Still in her day clothes, she had spent this morning like she had spent the previous evening: Lying in bed, her sanctuary, mulling over the disturbing imagery of at the Champ de Mars.

Jean Sylvian Bailly had provided few details on why they had fired into the crowd, simply shooed her off the scene. She knew it was not without reason, but she also knew dozens were dead. And she knew the political backlash would be brutal.

Denis he had been in the crowd, albeit closer to the back, away from the shooting. When she had found him, he had shown little horror, addressed it more with a sort of fatalistic irritation, the inevitable result of the Assembly's vote on the King. Then, back at the chateau, when they had reported the news, Timothee's blame seemed to shift immediately to the protestors. They both made her feel like she had needed to digest the previous day's events alone.

It was all the more a cruel irony that this deed was attached to the man she had spared, even at the expense of her own kind. She thought back to her kin up north, in the green, rolling hills of Normandy. How did they see her betrayal? Jules, Marie, Jean-Pierre, Louise, Claude, Simon-Jacques were all dead by her word. Even if they understood her sympathy for the plight of the French peasants, could they ever forgive her for that?

Would her fight against the Illuminati radicals give her some redemption in their hearts? Surely the Assassins would -

She heard two knocks at her door.

"Élise, are you...alright in there?" Timothee Chobat said.

"Yes, Monsieur. I'll...be up in a minute."

She heard him walk off.

And really there was no reason to even delay that long. She was waiting for nothing. With a push will, she tossed aside the covers, swung her legs off the side of the bed, and stood. She walked over to her mirror, put her hair in marginally respectable order, then she went for the door, exited her room.

The paintings on the wall seemed to stare at her judgmentally. She had not fired the shots at the crowd, but she felt attached to the massacre, as the Mayor of Paris had been the man she saved, and who pledged allegiance to the same order. And their Illuminati enemies would doubtlessly use it as a rallying cry for the citizens against Bailly.

She descended the steps. Normally she would have had breakfast by now, but she had little appetite.

When she reached the main chamber, the chateau patriarch was standing over the couch-side table, reading a newly opened letter.

Should she say anything? When he had heard the news yesterday, he had seemed more frustrated than remorseful. But she arbitrarily decided to speak up.

"Monsieur..." he turned. She tried to read his face. It was quizzical, but not compassionate, maybe slightly irritated, mouth slightly opened. "Do you know...what exactly happened at the Champ de Mars?" Perhaps now details of event had made it as news across Paris.

"Some of the rabble threw rocks. The Guard tried to ward it off, fired warning shots. They didn't listen."

He said it with a simple and dismiss huff. She stood there, silent. After waiting a couple of seconds for a response, he turned and went back to his business. No words of comfort, no tenderness. Perhaps the beauty of Templar idealism was starting to peel back. They were not the villains of this story, but hardly angels either. The next few months would be a difficult slog, the public might grow to hate Bailly and the Assembly.

She had no appetite for breakfast, or any pleasure. The logical course of action was to blow off steam with training. Perhaps an hour of reinforcing her muscle memory would put her mind in a more agreeable state, enough to eat. She turned to the back door.

Exiting, it was a cloudy, humid day outside. She stopped at a jarring sight: Arno using the chateau grindstone. If Timothee had given him permission to do so, that meant he was serious about letting Arno operate by her side.

Arno looked up at her. She felt she should say something. "Arno...I'm...I'm glad to see you'll be joining our fight."

"I fight only to avenge my brothers against the Illuminati. Never forget this."

The words hit her like a punch in the gut.

"All this time, and you still haven't softened to our order?" She said the words with more sadness than shock or outrage.

"Why should I? I've heard what happened in the Champ de Mars. Dozens dead by Bailly's command. Martial Law instituted. Seditious publications banned. Is this the freedom you fight for?"

She was silent for a moment. She knew about the dead. The rest was news to her.

The silence was thick as he stared with a burning, judgemental gaze. Finally she lashed out:

"And what of the Assassins, Arno!? Did we fight for anything while in their order!?"

It felt strange to speak about to someone about her past allegiance, much more so when he shared the same past. Did he still consider himself an Assassin?

"We fought to keep that wicked artifact out of human hands! Now it's in Robespierre's!"

"You would dismiss all we've accomplished over that piece of metal!? The people of Britain and France and America are freer than ever before thanks to our work! Feudalism has been abolished! Protestants are free to hold office! The church -"

"'The best form of government is a benevolent tyranny tempered by the occasional assassination.'"

"How could you say such a thing? Tyranny is unnatural, it is imposed on us by those who -"

"That's what your friend Voltaire said. I thought you were well versed in his work."

His words hit hard. She could feel them drifting apart again.

He continued. "All this bloodshed will have been for nothing. New cruelties will take the place of the old, hypocritical and wrapped in your ideology. Even war is on the horizon now."

She felt hurt and angry, but could think of no adequate rational response. The massacre was enough of a moral burden to bear, but now martial law? Seditious speech banned?

She could only hope he was incorrect, and her betrayal of her family was not but a life shattering mistake.

"I can't prove you wrong, Arno. Not yet. But we can at least work together against the Illuminati madness."

He looked back at her the grindstone and began sharpening again. "That's what I said," he replied.

Her heart felt like it was full of broken glass.