Élise was a little taller than the average woman, but seeing her way through the crowd was not easy. Through the sea of fishwives and soldiers, however, she believed she could make out something. The six ambassador women were arriving back at the front gate, and the man who gave the invitation was getting back on his box.

"Our meeting proved most amicable and productive!" he shouted to the crowd. "The king has agreed to release two stores of grain, with more promised in the near future!"

There was a rumble from the crowd. Élise could not tell if it was approval or disapproval. She glanced over to the woman at her right, but could not read her face either.

Rain was beginning to patter down, however, and many were no doubt eager to leave at this point.

In the sea of faces, she recognized Robespierre coming back to her position. His expression, however, was clearly angry.

"Monsieur, I expected you'd look happier."

"It's a small concession. The whimper of a scared animal."

"Were you expecting more?"

"So much more, Élise!" he said dourly.

He looked about briefly, with an odd sort of anxiety. Then he reached into his pocket. "Listen, I want you to stay in the vicinity of this...development." He removed something, grabbed her hand and placed several coins in her palm before closing her fingers around them.

He pointed "Head to the tavern by the archway. Get yourself some food and a room."

"Monsieur, I-"

"Go, Élise, please. We'll talk again in the morning, if not sooner. I'm going to...meet with Grand Master François, discuss our next steps."

She stared at him for a second, but for naught. She turned to follow orders. She did not like the man. She could not quite find the right words, but pessimistic and aggressive were in proximity. Still, he was her superior.

At least she would get out of the rain.

She weaved through the sea of women, peering at the tavern sign like a lighthouse across stormy seas. Most of the women seemed to have faces like Robespierre, the crowd did not seem pleased, although a smattering had turned to leave. She did not know what the peasants went through, perhaps she was in a bad position to judge when they should rejoice. So many of these bellies had been hungry. For all the risks of her work, she had been well fed her entire life.

Making it out of the crowd and entering the tavern, the establishment looked middle-class, which was probably about as low-end as one could get this close to the palace. Patrons were copious for the harsh times. Tending the bar was a portly man with pronounced jowls, cleaning the surface rather vigorously with a white rag. Carbaret music played in the background.

He looked up.

"Ouais?"

"Just a roll, please," she said. She had more than her fill of fancy food back at the chateau. It actually felt more novel to order a simple meal.

After receiving her bread (on a small white plate), she headed for a lounge chair not far from the fire.

She sat down, giving her legs a well deserved break.

But she noticed something unsettling. From this angle, the tavern reminded her unpleasantly of the Parisian safehouse, the one whose location she had betrayed to the Templars.

It was not where she had been born and raised, that was up north, with a loving if sometimes distant family. Tucked away in the beautiful country side, the Assassins and Templars war had been little more than mythical to her. She had been trained in its name, but it was not until she came to Paris that she truly understood things.

Her compatriots in Paris had never been people she loved. Claude was a nasty man, and even the others had always seemed suspicious of her, as if foreseeing her betrayal. Louise was the only person there she could truly say she liked. But she still could not help be haunted as she thought about all their fates: Jules, Marie, Jean-Pierre, Louise, Claude, Simon-Jacques, she wondered where they all were now, how many were alive, and what they thought of her. They had no way of knowing her betrayal for certain, but...

She tried to shake off the thought. She had made the right decision. The Assassins were too fixated on nigh-millenia old grudges. The people in Paris were suffering because of it. The Templars had turned their eyes to the betterment of mankind. The Assassins would stop them only out of an unquenchable hatred.

Looking for a distraction, she tried to listen to the gathering at the nearest table.

"But why, why would they want to starve their own people?"

"Less rattling chains, fewer people willing to stand up to injustice!"

"Even a slave driver wants his slaves fed."

"Then how do you explain the rationing!? This country has plenty of food, but it's all tucked away in-"

Another crowd entered through the main doors, a gentleman in a top hat and a couple of women.

"Now don't be so pessimistic, dear!"

"Mark my words, that Austria witch will talk him out of this!"

Marie Antoinette. The people loved to blame her. Was it because she was a woman, or a foreigner, or was there really something more than bigotry at play?

Finishing her bread, she rose. It was time to get away from the all the others. She walked to the bar, the jowls-man cleaning a glass.

"A room, please," she said.

The portly put down the glass and reached under the bar and produced a key.

"Second door on the left. Chamber pots are extra."

"Merci, Monsieur."

She took the key. After such a day, some peace and quiet would be a tremendous change.

Through the hall and to the room, she unlocked the door. It was simpler accommodations than she was used to, but it would certainly suffice. A place like this was at least classy enough to be free of bed bugs.

She had not a gown to change into, but with such heavy thoughts sifting through her mind it hardly made a difference. She unsaddled her copious equipment, and then plopped onto her bed.

She stared at the ceiling. After so many hours on her feet, such an eventful day, it felt like the bed was a raft moving through a breezy sea.

Élise de la Caen, an agent of the Templars.

Her mind wandered back to that fateful day at the tennis court, to Jean-Sylvia Bailley's long, thin face and righteous words. The flesh she was supposed to sink a blade into spared, the man was now the mayor of Paris.

Then she thought back to her life back in Normandy, the beautiful countryside in which she was raised. She thought back to her family: her deceased mother, her grieving father, her beloved sister. If only the Assassins had fighting for the cause they claimed, for the people. But she clung to the hope those she loved back north were naive, not deceitful. She clung to the hope her family would have understood too, if they come to Paris, seen the suffering of the common people and the hope brought by the men the Assassins sought to kill.

She thought back to the tomes of Rosseau and Voltaire, the books that would lubricate her betrayal.

But there was no turning back. It was a pointless thing to ponder. She was a Templar now, and they were leading the march of the French people.