As they began down the hill, Arno believed he could see Marseille and the ocean through the trees. It was the first time he had seen the sea outside of a painting.

He would be very happy to arrive. It had been a journey of nearly four days. They had stopped in Troy, Dijon, then Lyon for the night, but Denis had offered them few opportunities to stretch their legs, and Arno was sure that was calculated. Denis had been watching him closely the entire time. Every time he looked back at the man, his eyes were upon him, his hand often near his holster. Little did Denis know, he had dodged a bullet by taking the eastern way out of Paris, otherwise they would have almost certainly stopped at Orleans, and Arno would have faced a painful dilemma about whether to try to escape.

The first day there was not a single smile cracked or joke told. The second day had been mostly the same. The third day, he felt Denis opened up slightly, but the only hearty topic they had was that of the slavery rebellion in the Caribbean. Denis was a passionate abolitionist, but he projected his feelings more with hate than love. Arno could tell Denis was a bad man to cross.

"Is that the city?" Élise said.

"Oui."

Arno decided to ask, "So who are we meeting exactly once we're there?"

"My mother, she owns a salon in the north side of Marseille, used to co-manage it with my father before he passed."

His mother? That was surprising. For some reason he never thought of his mortal enemies as having moms.

"You're...from Marsielle originally, I take it?"

"Ouais, lots of Templars started coming to Paris once politics started heating up."

There was a bit of silence as the horses clopped on under the orange light of dusk. Finally Arno decided to ask:

"So what is a salon, exactly? I've heard the term but -"

"It's a place to gather, socialize, argue, criticize, share written works. Also very useful for feeding recruits into the our order."

His words felt surprisingly opened to Arno.

"Sort of like a tavern, without the drunkeness?" Dorian joked.

"And much better guests," Denis added.

Élise chimed in, "There are several in Paris. I've always been tempted to join one."

"Why don't you?"

"With my work it's best not to become too...familiar to people in the city. Especially people with high-minded ideas."

That made sense.

The wheels clacked.

Denis went on, "I think my father wanted me to be a more intellectual type. Instead the order noticed my knack for getting in and out of trouble, and learning things I shouldn't know."

For the first time since the journey began, he felt a sense of comradery. But that was bitter-sweet. What would his uncle in Orleans think of all this? Would he approve of him allying with the Templars to fight the Illuminati? It was strange, but there was no reason he would not. It was more what would happen later, when they no longer had a common enemy, that haunted Arno: Not so much what his enemy would do to him, but that he would have to decide what to do with them. He still thought himself an Assassin in an alliance of convenience, but if Élise had switched loyalties, he could not dismiss the possibility he might as well. He had kept himself mostly isolated from the Templars back at the chateau. The first month, maybe two, it was a matter of disdain. After that it was fear, fear that any sense of fraternity with the enemy could corrupt him. But what was corruption, and what was simply learning Élise was right? The great challenge, anguish, was trying to tell the difference.

They pulled into the stables.

"Bien, out you two, I'll handle everything from here."

Arno was seated at the outer edge, opposite Denis, with Élise in the middle. He hopped out, and offered his hand to Élise as she followed, as he had the previous three evenings. Factional loyalties aside, he still had the instincts of a gentleman.

"Nice to finally get our feet back on the ground," Arno said. "This time for good."

"Indeed. Denis seemed to be in a rush to get us here."

"I think he was worried about me."

"You'll get used to it."

Arno chuckled, but it reminded him of who she used to be, and how she got to this point: this woman had betrayed their agents from Normandy, leading to many deaths. He could not forget that.

A nearby raven cawed.

"D'accord, let's go." Denis beckoned them along.

Entering the city, Arno Dorian was excited. The streets were busy, just like Paris. It had a unique feel, just like Paris, and something about it reminded him of the paintings his Uncle Augustin had of Spain and Italy. Even more intriguing, this would be his first time on the coast.

They passed an old man with a cart full of fish, a powerful odor taking his nose. Seafood was probably a staple of the local diet. Arno had eaten fish from the Loire, but never from the ocean.

"There it is," Denis said. "Looks like today's meeting has just ended."

Two women were conversing in front of an opened door: One was heavy-set with gray hair, the other a younger brunette. Arno Dorian gathered who was who. The trio simply waited.

When the brunette parted, the heavier woman looked their way. Her eyes opened with a look of joyous astonishment. She walked over briskly and gave Denis a bear hug, which Denis returned with a lighter embrace.

When she disengaged, the short, stout woman looked at him with hands on his shoulders. "Oh, dear! It's been so long! Why didn't you write to me that you were coming!"

"Good to see you too, mère. Old Timmy has me here on business, though, not pleasantry. Have you heard the name Guy-Marcel Rodet?"

"I'm afraid not, sweetheart. But you should ask Rolou when you get the chance." Then the others seemed to catch her attention. "Who might these two be?"

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you, maman. I think we should save that for another time."

"Oh, well do come in, dear! I still have some tea left over from our meetings! Heavens, I haven't heard from you in months! Why haven't you been writing!?"

"I've been...distracted. We can catch up a little, but let's make this quick. I'd like to make my rounds before nightfall."