Hello!
Sorry that this took so long!

Charles Lee felt the sting of annoyance as he rode his horse through the crowd. After just leaving a meeting with Thomas Hickey as well as William Johnson. Thomas Hickey had just arrived in the city to help find the damn Precursor box, but the arrogance and unseriousness of that man always beguiled Lee. His frustration wasn't just with Hickey's blazon incompetence at times, but with the fact they were attempting to babysit a teenage girl.

He steered his horse through the crowded street, weaving around animals and pedestrians. The Templar's mind reflecting on the frustrated by how the girl had slipped away. The sheer embarrassment of Catherine Cormac getting past him stung, the same child he once saw stick her fingers up her nose, accompanied by a marble.

The memory felt an twitch of annoyance, he felt that Catherine Cormac had always been in the way. In one shape, or forum.

During the seven year's war, when the templars goals of securing the artifact, as well as finishing Achilles brotherhood. The moment he had see that unorganized tiffed of red hair coming from an toddler, accompany by her mother, Rose Cormac. From his point of view, it had brought an sense of disarray to have a toddler, and mother in Fort Arsenal. Granted, they were safer in the fortress then other location.

Master Kenway saw to that while Shay Cormac had gone out to do the Order's bidding.

He didn't dislike children in general; he just couldn't stand that particular child for reasons he couldn't quite explain. Maybe it was the crying, the way she clung to her mother's skirts, or the fact that she had once interrupted a meeting, one that Lee had borne witness to, where Shay Cormac, completely unfazed, held the toddler on his hip while delivering his debrief on the Assassins. The child made obnoxious, slobbering noises, yet Haytham, unlike Lee, was composed enough to tolerate such a disruption during an important meeting. The Grand Master even showed a hint of affection toward the toddler, making a remark about her

Children are meant to be neither seen nor heard when it comes to the affairs of adults, especially when it concerns important matters of the Templar Order.

Yet, seeing Miss Cormac all grown up at the Green Dragon was a stark contrast to the toddler she once was. Now a young woman, she was properly dressed in skirts, a blue cloak, and a dark green scarf draped over her shoulders. A ribbon adorned her hair, which cascaded down her back, almost emphasizing the innocence she still possessed. He, of course, was polite to the girl, she seemed to have some manners, at least.

He might have been able to tolerate her more if he had met her like this—no longer a sniveling child but a proper young woman. Yet, despite his feigned politeness during their initial reunion, there was something about her that he simply could not stand.

Deep down, perhaps it had always been about her mother, Rose Cormac. The Cormacs' past as Assassins was not easily forgotten. While he regarded Captain Shay Cormac as a man who had made profound contributions to the Templars, his wife was another matter entirely.

Seeing Mrs. Rose Cormac, formerly known as Rose O'Brian, was not their first encounter. He remembered her well, a much younger woman who had once tried, and failed, to kill him. His flintlock had saved his life that day, the bullet tearing through her shoulder.

It was strange to see his would-be killer in such a familiar light, but for the sake of decorum, neither of them ever spoke of it. And yet, one does not simply forget an attempt on their life.

The irony was not lost on him, the very same gun that had commanded a British firing squad to execute her was the one he had once used to shoot Mrs. Cormac years prior. There was no denying that her death had been his doing, though it had never been personal. Or so he told himself. Yet, somewhere in the dark recesses of his mind, an unsettling thought took hold, one he dared not acknowledge. Had it brought him satisfaction?

Charles Lee would never speak the words lingering on his tongue. Especially with the youngest Cormac out there.

The girl had every right to grieve her mother's death, but surely there was a better way to handle the situation than running wild across Massachusetts. Acting unhinged in the streets of Boston. Now that Shay Patrick Cormac had returned, Lee hoped the man would instill some discipline into his daughter. If he were her father, he would have long since put her in her place.

The thought of a belt briefly crossed his mind.

At this rate, it might be beneficial to marry her off to a man with a firm fist, someone who would keep her in line. A thought shifted in his mind, erasing what he thought about her being lady like in the tavern and remembered how he saw her at the Green Dragon, almost getting into a bar fight, and how she presented herself….so unladylike.

He stopped his horse when the pedestrian traffic grew thicker and saw a wagon carrying a cloaked figure with two men on either side. Under the cloak, a few wisps of fiery red hair peeked out. Charles Lee squinted until he recognized her features…Catherine Cormac. His eyes widened at the sight of her. Master Kenway would want news of her return. He turned his horse around to spread the news.

Catherine Cormac gripped the sides of the wagon as it rolled through the gates of Boston. The journey had taken all day, and though the last traces of winter snow had finally melted, the early signs of spring were just beginning to show. The thawed roads made the travel smoother, but the weight on her heart only grew heavier as they approached the city. She had two men escorting her: Joffrey, who drove the single horse pulling the wagon, and Conrad, who rode in the back, quietly watching over her. Both men were tall and bulky from years working as a sailor. Faulkner had kindly offered up their services to escort her back to Boston, so she can sort her business out.

As they passed through the Neck of Boston, Catherine's eyes drifted to the redcoats standing guard at the gates. She felt a pang of emptiness, an ache that lingered from the loss of her mother and the life she had left behind. It took another hour to wind through the bustling city streets to the harbor side, where her home , seemingly frozen in time.

When they finally arrived, Catherine noticed the tavern had remained untouched, as though it had been holding its breath since the day she left. Joffrey helped her down from the wagon, his weathered hands steadying her as she landed on the cobblestones.

"What's your wish, Miss Cormac?" Joffrey asked with a toothy smile .

"Come inside and help yourselves to a drink," Catherine offered, nodding toward the tavern door.

Before her return to Boston, Achilles had suggested she send a few items back to the Homestead, to make her room there feel more like home. His offer had been a kindness she hadn't expected, and she intended to make the most of it.

Catherine pulled the key from her skirt pocket, hesitating for just a moment before unlocking the door. The tavern creaked as it opened, and she stepped inside, taking in the dust that had settled over everything during the three months she had been gone. Her stomach tightened as she looked around, half-expecting to see her mother behind the bar. The silence was a painful reminder that Rose was gone, and the faint hope that she might find her mother here was a foolish dream.

Pushing down her disappointment, Catherine walked behind the bar and grabbed a bottle of rum and two glasses. "Here you go, gents," she said, her Irish brogue tinged with a forced cheerfulness. "I'll be upstairs sorting through some things."

Joffrey and Conrad accepted the glasses with grateful smiles, raising them in a silent toast before settling in at one of the tables.

Catherine slowly climbed the stairs to the apartment above the tavern. She paused at the door, letting her eyes sweep over the living area, everything exactly as she'd left it. Dust coated the surfaces, but the sense of familiarity was overwhelming. Trembling, she moved into her bedroom, her sanctuary, and began gathering a few personal belongings.

She carefully removed her drawings from the walls, each one depicting scenes of her life in Boston, the harbor, the crowded streets, the faces of people she knew. These were pieces of her, moments captured on paper, and she couldn't bear to leave them behind.

What was she thinking? Rose had made a recovery and was waiting for her to come home? Catherine had set herself up for disappointment.

Catherine was told by her mother that her father had owned the building. Which meant the Templars owned the building. Her goal was to act normal, but not to let anyone know she was home a trusted few.

A knock on the door caught her by surprise, and she opened it to find Joffrey standing there with a concerned look. "There's a man downstairs who says he knows you."

"Who?" she asked, her curiosity piqued.

"He said his name was James Quinn."

Hearing the name of her old friend brought immense joy to her heart. She quickly ran out the door to meet him.

James stood at the base of the stairs with a twitching smile. "Miss Cormac, what a pleasure to see you again," he said teasingly.

Catherine glanced at her two-man escort, Conrad and Joffrey. "Can you leave us be?"

Conrad nodded. "Aye, girl, we shall be back in a while."

She watched as the two sailors walked out of the inn. "James!" She rushed down and threw her arms around him. Tightening a squeeze around him. A small part had told her that she would never see her friend again, but she was glad that she was wrong.

James smiled, seeing her for the first time in three months. He embraced her tightly. "I had the day off and decided to swing by to check on the pub."

Catherine looked at his face. Not much had changed, except for the beginnings of a beard on his once smooth skin. A shadow of black stubble covered his jaw, and a small cut marked his forehead.

"I'm glad you're alright," she said, pulling him into a tight hug, relief and joy evident in her voice.

"I am too," James replied. "Adams got me out the next day with a lawyer, and I was cleared of all charges. But they grilled me about you."

"The redcoats?" Catherine asked, her brow furrowing.

James hesitated. "No, it wasn't them. Whoever it was didn't seem affiliated with them. It felt more like he was genuinely interested in you…and that savage who caused the massacre."

Catherine stepped back, her eyes narrowing, she took a moment to slap his shoulder. "Don't ever say that about Connor, he wasn't the one to do that! " She scolded James.

The tension in James' voice was undeniable, a reflection of the deep-rooted hostility towards Native people that had escalated since the French and Indian War. Catherine had witnessed this animosity firsthand, from the way the colonists spoke about the Natives, often with disdain, to the looks and whispers exchanged when one was seen in town. But Catherine had never shared that view. To her, the Native people had every right to exist undisturbed, especially since they had lived on these lands long before any Europeans had arrived.

James, however, had his own reasons for holding such views, reasons born from personal loss. His father had died in a bloody battle years earlier, caught in an ambush by Native allies of the French. The attack had left his mother destitute, struggling to raise James alone, with nothing but the bitter memory of that violent day.

"He is to be trusted," she continued, her tone firm, anger bubbling in her chest. "And I don't want you to use that word to describe him again. Is that understood?"

James bit the inside of his lip before replying. "Fine… I apologize."

"Good," she said with a nod, though her tone left no room for argument.

But James wasn't finished with the conversation.

"Who are they, Catherine?" he asked, his voice quieter but insistent.

She took a deep breath. She knew revealing too much about the Assassins and the Templars could be dangerous. "Did the man give his name?"

James thought for a moment. "He introduced himself as Charles Lee."

Catherine felt a strong reaction upon hearing the name of the second-in-command of the Templar Order. "Do not listen to him. He is responsible for these actions. He fired the shot that caused the British to respond."

James observed a change in Catherine's complexion. "Catherine, I want to hear your perspective, but the evidence..." He sought to find a way to console his friend, but was hindered by his own anger and conscience regarding what he knew. Though, as he looked back there were inconsistencies in the witness testimonies. He had tried to follow up on reports, but none could be find.

James observed a change in Catherine's complexion. "Catherine, I want to hear your perspective, but the evidence…" He struggled to find a way to console his friend, hindered by his own anger and conflicting feelings about what he knew. In just a way, he reflecting on it, he realized there were inconsistencies in the witness testimonies. He had tried to follow up on reports, but none could be found.

"There is no evidence. It's all fabricated." She glared. "James, you need to trust me and be smarter about this."

The plea hung in the confines of the tavern, leaving them alone within the space. Catherine sighed, leaning herself against the bar. She didn't know how to convey the truth to him.

James considered his options as he looked at Catherine. After a moment, he decided to rely on their long-standing friendship. "Alright, Cathy, I believe you," he said.

He touched her shoulders and hugged her again. "I'm just glad you're okay. " He comforted her gently.

He then pulled back, his expression softening as he spoke about the difficult topic he had been avoiding.

"I want to extend my condolences for your mother. Samuel carried out your wishes, and the service was conducted with grace and dignity."

"Where is she buried?" Catherine asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Next to your grandparents and her brother," James replied, attempting to offer her some comfort. He gently placed his hand on her shoulder, treating her with the care one would give a delicate flower, ready to wilt at any moment.

Catherine experienced a sense of solace knowing that her mother is buried at Granary Burying Grounds, surrounded by her own family.

James let go of his friend before pressing on with the news. "I understand it has been challenging, and the outcome of the trial was disappointing. Only two individuals were convicted and charged with murder."

Catherine didn't blame the British soldiers for the fire on the citizens; it was a powder keg waiting to explode. Charles Lee and Haytham Kenway had lit the fuse. "I heard..." She had tried to keep up with the news from Boston, but it was all so bleak.

James glanced around. "Are you back? For good?"

"It's complicated, but you will see me around, but don't tell anyone I have return." She said softly.

James grabbed her hand and gave it a loving squeeze. "Let me make you some tea." He went to turn to the kitchen.

"No, I'd rather go see my mother." She stopped him.

James nodded in understanding. "Just let me know when you're ready."

Catherine nodded and headed to her room to change and freshen up.

Catherine held onto James' arm as he guided her through the dimly lit streets of Boston. The black dress she wore, paired with a light red cloak, concealed her appearance, making it easier for her to move unnoticed. The cloak fluttered slightly in the breeze as they walked, adding to her sense of anonymity. James kept a vigilant watch, scanning for any soldiers who might stop them.

Under her arm, Catherine carried a bundle of flowers. With spring in bloom, she had managed to gather a fresh bouquet on her way to the graveyard. The lavender was meant to honor her mother, a small but meaningful gesture amid the overwhelming grief.

As they approached the entrance of the graveyard, Catherine felt a pang of recognition. The iron gate, adorned with an archway, itself was one of the city's oldest. Catherine touched James' arm gently at the entrance, her voice soft but firm. "I'd like to be alone for a while, but I'll call if I need anything."

James gave her a reassuring nod before turning to scan the surrounding area once more. "I'll be right outside," he said, his tone steady. "Shout if you need me."

The sun had dipped below the horizon, casting the graveyard in a muted, foggy mist. The iron bars of the gate offered a semblance of security, making Catherine feel less vulnerable. She made her way through the wet grass and muddy ground, lifting her skirt to avoid getting it dirty. The quiet of the graveyard was almost comforting, a stark contrast to the bustling city beyond the iron gates.

Catherine walked past the old gravestones, her steps muffled by the thickening mist. At the far end of the graveyard, where it bordered an alleyway, she found the fresh mound of dirt marking her mother's grave. The gravestone was simple.

Rose Maureen Cormac

Birth: Oct 22, 1729

Death: Mar 5, 1770

Loving wife and beloved mother

Catherine knelt beside the grave; her fingers gripped onto the flowers heavily. Letting out a shaky breath, she carefully arranged the flowers on the grave, her fingers trembling as she placed them gently. The sight of her mother's name etched in stone. It was true. Her mother was truly gone. Alone in the earth below her, just lined in a wooden coffin.

Next to the gravestone was her uncle's stone, Liam O'Brien. Rose brought Catherine every year on the anniversary of his death to pay respect and read Liam's favorite passage from the bible from when the siblings were children.

Though there was nobody under the grave, just an empty plot, the plot was supposed to bring comfort to Rose. Catherine had never heard the story of how her uncle perished until she met Achilles. Her uncle's bones sat at the bottom of a frozen mountain where they couldn't be recovered…. That wouldn't bring peace to anyone's mind.

The world was utterly quiet before she kneeled in front of the grave placing the flowers on the grave. "I am so sorry mama," Her voice broke, it was officially real. Tears ran down her cheeks running down her cheek. The droplets drop to the dirt.

The air was dead, but an eerie presence hung in the raised hair on the back of her neck, a feeling of urgency overwhelmed the young girl while she was in her grief. Almost like a warning mechanism when danger was near. This was a gift of the senses alone, but Catherine never questions where it came from.

Catherine's "sixth sense" was right.

She glanced towards the direction that gave her a feeling of suspicion. Between the shadows of an alleyway that led into the graveyard came the figure of a man. His tricorn hat shadowing his face, almost something from a nightmare.

"Do not run. I won't be lenient."

Haytham Kenway stood before the young Irish girl causing her to scramble to her feet. She felt the heaviness of her dagger that was strapped to her side under her cloak, and she glared. "You act like you're my father."

"If I were your father, this would be a very different conversation." He waved off in the most dismissive way. It was almost demeaning as if he was viewing her like the younger Cormac was a misbehaving child.

"You tackled me in the streets, which is quite improper behavior for a gentleman."

"Do you think I wanted to pursue you halfway across the city? I have more pressing tasks! Your actions have been stubborn, reckless, and impossible. You are completely unaware of the dangers you are flirting with, young lady."

He made a gruff sound, which she couldn't discern as either a snort or an expression of annoyance.

Catherine gave a slow blink, trying to process him chastising her like she was a child. "Don't you dare speak to me like that! What gives you the right?!"

She remembered how she was able to run through the street and slip through between alleyways. Haytham just feet from her, almost in his grasp.

Kenway didn't give an full answer to her, instead he took several deliberate steps toward Catherine, his piercing gaze as if judging her every movement. "I will admit, you've impressed me greatly," he said, his tone almost mocking. "But I still suggest you don't run. I have more years on you, girl."

"It seems to have worked so far," Catherine replied coolly. A faint smirk appeared on her lips. "Though I'll admit it was rather humorous to see Lee being pelted with snow."

Haytham's expression briefly changed, caught off guard by the remark. "So, you were still in the tavern?"

"Yes," she replied, crossing her arms. "Sending two men to track down one girl is not efficient." She continued, "Especially when those two men happen to be Master Templars."

She revealed her information, and it was clear Haytham was surprised by the statement. "I went through my mother's belongings," she stated, her voice quieter. "I found letters and discussions—things I don't fully understand and things I prefer not to understand."

The look that glossed over Haytham's expression suggested he wanted to press forward. "You obviously didn't fully understand the information, or what we do."

She squeezed her knuckles, "I am not going to have a philosophical debate about whatever you are…" She fought to keep her cover story. "I am going to live my life in peace."

There was the cover story for her, a confused young girl. As long as he did not know her true intentions and find out she had been staying with Achilles Davenport, she would get out of this safely.

There was an unwanted intrusion punctuated by his hand grabbing her chin. His hold was firm and without consent. "You're so much like your father," he said coldly, studying her closely. "Even that disrespectful attitude he was once known for. Though, I found it charming when it was directed towards our enemies..."

Then she caught something in his eyes, but it was just a glint—fondness? She didn't know what to make of it. His demeanor seemed to change when he spoke of her father. "Shay had a fire in him," he continued, his voice softening almost imperceptibly. "A fire that I... admired. Perhaps too much."

His mention of her father revealed an unexpected softness in the Grand Master, though it was only a fleeting expression.

Catherine wrenched her face out of his grip, glaring at him. "I wouldn't know," she spat. "He was gone for more than half my life.

The softness that once lingered in his gaze had definitively vanished. He made a ticking sound and stated, "You are merely a child," Haytham remarked sharply, his voice adopting a menacing undertone. "You lack an understanding of how the world operates. Now, shall we engage in a civilized discussion, or will you persist with your quips and remarks?"

Catherine stepped back, lowering her arms to her sides. She considered whether to continue the conversation or leave and deal with the possible outcomes.

She observed that he was in a better position than she was. The weather did not hinder him, and she was wearing a dress, which was not ideal. Escaping seemed unlikely.

Her experience was limited to climbing trees at the Homestead and practicing with a dull weapon. Catherine concluded that Haytham had a specific purpose for his visit.

"Tell me, have you come to kill me for seeing Lee on the rooftop?"

Haytham stood next to Catherine looking over the grave, giving a humorous chuckle. Catherine briefly observed his neck and wished she could still see the marks she had left there a few weeks ago as she fled.

"No, I've come to give my condolences," he started looking at the grave. "I do apologize for what has happened. We did not know you and your mother would be in the crowd. His tone was laced with regret, but she questioned if this man, who had been instrumental in pulling the puppet strings of political plots and wars within the colonies for years, was capable of such remorse.

"It is not me you have just wrong…what about the families of the other victims?"

The Grand Master had no excuse to offer and simply admitted, "I will concede that the events of the night of your mother's death were not handled appropriately." His hands were clasped firmly behind his back as he spoke with measured calm. "In time, my dear, I can explain everything to you. Until then, we can arrange appropriate accommodation for you, and once your father has been reached, we can decide how to proceed."

"No, thank you," Catherine responded coldly. "I will stay in my own home. And I don't want to hear any excuses about why you think you had the right to kill six innocent people."

Haytham was about to retort when they heard footsteps. Their argument ceased as James dashed towards them, slightly out of breath, to Catherine's relief.

"Catherine, we need to get going—curfew's about to take effect," he said, his wary eyes flickering to Haytham. "Is this man bothering you?" His tone was sharp as he glared at the imposing figure before him.

"No," Catherine replied, quickly shifting her attention to James. "I was just coming to fetch you so we could leave. The cold is bitter, and I'd prefer to get home."

Her doe-brown eyes no longer held warmth, but instead burned with a fire that clashed with his icy gaze, daring him to speak. She half expecting him to stop her from leaving. She realized he was taller and bigger than her, capable of stopping her easily. The Irish girl noticed that Connor likely inherited his height from him.

Haytham's gaze shifted to James briefly before returning to Catherine. His cool gray eyes locked onto hers, her brown doe eyes reminiscent of her father's. "A word of advice..." his tone turned deliberate, "...if you find the box, you'd do well to give it up." His expression hardened, his eyes drilling into her with an unmistakable warning. "No questions shall be asked and you can live your life in peace."

She didn't falter or show any sign that she understood his reference. She maintained a cold poker face. "What box?" She cut short, giving no indication that she was in fact lying.

Haytham didn't make an expression, only an single gesture pointing his index finger in her direction. "Know this, Miss Cormac," he said, his voice colder now. "I will be keeping an eye on you. If you ever get the notion to run or disappear, I will come after you." He was clear with what should have been perceived as a threat. "You may not be officially part of the Order, but your father would want to see you safe."

"Then he should be here himself." She went to turn her back on the grand master.

With striking fast reflexes, he grabbed her wrist like he was trying to shake an sense. "You will listen girl," The air was dead silent, the only sound was the soft of his pistol and sword attached to his sporran around his waist. "You are to stay put, run your little tavern, and wait for your father to return…is that understood?"

She didn't say anything as she tried to rip herself free, but Haytham gave her a hard shake like he was trying to strike fear. "I said, is that understood?"

"Yes! Release me!" He complied, causing her to stumble backward. James intervened to catch her, preventing her from falling onto the cold ground.

"Please do not let my age mislead you," she said sharply. "I do not require supervision like a child," she added, her frustration evident in her voice.

Haytham raised an eyebrow at her statement. "In that case, I shall not detain you any further, Miss."

He glanced briefly at the young man nearby, finding his attempt to appear intimidating rather amusing. "However, Miss Cormac, please be aware that we will remain in close proximity." With a courteous nod, he turned and walked past the young man, taking his leave.

James narrowed his eyes, "what a bastard…" He glanced at his friend, "are you alright?"

"Aye," Catherine tighten her cloak around her, "We need to go…I could use that pot of tea." Her voice was dripping with anger.

Haytham heard the girl's last sentence before disappearing into the darkness of the alleyway. He noted the girl's determination to stand up to him, observing her boldness. He recognized a similarity between father and daughter; both exhibited stubbornness. He understood the reason behind the girl's anger.

Those same brown eyes that he had seen in Shay Cormac, filled her eyes. He had remembered how everyone seemed to fond over at the time, the young miss Cormac who was only child, looking so much like her mother, but she held the eyes and chin as her father.

He had a profound respect for Rose Cormac, despite the disagreements that arose during the Seven Years War. Haytham harbored regrets, particularly concerning matters related to the Cormac family. Her death was unfortunate and unnecessary, as she happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. He often thought about advising her to remain at home with her daughter, but he knew she would not have accepted a personal message from him, nor would she have welcomed him into her home.

At the end of the cold dark alleyway was Charles Lee, who had been the one to inform him of Miss. Cormac's return. Lee had his arms crossed over his chest while he waited for his grandmaster to return with news. "No luck?"

"Afraid not," Lee fell in step with the Grandmaster, Haytham didn't have to look back to know his second in command was right with him. "I want our most stealthy men to tail Miss Cormac until Shay returns to collect her. If she is to run that tavern she will need hired help. Get one of our female spies…the Persian girl if you may. I want her to work there as a barmaid."

"I will see it done, Haytham." Charles stated. "But I must ask…why not just make her come? She is just a silly girl. She is no match for you out in the open like this.."

Haytham owed it to Shay to ensure that Catherine was taken care of. Clenching his fists, he couldn't help but berate himself. How foolish had he been not to personally confirm that Rose Cormac was out of harm's way? Perhaps if he had taken the time to escort Miss Cormac home himself, instead of leaving her safety to a friend, everything would still be right in the world.

But Haytham didn't dwell on what ifs. The Grand Master couldn't afford the luxury of dreaming or lamenting over the past. His role required decisive action and leadership, even when it meant making difficult decisions.

"It's delicate situation…She already perceives us as the cause fo her mother death, we don't want anymore pressure to befall the girl."

Lee knowing when to drop it, came up with an suggestion.

"Hickey would be the right man for the job," Lee said, walking beside him. "He knows her, he blends into taverns without drawing suspicion, and he has the largest network of underground spies." As Lee spoke, he retrieved an pulled an envelope from his coat pocket. "Word arrived this morning from Cormac. He should be arriving within the next few weeks."

Haytham's stomach jolted at the sight of Shay's familiar handwriting. He couldn't recall the last time he had received a message from him.

The flowing cursive of Shay Cormac stood as a testament to his character as Haytham carefully scanned the letter. He felt a renewed sense of hope. Perhaps his dear friend's return could help mend his distraught daughter, and perhaps, in the process, Haytham might find a way to seek forgiveness from the man he cared deeply about.

James poured a cup of whiskey for Catherine. She was quiet, still processing the confrontation from earlier. "What right does he have to talk to you like that?" James said.

"My Da works for him, that's why," Catherine replied, gripping the glass tightly. Her mother would have raised hell if she knew Catherine was drinking before the age of eighteen, but at this point, she didn't give a damn. "Who the hell does that man think he is?" she growled under her breath.

"Easy, Cathy," James said, taking a seat next to her. "Don't do anything you'll regret."

"Oh, there are many things I'd love to do," she muttered, taking a sip of her whiskey. "Like shove my foot so far up his arse, he'll be eating his own teeth."

James quietly slipped the bottle from her reach before she could pour another drink. "Jesus, girl," he said, placing the bottle under the bar. "If we're going to get your life back on track, you'll need help with the Inn."

"I am not staying," Catherine drained her glass, feeling the warmth of the liquor spread through her cheeks. She picked up her sketchbook, which was sitting nearby, and flipped to a clean page.

"What else would you do?" James asked, looking shocked at her sudden announcement.

Catherine paused, considering what to say. She wanted to inform James about her family's connection with the Templars and Assassins but was hesitant to involve him.

"I was offered an apprenticeship up north," she explained. It was not entirely false, though not the full truth. Taking on the responsibilities of an Assassin was similar to an apprenticeship. "From a friend of Samuel Adams."

James looked taken aback. "What kind?"

"It pertains to business," she responded ambiguously. She preferred that he remained uninformed about the Templars. It was a strategic decision akin to playing an intense game of poker or dice, where the potential rewards were significant, but the risks could be catastrophic.

James leaned against the counter. "Why did you not inform me earlier?"

"I have not had the opportunity," she replied, crossing her ankles over the bar stool."However, I believe it would be prudent to ensure the Inn continues to operate."

"How?" James asked eyeing Catherine, "If you're going to be gone, who's going to run it?"

"I will have a staff run it, hire someone to run it for me." Catherine hummed for a moment before reaching over to her sketchbook, "A help wanted ad," She mused.

Catherine had to make the ruse convincing. On the surface, it would seem like she was pursuing a mundane apprenticeship far from Boston, but she was plotting to find the Precursor Box before the Templars could lay their hands on it. It was a dangerous gamble, one that put her directly in Haytham Kenway's crosshairs.

Not to mention the danger she could have put Connor in, no one knew he existed besides the fact he was on the roof top. She covered her tracks on the story that he was back in his village away from Boston.

If her story seemed to be false, it could mean death, for Connor and her.

James sighed and began writing a help-wanted ad for the tavern, he had taken a bit of parchment from her intending to bring it to the printer. When he finished, Catherine snatched the paper and grabbed the charcoal from his hand, sketching decorative flowers around the edges. Drawing had always given her peace.

"Just to add a bit of dazzle," she said, unfazed by the extra cost of printing. "I'll give you the money for the ad."

James collected the paper from her. "So…an apprenticeship," he mused. "Why am I just hearing about this now?"

"I haven't had a chance to talk to you yet."

"Are you going to leave?"

Catherine hesitated. "What choice do I have? As much as I'd love to stay and put Kenway's arse in the dust, it's too risky."

James watched her, not wanting to lose her again. He wasn't ready for her to leave. He reached out and grabbed her hand. "Catherine, you don't have to go."

"Yes, I do."

James felt an internal groan. It wasn't the right time, but he couldn't hold it in any longer. "You don't have to leave…I can help you."

"How? You're still a year away from finishing your apprenticeship. You don't have much money, and you're supporting your mother and sister."

"I can finish early, then you could come back."

"And then what?"

"Marry me."

Catherine blinked, unsure if she had heard him right. "What did you just say?"

James's mouth opened, but the words came out in a nervous jumble. "Marry me. I can take care of you…"

Catherine's eyes met his, both sets of blue reflecting the weight of the moment. "A pity marriage?" she asked, her voice tinged with sadness. Did he really pity her that much?

"It's not like that," James insisted.

Catherine turned away, trying to hide her embarrassment. "Then what is it?"

"It's logical… We've known each other since we were kids. Even your mother said it'd be surprising if we didn't end up married one day."

Catherine leaned back in her seat, struggling to process his words. Her best friend had just proposed to her. "So, we just give in to everyone's assumptions and marry because my mother died?"

Ever since the Boston Massacre, her entire world had been turned upside down. Even her friendship with James was changing, evolving in ways she hadn't anticipated. The weight of grief hung heavy in the air, but this felt like a leap into something she wasn't ready for.

James searched her eyes, desperation creeping into his voice. "It's not just about that. I care about you, and I want to protect you. This isn't pity; it's about making a choice together."

"But do you really think a marriage would fix anything?" Catherine shot back, her voice trembling. "You're my best friend. I can't put that on the line."

"I'm trying to protect you, but it's not just that—"

She snapped, "I don't want to get married, James… ever."

James blinked, caught off guard. "I thought you always did."

"I lied. Watching what my mother went through with my father… her heart broke every time he left." Catherine's voice was tinged with bitterness.

Rose hid her loneliness well, she never spoke of missing her father, but whenever there was news, or when he visited. She was hallowed after he left. Like something inside her shattered. Though, it wasn't exactly true how Catherine felt about marriage.

She just wanted to say anything to get James off her back, for some reason, she could not imagine a life with him. Being the wife of a blacksmith? That was far from what she wanted to be. Besides James was her best friend, her brother, she could never. Though, she thought he felt the same.

James made a frustrated noise, his disbelief clear. "I would never do that to you, Catherine."

"Just… no. I don't want to arrange this."

He sighed "Just think it over… I'll take this to the printers for the morning paper." He pocketed the ad, though his movements were slower, weighed down by her rejection.

Catherine dug into her pocket and pulled out a small pouch of coins. "Here," she said, handing it to him.

James took it, his eyes dimming with hurt. "Catherine, have a good night."

"Good night, James." She kept her gaze low, unable to meet his eyes, feeling the sting of what she'd just done.

Alone in the heavy silence, Catherine clenched her fists, anger simmering beneath her sorrow. She had turned down her best friend, and her heart ached for some semblance of normalcy. But her thoughts drifted back to her father, he should've been here, keeping her safe, not sending his associates to trail her like she was some criminal.

With a heavy heart, she ascended the stairs to her apartment above the tavern, glancing at the closed door across from hers, her mother's room. It had been untouched since Rose's death, a shrine of bittersweet memories. She stood there for a moment, hesitating, before finally stepping inside, letting the past wash over her.

The room was as it had always been, untouched, like a time capsule preserving the essence of Rose. The familiar scent of her mother's favorite perfume lingered in the air, clinging to every surface. Lavender and Jasmine… that is always what she wore. Catherine's heart ached as she recalled the nights they'd spent together, Rose brushing and braiding her hair, the bedtime prayers they shared.

She could almost hear her mother's voice, soft and comforting, as they knelt together at the edge of the bed. Or when she felt her mother's fingers brushing through her hair, detangling the curls, counting the brush strokes, counting in French, or Italian. Encouraging Catherine's thirst for new languages. The times she was sick and would spend time in her mother's bed while Rose took care of her.

Shaking off the vivid memories, Catherine's gaze landed on a familiar item, a dull red shawl draped high on a closet shelf. It was one of her mother's favorites, a simple but cherished piece that could transform any outfit. She retrieved it, wrapping the fabric around her shoulders and catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror. Her auburn curls fell gracefully against the red fabric.

An thought occurred to the lass.

She looped the shawl into a makeshift hood, reminiscent of the iconic hoods worn by the Assassins. momentarily imagining herself prowling Boston's rooftops, hunting shadows.

But the vision of her father, Shay Cormac, the notorious Assassin hunter, hunting her down flashed through her mind, and she ripped the hood off, flinging it onto the bed. The thought of his blade at her throat was a terrifying possibility. Both of her parents had once walked the same path, only to diverge onto opposing sides, one a loving mother and the other a feared Templar knight who was just a shadow her life.

She sat on her mother's bed, seeking solace in the quiet room. "Please aid me," she whispered, laying the shawl beside her. She had her work cut out for her. The first step was to find that letter addressed to her, maybe if she spoke with those who had overseen the cleanup after the massacre, she could gather more clues.

The captain who had tried to calm the situation, perhaps he'd be able to tell her more details. Though that letter could be anywhere, and maybe it didn't exist anymore. Still, she had to try. If she could find that letter, she might discover who had sent her the Precursor box and track down the culprit who had stolen it.

But that would have to wait until tomorrow. She sighed, rolling over to blow out the candlelight in the room, letting sleep over come her. Her problems would be tomorrow's problems.

Deep in slumber, she remained oblivious to the disturbances occurring outside on the cobblestone streets of Boston. A figure stood in the cold, observing the tavern's dimly lit windows. Thomas Hickey, assigned by Haytham Kenway with the task of monitoring Catherine. He muttered under his breath against the chill of the late-night wind. Keeping watch over her was proving to be more challenging than anticipated, and he realized he could not manage this task alone. This necessity for support was precisely why Haytham had selected him; Hickey possessed the requisite connections to accomplish the task.

-

Connor chopped wood steadily, the rhythmic sound echoing in the crisp, chilly air. He had just gathered a bundle under his arm and was making his way back to the house when he noticed a lone rider approaching the Davenport Homestead. Squinting against the bright sky, he realized it was a young man wearing a tri-cornered hat, clearly out of place among the quiet landscape. The rider trotted up, pausing just before Connor.

"Are you Connor?" the rider asked, his voice steady.

"Yes," Connor replied, gripping the ax handle tightly.

The man steadied his horse, reached into his messenger bag, and pulled out an envelope. "I have a letter from Catherine Cormac." He handed it to Connor, tipping his hat before turning his horse and riding back the way he came. Connor watched him disappear, the letter heavy in his hands. His heart pounded with a mix of excitement and nerves; it hadn't been long since he'd last heard from her.

Achilles was already waiting on the porch, leaning on his cane, watching the exchange. "Who was that?"

Connor glanced down at the envelope addressed to both him and Achilles. "Catherine sent us a letter."

Achilles took the letter and carefully opened it. As he read, his expression darkened, and he looked up at Connor, eyes filled with concern.

"What does it say, Achilles?" Connor asked, feeling a sense of dread creeping in.

"Catherine has had an encounter with your father," Achilles said, folding the letter with a sigh.

Connor's face paled. "Is she alright?"

"She's unharmed, but the Templars are watching her closely," Achilles replied, his tone serious.

Connor clenched his fists, his anger bubbling to the surface. "I need to help her."

Achilles studied him carefully, weighing the risks. "And how do you intend to do that? Haytham has eyes everywhere."

"The Boston tunnels," Connor said, his voice filled with determination.

Achilles was silent for a moment before he nodded slowly. "There is one that leads directly under her mother's tavern. But be careful. Don't get caught or draw any unnecessary attention."

Connor nodded, taking Achilles' words to heart as he set off on his mission.