Chapter 1. Adventures Await in 1870

1870

Looking up at the towering cruiser, Evie Frye was filled with anticipation. The moment to leave England behind and embark on a new adventure had finally arrived. Beside her, Henry Green stood; his eyes were gleaming with eagerness to explore the country he'd spoken of so passionately. Evie glanced over her shoulder at Henry as he meticulously checked their belongings. She exhaled a slow breath, trying to steady her rapidly beating heart. Was it nervous excitement coursing through her veins? Perhaps that was the perfect description. The sensation reminded her of the thrill she'd felt when she and Jacob had made the spontaneous decision to board the train to London two years earlier.

Jacob, Evie pondered. He was fully aware of her impending departure. She had been packing and planning for some time, yet their goodbye at the bustling station had been a moment fraught with emotion for both of them. Such was the depth of their bond, forged from the very moment they entered the world together.

Shaking off the lingering sting of their parting, Evie surveyed her surroundings only to spot a woman garbed in an all-encompassing black dress standing on the other side of the dock. The stranger's icy smile cut through the distance like a blade through silk, sending an unsettling shiver coursing down Evie's spine. There was an eerie familiarity etched into those eyes that held her captive.

"Evie?" Henry's voice sliced through her transfixed gaze, pulling her back to reality. "Are you alright? You didn't respond."

Her gaze softened as she met his worried eyes. "I'm sorry, Henry," she murmured apologetically, "I got distracted."

Henry's brow furrowed in thought as he replied, "Jacob will be alright, I'm sure. However, if you're feeling overwhelmed, we can always delay our departure by a week or two." Evie smiled at him, deeply touched by his unwavering consideration for her well-being. It was one of the many reasons she cherished him so dearly.

"No," she assured him. "You have been away from your home for so long now. I've noticed how excited you've been these past few days; we must go."

They shared a warm embrace, with Evie savouring the comfort of his presence. She glanced over his shoulder, searching for the mysterious woman. But the stranger had vanished, leaving only a lingering sense of unease in her wake.

The British Assassins' takeover of London had been executed with meticulous precision over the past two years. They had carefully established secret training grounds where eager initiates honed their lethal skills, and a fortified central base hummed with the strategic operations of council members. Jacob Frye marched with purpose toward another council meeting, his mind buzzing with the momentum of recent events. He was flanked by a select group of his most trusted Rooks—each face etched with resolve and shadowed by echoes of past battles—as they entered a vast room. The other four master Assassins, imposing in their silent vigil, rose in unison to greet them. George Westhouse offered a subtle nod as acknowledgment. Meanwhile, the council's master, seated at the head of an imposing oak table, stood to address the assembly.

"Welcome, Master Frye. Please, take your seat so we may commence," he declared, his voice resonating with authority and control. Jacob gingerly withdrew an ornate chair – its wood weathered by the passage of time – and positioned himself amid the focused assembly of his Rooks. With a measured tranquillity, he initiated, "Gentlemen..." as he unfurled a bundle of documents teeming with meticulous accounts from the previous month. However, before he could plunge into the chronicle, the council's leader interjected in a manner that sent a ripple of unease through the room.

"Master Frye, before we proceed, there is an urgent issue that demands our attention. I have recently patrolled the streets of London and observed with a discerning eye that our grip on this magnificent city has become notably firm. It is against this backdrop that I must address your... gang..." His voice tapered off into silence as he gestured ambiguously, his tone steeped in frosty determination. Jacob's gaze darted to George, whose stiff posture and strained countenance indicated the seriousness of the council's message.

"The time has come," the master began, his voice steady yet tinged with an undercurrent of sternness, "to disband this group known as the Rooks. Their presence is no longer required and, to be frank, certain 'actions' they've taken are far from the decorum our organization expects. We have a fresh batch of initiates ready to take their place for future endeavours." A wave of discomfort swept through the Rooks standing behind Jacob as the room's atmosphere grew tense. Jacob's expression turned stony, disbelief and brewing anger marring his features.

"Dissolve the Rooks?" Jacob's voice thundered, his tone escalating with each word, resonating anger. "It's not as simple as declaring, 'Thank you for your sacrifice over these past two years, but you've outlived your usefulness!' Do you fail to comprehend that without their assistance, we wouldn't be standing here today?"

The council head remained stoic, his gaze steadfast. "The decision of this council is irrevocable," he stated firmly. "It will be implemented. This issue is settled." His words were frosty with an undertone of threat and echoed in the tense silence. "I trust that this time around you'll heed our directive... unlike before," he added pointedly. "From henceforth, your defiance will not be met with leniency."

"A defiance that secured us London!" Jacob retorted defiantly, his voice echoing through the room as he abruptly rose from his seat. His chair crashed backward with a resounding clatter. A heavy silence fell upon the room once more; it was thick with unsaid anger and resentment.

Then Jacob turned on his heel and exited the room swiftly, leaving behind him a trail of stunned silence. His loyal Rooks trailed after him like a flurry of agitated shadows.

Bert, a hulking Rook with a weathered face and shoulders that seemed to eclipse the doorframe, stormed through the heavy, creaking doors. "Well, that was intense, guv'nor. What now?" His voice resonated throughout the room, bouncing off walls adorned with faded, peeling wallpaper.

"Nothing now," Jacob replied sullenly. His gaze was fixed on the scarred wooden floor as he added, "It's over." The resignation in his voice was palpable.

Bert's face contorted with anger; his brows knitted together like storm clouds looming over a tumultuous sea. "Bollocks is it over! Are you going to let those pieces of shit in there toss us out like unwanted dogs?"

Jacob glanced back at him, understanding Bert's fury but disliking the abrasive edge of his tone. "I'll see if I can reason with them," he stated, struggling to keep his temper under control and choosing his words carefully.

"With your fists, I hope," Bert bellowed back. His voice echoed with the raw energy of a man primed for combat.

"It's more complicated than that!" Jacob retorted sharply as his own frustration began to surge.

"Never used to be," Bert hissed, his voice low and venomous. "I should have known you'd be like all the others in the end!" With that declaration, Bert turned to the other two Rooks—a fellow with a flat cap perched low over his eyes and a woman wearing a bowler hat tilted at a jaunty angle. "Let's go get half-rats and cop a mouse. I've had enough of this meater!" Bert sneered as he spun on his heel, ready to leave.

A surge of anger welled up inside Jacob—an almost overwhelming urge to knock seven bells out of Bert. But Effie, the female Rook with eyes sharp as daggers and a calm demeanour, noticed Jacob's tense posture. She pushed him back slightly. "Sorry 'bout him, gaffer. He'll calm down after a couple of drinks," she assured.

Jacob took a deep breath; the tension eased slightly from his shoulders. He glanced to his left to see George—an older assassin with a weathered face and wise eyes—walking down the shadowy corridor.

"I'm the one who should be sorry, Effie," he replied quietly, the weight of his responsibility heavy on his shoulders. "I should have seen this coming... It's going to be a bloody disaster."

Effie nodded back sadly, understanding the gravity of the situation. "I'll go keep my eye on him. See you later, guv," she said softly before turning away and leaving; her footsteps echoing down the hall as George approached. The older assassin sighed, a deep and weary sound, and said, "I'm sorry, Jacob. I tried to advise against it as the Rooks have their uses. But even with your vote, we would have been outmatched." His voice carried the weight of regret. Jacob looked up from the floor, his eyes meeting George's with sorrow. "It's more than their 'uses,' George. They are like a family, and many have nowhere else to go. This is going to come as a blow, and many aren't going to take it lightly." His voice was sincere and tenacious, reflecting a leader's responsibility.

Bert found himself in the smoke-filled interior of the Rooks' favourite public house, nursing his pint while trying to drown his sorrows. He had just sent Effie packing back to the train with a harsh retort. The pub was buzzing with the murmurs of gang members who had gathered to hear Bert recount the tale; each time he relayed the story, a wave of disappointment washed over the group. Many were particularly irked by Jacob's inability to assert his authority. After all, it was the Rooks who had claimed the streets of London, not these so-called "Assassins." All those newcomers had done was eliminate a few high-society types, yet they were the ones giving orders.

"It's bollocks—absolute bollocks," Bert declared, his voice gruff and resolute, earning nods of agreement from the surrounding crowd. As a respected, long-serving member and one of Jacob's trusted "top blokes," his words carried significant weight. From the back of the room, a fellow Rook pushed his way through the throng and squeezed into the seat beside Bert. He leaned in conspiratorially, lowering his voice as if sharing a secret.

"Listen to this, Bert. Couple o' weeks back, this real fine lady approached our group. She was asking if we provided personal protection or summat. We told her it wasn't really necessary anymore, seeing as we run London. But if she had any major issues, she should see Mr. Frye." She waved it off, saying anything could happen. She handed us her address, promising to make it worth our while and offering permanent security. I dismissed the idea, but a few of the lads went with her. Now I'm thinking—maybe we should just go, you know?"

To Bert, it was just another snob wanting the lower class to grovel beneath them. Bollocks to it, he thought, realizing things would always be this way. If a chance to earn better coin presented itself, then why not take it? And now, conveniently, it had!