket. But there was no need to warn him. The man already had the Templar in a headlock, wrestling the musket from him. The shot splintered the sinister air; the Templar moaned and wept blood to the ground.
It was all too fast to comprehend, even for sober George. There was no time to thank the stranger; not even to ask who he was. All that mattered was an escape route.
The man picked up his mangled fiddle, checking he wasn't covered in crimson evidence. All was clear, so he breathed: "Do you know a way out of this chaos?"
"Back to the homestead," Toby said urgently.
"No – clean your blade first," George pleaded, "else we'll be good as telling them to come after us."
"But...who are they?" the stranger blurted.
After all that, he'd defended them, not knowing the situation? Where did he learn to fight? Or didn't he know how to fight? There was no time for that now. Toby retracted his hidden blade (pleading its red residue would not spill) and the three of them sprinted back. Back to the meeting.
The moment they told Eva what happened, her lips seemed numb. Instinctively, Soyala rose to fetch them all a drink. I stayed still...and contemplated the Irishman. His windswept curls, his long and lean figure...and his brown but frantic eyes...he seemed like a reluctant hero. He'd walked into a murder plot; saved the day and been almost abducted by the Brotherhood.
Jack and François were doing their best to calm him. Nobody had mentioned what we stood for, yet. Eva and George had adjourned to another room. Clearly it was a private matter, the fact that her husband was inches from death...she probably felt responsible. She never should have let him out, she should have suspected this, she should have reconsidered, and so on.
Toby handed the man his coat. Wide-eyed, the man accepted it. The room sat in sinister silence, glancing only at this petrified, victimised saviour.
"Sir, tell me something," Toby murmured. "What made you want to be involved with this? What made you find us?"
By now, the stranger's lips embraced another drink. He was no lightweight, it would appear, although he still seemed sombre. "Hamish, please," he replied. "Hamish Wolf."
"Wolf, eh? Don't sound too Irish, if you don't mind my saying."
Prudence glared at Toby, appalled by his insensitivity. I shrugged at her, turning the creases in her face at ease.
"Oh – that would be because it isn't. My father was Austrian, you see."
"I do see."
"Forgive his bluntness," I put in, copying Prudence's eagle stare. "Manners have never been his...priority."
It turned out that Hamish intervened because he heard some words. It wasn't even George's name that sparked interest – it was the sentence (seemingly a password or code) the men had used to each other: "May the Father of Understanding guide us."
And Hamish was sure he'd heard these words before. But where? He'd never encountered Assassin or Templar. In fact, he only worked in the tavern – only as a performer. He had come to the colonies ten years ago, hoping to join a conservatoire to embrace his musical passion; follow in his father's footsteps. Now an accomplished fiddle player, he earned extra coins when not needed by ensembles in taverns.
His father. He'd had a shady past, and had died in (still unexplained) circumstances.
Soyala immediately pointed out a parallel between Hamish's father and Prudence's husband, Sebastian.
"But what does it mean?" Prudence asked. "Are you suggesting that Mister Wolf's father was one of our number?"
"An accomplished fiddle player, you say?" François thought aloud. "Zen how – and why – did he end up in Ireland?"
Hamish shook his head. "He met my mother, I suppose," he murmured. "Beautiful barmaid of a Dublin tavern. It was her father's family business. But...even then, my father was never much of a drinker."
All this time, Jack had gone silent. He often did this when he was thinking; his eyes would loiter over the meeting like an owl, before he would open his mouth to speak again. And Jack had a theory: if Hamish knew little of his father Franz's past, could he have been an Assassin? There was a war in the Ottoman Empire, at the point when Franz would've been young.
Hamish shrugged once again. He had never truly known his father: Franz left the family tavern when Hamish was twelve. He and his mother still received letters from him, though. They described – with vividness almost incredible – his numerous concerts, orchestral recitals and string ensembles. He'd been all over the world, according to the letters. It inspired Hamish to begin learning the fiddle himself. But one day, the letters ceased.
"Hamish..." Jack placed his elbows on the table, staring softly over his half-moon lenses. "I am going to say a phrase, and I want you to tell me if you have heard them before."
Hamish nodded.
"Nothing is true; everything is permitted."
The Assassin's Creed.
In a long silence, Hamish sucked the inside of his cheek. "Aye," he hummed. "Sounds...familiar."
"Stay your blade from the flesh –"
"Of an innocent," Hamish finished, taking us all by surprise. "Aye. Me ma'am used to say that one to break up fights in the bar."
"What about this one?" It was Prudence's turn. "We work in the shadows –"
"To serve the light!" he gasped. "That was one of my da's morales. Raised me by a strict ethical...suppose it was a code."
All of us – myself, Soyala, Jack, François, Toby and Prudence – exchanged gleeful glances. We all knew that ethical code. We all lived by the Creed...and now, we had found someone else who did.
"This is no coincidence," Soyala insisted. "Were you ever taught to fight?"
"Only how to block a punch," Toby shrugged. "You need it, living in a tavern. Why?"
Soyala opened her mouth to speak, when George and Eva re-entered. It was difficult to tell which one was paler. Both of their faces were varnished with tears (which Eva had done her best to mask). All eyes turned to the couple. Although they'd gained everyone's undivided attention, they seemed to sink through the floorboards in shame. I had never seen them looking so...helpless. So afraid.
Eva took a deep breath, clasping her wet fingers together, and spoke the words I didn't want to suspect.
"We need to leave."
:D
Whaddup folks? This is the longest chapter yet, at about 11,000 words! May take a couple of days to read, ahaha :P I know there's been so much from Ziio's perspective...but I think next chapter is the last one. And it probably won't be as long! I hope you enjoyed this chapter, hehehe :D
JUST A DISCLAIMER: Hamish is NOT a stereotypical Irish bloke. Yes, he has semi-ginger hair and grew up in a tavern. I am not trying to stereotype him; it's just that all the Irish people in this story so far have been the bad guys! Hickey, Johnson, Flood...but they were all Irish (google it!) And I thought it'd be nice to have a nice guy!
HAVE YOU GUYS SEEN THE NEW AC TRAILER? GO WATCH IT NOW OMG PLEASE! ARNO IS LITERALLY SO HOT AND AHHHH ASDFGHJKL JUST WATCH IT OKAY.
Finally (and possibly most importantly), I'm thinking of changing my super-embarrassing name. Does anyone know if that messes up all the links to Everbound etc? It's just, if it doesn't then I'm gonna change my ff to either my tumblr (tomatoegeek) or my wattpad (QuiteFrankie I think). Opinions?
And thank you for having the patience to put up with my painfully slow updates! Thanks for reading, you're all amazing :D