Just before I venture off into foreign lands with no wifi, I'd like to say a big thank you and give a chapter. This one's quite broken up; it'll be like this for the next few chapters, I think.

This won't apply to everyone, but all my fellow Brits...the best of luck with your GCSE results on Thursday (I'm so nervous!) and May the Grade Boundaries Be Ever in your Favour!

And if you've had AS or A Level results, congratulations! I'm proud of you however you did. REMEMBER THAT OKAY? OKAY?

In fact, if you've had exam results anywhere in the world...congratulations! Here's a little chapter to say well done...

P.S. Happy belated birthday Lis ;) love you lots!

INTERMEZZO FOUR

It had been four days since the funeral.

Only four days since Connor faced the second greatest challenge in his life. It was not a physical one; he was apt in every physical field. Besides seemingly losing his mother, public speaking was one of the worst challenges for the Master Assassin.

He hoped he had done Achilles justice, standing there with a clump of sadness in his throat. He hoped his speech had – if not moved – sufficed. And now, only days after now public speech, he would have to make another.

Connor was caught between sorting Achilles' belongings, and packing his own for New York. Two days until Kenway's Fleet launched their assault on Fort George.

Fort George. Supposedly, something was happening there. The Assassins did not know what...but Connor had sent his parents off before receiving this news. That was a mistake. A huge mistake. Why were none of the New York informants answering his pleas? Why was no-one writing to him; saying that Haytham and Ziio were safe and alive?

It took Connor a while to focus on the task in hand. He picked up his tomahawk – weighed it in his palm – and was about to place it in his belt. He would need it soon enough.

"Sir, there is a man here to see you."

If he had more energy, Connor would've been surprised by this. Instead he was unresponsive to the freedwoman stood at the door. Usually it would be Achilles to tell him this sort of thing, then grow impatient when Connor ignored him momentarily. His heart would have ached somewhat, but it was already aching permanently.

"Sir...?"

"Thank you, Akua."

Connor placed the tomahawk on the bed and made his way out onto the hallway. He descended the staircase, where the door was already open. There was a man – a white man – stood outside. Connor couldn't see his face until he was stood by the entrance.

As usual, he did not expect whom he saw; despite his lack of exuberance, the sight made Connor's eyes jerk. Small, tightly-curled brown hair, navy overcoat...and an expression of a carthorse in a crash. But his defining feature was his hooked, broken nose and bruised blue eyes.

"Robert? What are you –"

"C-Connor," the butler stammered. "I know I shouldn't have come. I-I'm sorry...and I am truly sorry to hear about Achilles' passing. But I had to come."

"What is the matter?" The Assassin's concern was genuine.

Robert dug his hands further into his coat, trembling. "I...I was unsure who to t-turn to. I could be killed for this –"

"What? Who wants to kill you? Robert, what has happened?"

The other man's eyes kept flicking corner to corner, checking he hadn't been followed. He leaned into the porch and whispered: "I found something. I don't know where your father and mother are, but..." He reached into his coat, and shakily pulled out a crumpled letter. "I found it on their front doorstep after they left."

Scrutinised, Connor took the parchment from Robert's fingers. He looked down at the butler as he opened the envelope, asking: "Who gave it to you?"

"I do not know. They left it there when I was at the doctor."

The Templar seal was on the back of the envelope, with the Assassin symbol gashed across it. Of course. When Connor opened it, the parchment had only five words: Fort George', followed by: 'We are waiting'. He looked Robert in the hollowed eyes.

"This makes no sense. Are you sure that this was left for them?"

"Who else would it be for?"

Connor turned the paper over in his hand. His mind was working slowly. Why Fort George? Did it have anything to do with Connor's plan; anything to do with the naval attack on New York? He could not deduce anything at a glance. Of course, it could have been just another threatening piece of mail. The Templars had been sending those to Haytham for years.

"Robert, I think you should come inside. I need you to tell me everything you know. This could be extremely important..." The Assassin noticed Robert's eyes moving frantically to the right. His tattered jaw dropped; his whole body tensed. "Robert? Are you alright?"

No response but heavy breathing. No response...but the mad writhing of Robert's eyes. No response, but the butler's entire body shaking, like he'd gasped silently and sucked in all his fear. He stuttered: "No...oh no...oh God...I-I've been followed!"

Followed...

No time to think. Instinctively, Connor grabbed Robert's arm and pulled him inside the house. Blood began pouring into his mind, making it work. "How do you know? Is there someone outside?"

"Y-yes...there was a man," he squeaked. "A man with a musket. Oh, God...oh, God...not this again..."

Connor pushed the butler into a kneeling position. "Ssh...try to keep quiet," he whispered. "How close were they? Far away enough for me to find a weapon?"

"No!" Robert stifled his sobs with difficulty.

"All right, all right...where were they? Try to remember exactly."

Robert squeezed his eyes shut; a solitary tear dripped from one. "B-behind the st-stable. I only saw his him for asecond. Oh God, there may be more of them..."

"All right, all right...go and hide yourself in the back room. I will take care of this."

Connor did not bother to escort the butler to safety; there was work to do. He marched into the kitchen. There had to be some sort of weapon in here. Something.

Almost immediately, he identified and grabbed a longsword in one of Achilles' boxes. It was heavier than his trusted tomahawk, but no matter. It would be enough to defend himself; that accompanied by his armour...

Suddenly a rush of concern filled him: Connor's armour was upstairs. For once, he was not wearing his Assassin robes. How much protection would his skill and a cotton shirt provide him with?

No time to worry about that. Like a white wolf, Connor padded silently down the homestead porch; across the grass. He could almost sense the Templar behind the stable wall...if only he could see that close. But there was more than one presence; he could feel it. Two. Three...possibly more Templars. Somehow, Connor knew they were not freedmen.

How did Templars tail Robert here without him noticing? Surely, having been attacked within the fortnight, he'd be a little more alert when walking alone?

Connor pressed his back against the stable wall. Over in a field, a freedwoman looked at him curiously. He pressed his finger to his lips; the woman understood and walked away. That was the harsh reality here. Intruders were not common, but they were expected. There was a simple rule: if Connor was seen sneaking, the freedmen and women were not to interfere or even look at him. It was for their safety.

Now that he strained his ears, Connor did hear something. Yes, horses. Far too many to be normal. His stable housed mostly refugees, not animals. But there came defined snorts and stamping of hooves.

Templars...or soldiers. They had muskets, Robert said, so most likely soldiers.

Connor considered his options for a moment. If they did have muskets, he would never be able to take them on in combat. He'd have to assassinate them stealthily.

"'Ow long do you think this'll take?" one of them asked.

"As long as it takes, Harry. We're being paid for this."

"Yeah? Well, the boss ain't paid us in weeks. If I was any braver, I'd ask for a pay rise!"

"But this is Master Lee. There will be no pay rises."

Connor's hair stood on end: they were Templars. And by 'this', what did they mean? Tailing Robert? Surely they didn't plan to kill him. Connor was the true target here.

Nonetheless, he was also armed and dangerous.

Impatience overtook the Assassin as he ripped around the stable corner. His upthrust sword immediately alarmed the two men. Both white, both American, both blue-coated and both holding loaded muskets.

But no horses. Where were the sounds of horses coming from?

"Hey! There he is!"

"Get 'im!"

Before the first could shoot, Connor bared his teeth and leapt upon him. Clang. Somehow, the man's flimsy wooden stick deflected the steel longsword. Connor was quick to recover. He kicked the man and, given the Assassin's uncanny strength, sent him flying backwards. He was pinned up against the stable wall; the last thing he saw was a blade plunging through the air and slicing his heart. He moaned and gargled in vain, but Connor had better things to do than watch him die.

So did the other Templar. As Connor whirled on him – a flash of white – the man ducked. Connor underestimated the man's agility; perhaps these Templars were capable fighters. But he could fight this one, he thought, slashing his sword through the air. He could take this one down without a single bead of sweat on his brow.

"Now! Now!" the Templar screamed over his fight.

Connor did not have time to stop and look in the man's eyes. If he had done, he'd have seen the silent, wicked glee within. He'd have known the pleasure the Templar felt as finally – finally – the true purpose of following Robert was executed.

But Connor did not even have time to think. What was happening? Was the man calling for reinforcements?

Over the sound of gun against sword, the hooves came closer. No, they were rolling into a gallop. There came distant cries of other men. Many other men. Many other horses. Connor's heart lurched; he was certain he heard screams from the freedwomen and men beyond.

He whirled to the direction of the forest...and in that brief moment, saw it. Almost a dozen men, three or more of which were on horseback.

Usually a surprise such as this would not phase the young man. Usually, Connor was concentrated and brave, like an eagle. But not today. All the tiredness, all the suddenness of the attack, caused his muscles to weaken. His senses were overloaded; he knew he could never fight those men alone with no armour and one sword.

What sort of conspiracy was this? And how had that many men come into the land unnoticed? Where were they hiding to begin with?

No. He had to focus on the fight.

A sharp jab in the back, like a pin prick. That was all it took to lose Connor's focus. He tried to ignore it, but the pain grew throughout his body. What was this?

Never mind, he thought. Kill the Templar. Kill...the...

Connor raised his sword to stab his attacker. No. Something was wrong. His arm seemed to move through water instead of air. His fingers became numb, almost to the point of dropping his weapon. His eyelids drooped. Suddenly he was sweating with the effort to keep them open. His brain, too, zoned out to all other thoughts; all other sights; all other sounds. The only thing he could hear was the muffled steel clashing with the wood.

Stay awake, Ratohnhaké:ton. Stay awake or...you...will...die.

He moved his head to dodge a punch, knowing he was not strong enough to block it. Slowly, as his mind worked, he knew what had happened.

A sleep dart. He'd been hit with a sleep dart.

Connor moved too quickly for his own good. Blood came clotting in his skull, making it pulse painfully. His eyes were all but closed. His mind was screaming at him to fight; to stay upright. But he knew he was too weak.

By the time he thudded against the ground, Connor's knees were numb His sword clattered beside him in a silver blur. Shouts surrounded him like a fierce winter storm...but he was deaf to all sounds. The world was spinning too quickly. The blue coats, the weapons and the grass against his sweating face encased him as it grew darker, darker, darker...

Darker.

ZIIO

If nothing else, it was calmer here.

The landscape was so natural – so soft – that I could almost melt into it. The only sounds were the rustle of crisping leaves, and the clicks and caws of the woodland creatures. I was home here. In a sense.

Haytham and I had set up camp in the woods bordering New York; we'd been undisturbed for almost three days now. We never made ourselves too comfortable here (we were wanted, after all), but it was the closest to comfort I had been. Nobody suspected us in the woods. Shay said that Templars were searching every inn for us, which meant towns and villages.

Haytham ambled out of our small encampment. Slinging his cloak round his shoulders, he sniffed the air and sighed. "Mm...what is that, Ziio?"

I smiled, stirring the pot over the flames. "Hare...and other catches. I only added today's produce to the rations we had yesterday."

He laughed, and the crackling fire seemed to laugh with him. "I do hope you cleaned that knife before you used it as a ladle."

"Of course I did!" I pulled the dagger out of the browning mixture; it dripped onto the grass as I showed him. "I placed it in the boiling water first. I don't love animals enough to become one, Haytham!"

He raised his hands in mock surrender. "Sorry. Just checking, just checking."

For the first two nights, I was cautious about lighting a fire. But as Haytham pointed out, Shay was bound to have diverted the Templars from the woods. Nobody would spot us. Besides, it had been tranquil enough so far. I felt as if the clouds of my thoughts were cleared...slightly. There were still many things to think about; many things to despair about. But for now, my only task was to finish the stew.

I speared a piece of the meat with the dagger tip. The flesh made perfect jagged lines along the edge. "It is ready now. Where are the bowls?"

When I said 'bowls', I meant the two metal cups we'd used for three days. I knew we were on the run...so I had packed some precautions. Haytham held the bowls; I used my robes to protect my fingers while I poured the pot contents into them. I breathed in the aroma of freshly-caught meat, and the memories of setting up camps in my adolescence.

"Niá:wen," Haytham sighed. "Did I pronounce it correctly this time?"

"Almost." I waited until he frowned, before nudging him teasingly. "I jest, I jest. That was perfect. You're learning."

"All I said was 'thank you'. Don't grow too hopeful." Haytham placed the bowls on the grass, laying his cloak down in front of him. "Here, sit."

The cloak was warm as I crossed my legs, grabbing the steaming bowl of stew. No cutlery – we would have to drink it. That was alright – just like home, in fact. And by home, I meant the forest.

"Have you looked at the sky yet?"

"No, why?"

With his mouth full, Haytham pointed to the sky. I saw what he meant now: the night was like illustrious art. The soft September moon shone in its completeness; the stars were the background shimmer (like the leaves to our campfire). It had been a long time since I was able to watch an evening like this. Its stillness and simplicity made me forget I was a fugitive.

"Wow."

"Wow indeed." Haytham placed the bowl down, leaning on his warm hands. "Ziio, thank you – this is delicious. It would draw in a beast from a mile away...or a man, of course."

Had we not been on the run, his joke would have been amusing. He soon realised what he said: "Sorry. It's far too easy to forget –"

"It doesn't matter," I chuckled – because in this moment, it didn't. I continued to stare in the face of the moon; she stared back at me with twinkling eyes. She had seen everything in this world, never staying in one place for more than a night, but seeming so still to those who saw her. Maybe I am her descendant, I thought light-heartedly – because it felt good to think so simply at a time like this.

I was about to take a sip from the bowl, when Haytham said: "Well, this is ironic."

"What is?"

"The one time we cannot settle is the time that we do. And all the times we could have relaxed, we didn't."

"We weren't to know it would come to this," I pointed out. Gathering my thoughts, I listened to the trees. "Even if we did...we would never have relaxed. Not even now – because the need to stay alert would be inevitable. Does that make sense?"

Haytham scoffed lightly. "More of your talk of fate coming into play?"

"You don't have to believe me," I shrugged, wiping a drip of stew from his lips. "I believe me."

He attempted a condescending glare, which only melted into laughter for both of us. He was hopeless at this game – that was why I always played it on him. "Haytham Kenway, what happened to your table manners? And you think I am the animal."

"I neither said nor suggested such a thing!"

"I know, I know." His hand slipped down the sleeve of my shirt, into my palm. I squeezed it in return. "Do you really think it bothers me?"

"Not at all." Without letting go of my hand, Haytham teased the hair on my neck and pulled it round to the other side. His touch softer than my braids, I felt a slight shiver run through my neck; down the small of my back.

It had been a while since he touched me like this.

"Do you think Connor ever worries about us?" he asked.

"Of course he does. He is our son."

"I mean, do you think he worries...in the same manner of which we worry about him?"

Ratohnhaké:ton. He was coming to New York, any day now. He did not say he would greet us there – for safety purposes. Our paths may not even cross, I remembered, letting my heart sink. "You ask if a child feels the same concern for their father and mother, as a father and mother would do for her?"

"Yes. Why, I wouldn't know. I scarcely thought of my parents in my youth." Haytham's hand relaxed on my back as he gazed up thoughtfully. "I think the memory of losing them was too painful – dwelling on it would have distracted me."

"Of course Ratohnhaké:ton cares about us –"

"Oh, I know! I know! My God, I don't doubt it for a second, Ziio. What I meant was...are we hindering him? Purely by being on this mission, are we wracking his nerves?"

"He is a strong boy," I smiled at him. "No – a man. Yes, he has lost Achilles. But –"

"But we have all suffered loss in the past few weeks?" he finished.

"Exactly."

In the silence that followed, I couldn't help it: thoughts of Soyala came seeping in. I tried to block them out; perhaps a strong emotion would mask them. Anger? It was too calm out here to fight fire with fire. Happiness? From where?

Love. That would have to do. No – it would more than do. It would not quench my loss, but Haytham could fill in the holes in my heart. He could – for a while – make me forget. Just like this night. And nights as fine as this had always served us well; given us ecstasy and the deepest intimacy I could wish for.

I savoured the last of my stew, but even when I swallowed, my thirst was not quenched. I shivered, but not from the autumn breeze. I glanced at Haytham; I watched his moonlight silhouette in all its strength and softness. I knew what this feeling was now. It overtook me very suddenly – but once it had hold of my body, there was no stopping me.

Our eyes crossed paths for a brief moment; the same lust illuminated his. "Were you staring?"

Those eyes...

And I kissed him. I crossed my hands around his neck and let the tenderness of him wash over me. Taken aback by my passion, Haytham gasped – but soon I felt him digging. Digging into my back with his hand; digging into my hair with the other. He tugged it – gently – and whatever lust was in my veins began to rush. It crashed through my head, dizzying me as I clawed his neck.

He was itching to go further – I could feel the restlessness in his kiss. I could feel his lips grazing places beyond mine. I could feel the raggedness of his breathing against my face. Liberating.

And it only made me want more.

Handful of his shirt, I let my fingers trace a line down his neck. His head recoiled in rapture; he sighed into my cheekbone. Mm, there was one weak spot. I knew all of Haytham's pressure points. I scarcely touched them, purely because then the magic would be lost. But one which never lost its touch, was the traceable line down his neck.

I was no longer in control; I lost all track of time. The only constant was my lips, passing over every inch of his neck. Now what? His heaving chest was momentarily still. Then, as it rose and fell, I placed a hand on one of the buttons. That was when he stopped me: he reached across and grabbed my hand.

"Really, Ziio?" he groaned. "Are you out of your head?"

I tried to kiss the concern from his face. "You tell me."

"No...we can't. We shouldn't." Without much success, Haytham was trying to suppress the pleasure in his voice. "We are in hiding, for Christ's sake!"

"Then you had better hush..." I brushed his lower lip with my finger...and didn't stop there. Finally I had won. I saw him close his eyes, as if to sigh in defeat. He let go of my hand; it resumed what it was planning to do.

"Mm...no...what if we are caught? In the act, so to speak?"

"Then we will die happy."

"Ziio, I mean it," he moaned. He pulled my hand away from his shirt buttons, sitting up taller. "This is a terrible idea. We're meant to be hiding from trouble, not causing it."

"There will be no trouble." With my fingers, I coaxed him to relax his chest. "Your rogue friend diverted the Templars, remember?"

Haytham looked me directly in the eyes. His stony face turned to a beautiful moonlit smile. No – more than a smile. Suddenly, his breathing grew more dynamic. Desperate. He began to help me with the buttons. I slipped my hand onto his warm chest, and felt my heart pound when he gasped.

I'd won now.

Before I knew it, I was encased in the strength of his bare biceps. I felt them wrap around my shoulders; lower me to the ground. Even with my blouse still intact, the shock of the cold grass ran up my spine. It was all part of the thrill.

More hot-blooded kisses; skin against skin. Haytham drained the feeling from my lips, made them numb, and placed it all over me like a poison. It made my hair stand on end; it made me blind in trying to undress him. Why wouldn't it? His kiss cancelled the cold of the night; made me feel like a lovesick virgin.

In my life I'd been slave to many: Flood, Johnson, Charles, the Templars, my own inner demons. But it was nights like this which made me feel freer than ever.

INTERMEZZO FIVE

"I...Jasmine?"

Eva's tired eyes blinked, sucking in her appearance. Jasmine's face – lit by a handheld lantern – was somehow soft with worry. She stood at the porch in the pouring rain, another figure standing behind her. A slave...or freedwoman. Whichever, both were soaked to the bone.

"Eva, I'm sorry to wake you in the middle of the night...you know I wouldn't have come if it was not important."

Still half-asleep, the Assassin shook her head. Already, water droplets glistened as they dripped off her hair. How long had these two rode to reach her at midnight? "What has happened? Is it bad news? Is it...is it Ziio?"

"N-no. It's –"

"Come inside." Eva took a deep breath, exhaled, and grabbed Jasmine's white wrist from under her cloak. "You look awful, both of you."

The freedwoman stepped in hesitantly after Jasmine, her big brown eyes staring straight at the Master Assassin. And she felt suddenly subdued. Nonetheless, she reached for the freedwoman's coat and pulled it onto the rack.

"I suppose I should offer you some tea," she murmured, turning to the staircase. "Give me one moment. George! We have visitors."

"No, you don't have to wake your husband, Eva..."

"Jasmine, don't fret. He woke as soon as I did when I heard the door."

"Did...did Aaron and Alexa?"

"I have not heard them stir," she sighed, "but such good pretenders are they. Always listening in on our meetings, even in Philadelphia –"

"Then we must talk quietly."

Eva was never able to understand people's tone of voice. But the shortness of Jasmine's made her stomach want to writhe in her throat. She looked the young woman in the eyes, and saw those blue pools of innocence mottled with fear. The freedwoman, too; her eyes had not strayed from Eva. They, too, were muddied by something.

"Does it...does it concern them?" she whispered.

The freedwoman was suddenly so overcome by the image. Children screaming. Women frenzied; hiding in their huts. A bath of blood on the homestead grass; the lifeless eyes of so many. And that was not the worst of it.

"Eva...Connor has been captured."

At first, Eva had to think before it hit her. Connor was a strong Assassin. It was a problem, yes, but why did Jasmine look as if he had died? And then she remembered. She remembered that Haytham and Ziio were on the run; that there would be no-one to command the attack on Fort George.

"My God..." She pounced towards Jasmine, white night-skirts swishing angrily. "But how? I thought the Davenport Homestead was guarded on every corner –"

"It was!" Jasmine bit her lip to fight back her emotion. "I cannot explain it to you. Akua here witnessed it. She rode to my house alone in the night, but...I had to take this issue to you immediately. I brought Akua so she can tell you what she saw."

"Sorry." Eva shook her head, still frowning. "I don't understand how this happened. I don't understand why it happened."

"Why what happened?"

In a green nightshirt, George leaned on the banister at the top of the stairs. How long he'd been there, the women did not know.

"Oh. J-Jasmine? Hello. Wha – may I ask what brings you to my house at night?"

Eva signalled him to hush and, taking both women by the shoulder, led them into the kitchen. "George," she whispered, "lay some tea on these women. They rode a fairly long way to reach us. And...could you make sure that the twins are asleep?"

George was used to his questions remaining unanswered: he married a spy, after all. This was going to be a long night.

ZIIO

When my eyes fluttered open, I knew Haytham was awake.

His cloak – which we used as a blanket – was no longer over us...me. That was why my clothes were mottled with morning dew. The night before (I smiled within, remembering it), we did not go under the shelter. We slept outside. We fell asleep in the company of the stars, and each other. When feeling returned to my fingers, I noticed a tingle on my arm. Haytham's was no longer around it.

Rubbing my arms, I sat up. Immediately light washed into my eyes. Haytham was definitely gone. Perhaps I had overslept; he had gone hunting. The sun was up above the trees, and we were running out of foodstuffs. Had he been kind enough to leave some last stew for me?

He had. But instead of the sound of a fire crackling, there was only the sound of tweeting birds. There was no trace of smoke, either. Haytham had not heated the stew over a flame this morning. So he'd gone hunting on an empty stomach? Unwise move, Haytham.

I stood up and, realising my blouse was askew from last night, re-adjusted myself. I was not concerned; nobody was watching me. Except for the horses.

Horses?
Hold on...where is Haytham's horse?

Perplexed but still not worried, I wandered over to my horse. She seemed quite content on her own; she sat with her legs crossed on the grass.

"Where did they go?" I whispered to her in Mohawk. The only reply was a snort as I stroked her nose. It made no sense: why would Haytham take his horse to go hunting? How far did he need to go, exactly?

Either way, I prayed he had the sense to take the Precursor artefacts out of his saddle bag first. He couldn't afford to carry those around. Or were they in my saddle bag...? I knelt to the wet grass again, rummaging in the leather sack beside the horse.

I expected to feel the curls of the Precursor box wood; to stroke the side of the amulet. But no. I felt my stomach drop and my fingers flex. No. They were gone.

And understanding crashed through me. It knocked me backwards; it made my stomach want to retch. It couldn't be...

"Iah...Haytham, iah..."

Bells ringing in my brain, I jumped to my feet. He took the artefacts with him! He must have done so on purpose. Otherwise, why bother rummaging through my saddle bag? But why? Why would he take the artefacts and leave?

Unable to think rationally, I leapt to my feet. I would have to search for more clues. This made no sense. My heart punched me in the stomach with every beat. Where did I have to look?

The camp, Ziio, I told myself, the camp.

My cloak (which served as a roof between two branches) fell to the ground as I pushed through. There was nothing in the camp, I realised, throwing the cloak aside. Only the bag of foodstuffs and a few of my weapons. Haytham's were gone. All of them.

No.

I was beginning to draw conclusions. If my logic served me correctly, Haytham must have taken the artefacts to the Templars. He was...surrendering? I felt a stab of betrayal; of Haytham's stupidity. If he thought he could fight the Templars alone, What had he done? Where was he? Surely there was a sign – something – to tell me where he was?

I ran back outside to where we had slept. Perhaps he left a note? No. He couldn't have. We did not bring parchment with us. But he would not leave me stranded here. Not that I was incapable of taking care of myself; I was more than apt. It was the thought of Haytham taking off in the night which made me sick. He would have to have told me. Surely he did?

I rushed back over to my horse. I dug through the saddle bag, again. In my panic my fingers seemed to lose their texture. They could not tell soft from hard; artefact from air. But that was when I felt something. Something small, flat and smooth. I pulled it out of the bag, my head spinning.

A piece of parchment, of course. With the Templar seal, of course. Addressed to Haytham, of course. But what did it mean? I bit my lip, opening it out and reading it aloud to myself.

"Really, we expected better of your son. He put up almost no fight; in fact the abduction was rather boring. No matter. We are certain his father will be more sensible...particularly since Connor's heart still beats."

I refused to think anything of it, yet. Something was not right about this. Not right at all.

"Do not be alarmed. You knew this was coming, with the objects we desire in your possession. You have one day to surrender the artefacts to Fort George. We advise you not to bring weapons or come armed, if you truly love your son. You have our word: do this, and Connor will not be harmed. Not now, and never again by our blade. You have our word. Return what you stole from us...we are waiting."

I squinted into the treetops, trying to make some sense of it. No signature. Only a date; the message was written on that day. I was never skilled at handwriting, nor recognising it. But I knew that was not Charles'. Or Flood's. Or any Templar I could name. But it did look familiar – scarily familiar. Almost as if I had seen it before, on many occasions...

Oh no.
No. How could I have been so foolish? Why did I never think of this?

Like the barrel of a broken gun, one which was broken for a long time, everything clicked into place. I knew who it was. I knew who the traitor was now.

How could I be so blind? My intuition was nearly never wrong. So why had I never considered...? No. It was too late to blame myself for all of this. As Haytham had said, I needed to focus on right now. And right now, I needed to work out where he was.

Deep breath, Ziio. You know this is all a trap.
Oh no. A trap.

What made me fall further in horror, was that Haytham didn't know. This was all a trap. This note was a trap...and his weak point (his love for Ratohnhaké:ton) let him fall for it.

Everything made sense...only when I was too late. If only I'd woken a little earlier, I would have stopped him. What was I to do now? Where did I need to go? I re-read the letter, running my finger along the words.

That was when I saw: there were holes in the parchment. Holes under some of the words; some of the letters. Very quickly I understood: it was Haytham's doing. He'd stabbed the parchment and purposely left it in the saddle bag where I would look for the artefacts. That had to be a message. Perhaps it was a code.

I looked again. The holes were under the letters: P, L, A, N, T, A, T, I, O, N. Plantation. W, A, R, N, E, V and A. Warn Eva.

Plantation. Warn Eva.

What did Haytham mean, plantation? What plantation? I racked my mind, knowing the answer was there somewhere. Please, I told myself in my alarm, concentrate. Think. What would Haytham mean? Since when was a plantation relevant to the Brotherhood?

I clenched my fists, rapping my head with them. Plantation meant slaves. Slaves meant either Aveline, Eva or Jasmine.

Jasmine. She told us to take the artefacts to a base. A base disguised as a...plantation. He wanted me to go and contact Eva from that base, if I could find it. Now it made sense: Haytham had been blind, but not utterly stupid. He thought this through. He knew he could not do this alone: he needed back-up, and quickly.

Clenching the letter, I rose, listening to my thudding heart. If I had time to sit down and think this through, I would have. But not today. Like I had for the duration of this mission, I would have to improvise without having savoured everything I discovered. I had to focus on right now. Right now.

And right now, I knew exactly what I had to do.