Our hot chocolate was finished by the time we returned to the Rolling Bear, and we weren't so cold anymore; our sharing of Connor's coat had mutually benefitted us both (plus it was my sneaky way of hugging him without threat of being sold). Before we opened the door, however, Connor removed his arm from my shoulder and said, "Out."

I tried to hide my disappointment by saying, "Scared I'll embarrass you?"

"Yes, actually," he said as I stepped away from him. "My public image is at stake."

I snorted at that. "The only thing that's at stake is your ability to walk if that fire isn't still lit, which–" I added, peering through the window– "it is. You're safe for now."

"Like you could hurt me," he teased.

I glared up at him. "I'll beat you to death with your own leg." Giving him no time to form a reply, I opened the door to greet the heavenly warmth. Adams and Molineux were gone; the tavern, in spite of its warmth, felt cold - like a heart that had stopped beating. My footsteps were oddly loud as I stepped inside.

Even Connor sensed the eerie silence and closed the door very gently behind him. He glanced around; we were, indeed, alone - but when I heard a sound in the back room I near jumped out of my skin.

In spite of it all, I saw Connor's mouth twitch with a repressed smile, but it disappeared as there was another sound, slightly louder, from the back room. I was closer to the back door than Connor was, and placed a tentative hand on the knob, my heart roaring in my ears. Behind me, I knew Connor was watching, hands ready to reach for a weapon.

I don't know what I was expecting, but it wasn't Chapheau stabbing a butcher knife into a paper document over and over. Dim lamplight caught hold of his red hair and turned it to flame.

"Chapheau," I said softly. "What's wrong? Where is everyone?"

"Who cares?" he snapped. "I've been robbed." He tore his knife viciously from the shredded paper and held the sheet up to the light: a notice of eviction.

I stepped back hurriedly as he gripped his knife once more and stomped past me. "I cannot escape the English," he hissed under his breath, "no matter where I go. They kick me out of my home; I come here. Now they want to take my new home. Bah!"

"Where are you going?" said Connor as Chapheau stormed out the door, letting a cold draught ruffle the comfortable flames of the hearth.

"To get back what's rightfully mine," Chapheau snapped again, paying no heed to the slowly dying sunlight nor the patches of ice on the ground.

Connor sighed. "I will go with him and try to make sure he does nothing too stupid."

"I'll find Adams and Molineux," I said.

"You know where their meeting is?"

"The Old South Meeting House is a safe bet," I said, "I'll start there."

He nodded, already backing away in the direction of Chapheau's fuming figure. "Very well. I will meet you there - fill me in if I miss anything."

And then I was alone and shivering, as Connor had taken my only means of warming myself - which happened to be himself. It didn't take me long to get to the Meeting House as I kept to the main street (at this hour of the day there were many more creeps in the back alleys). I crossed my arms firmly over my chest in an effort to preserve some warmth as I walked; I had hardly any money left - certainly not enough to buy myself a new shawl.

I wasn't alone when I arrived, however: Molineux was waiting outside, too, standing on the outskirts of a small crowd waiting by the door. When he saw me he seemed to perk up. "Ah," he said; the tip of his nose was red from the cold, "Catherine, was it?"

"Cassandra, actually," I said, glancing down at his legs; one trouser leg was rolled higher than the other, a signature of the Masons.

"I apologise," he said immediately. "I'm terrible with names. Goodness, it's cold this winter. When I saw you earlier," he added, "you wore a shawl, but you appear to have lost it along the way. No cause for worry - the meeting should be over soon."

I leaned against the wall of the building to shelter myself against the wind. "Has it been on long?"

"We left around the same time as you did," he said. "It won't be long now."

Seeing I would get no information from Molineux, I merely nodded, holding my arms tighter to my chest, and would have zoned out then and there had the people by the door not started a conversation that sparked my interest.

"I hear they've resolved to send the three ships back," a man said, "cargo and all."

"Aye–" a buck-toothed woman nodded– "but Governor Hutchinson refuses to let them leave. Wants us to take the tea, pay the duties, and say thank you kindly to the king."

"The king can kindly kiss my ass," the man grumbled, tugging a pair of gloves over his hands.

"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" another man sniggered.

The first speaker did not find it so funny. "You can kiss it, too."

"Enough," the woman snapped. "What hope have we of resisting if we're arguing amongst ourselves?"

Another man raised his fist to pound on the door and muttered, "If Adams keeps giving these speeches he's apt to end up in the stocks."

The woman next to him grabbed his arm before he could touch the door. "They wouldn't dare," she said.

"I've seen men punished for far less," the man insisted.

"If the Tories think that'll quiet the people," the woman said, wrapping her shawl (which I was increasingly envious of) tighter around her, "they've another thing coming. They touch a hair on his head and he becomes a martyr."

Conversation ceased for a few minutes, and movement at the street corner had me looking up: Connor had arrived with Chapheau; he glanced around the street once before deeming it safe to cross the road. When Connor came to a stop beside me he left a generous space between us.

"What have I missed?" he asked.

"Nothing at all," I said. "We're just waiting for this meeting to end."

He nodded and quickly filled me in on what had happened with Chapheau (who was explaining himself to Molineux): Connor had followed Chapheau to the dock (where another shipment of tea had just come in; the last one of the evening) and discovered that it was William Johnson who gave the orders to the tax collectors. Chapheau had subsequently pledged his allegiance to the Brotherhood - he would be our eyes in the streets when we weren't around.

I gave it a moment to sink in. "Any help is welcome," I said. "It'll be good to have an extra pair of eyes."

Nodding in silent agreement, he made a gesture with his hand to hush me as the conversation of the group next to us started again:

The man who had spoken first was now pacing the cobbled path, keeping a wary eye out for patches of ice. "Muskets will do what words won't," he said.

"Quiet!" his friend hissed, casting a furtive look around the street as though dreading the sight of those red coats. "Do you want to be hanged for treason?"

The first man did not share these concerns. "There's nothing treasonous about calling for freedom."

"Tell it to the king and his cronies," his friend muttered.

On a rant now, the first speaker paid no attention to the words of his friend and waved him off as though he were naught but an irksome fly. "Men like Adams, they talk and talk and nothing. Happens. Naught will change until we act."

"Give it time," his friend tried to soothe, but he snapped back, "I've given more than any man should. We all have."

He said no more. This seemed to have affected the overall mood of the entire group, for they all stood in a newfound silence, scuffing their feet in the mud.

"What happens now?" I said quietly.

Molineux, who had been looking at his pocket watch, said, "We wait for the signal."

The street was still and silent, save for the gentle hissing of the wind between chimney pots. I frowned. "What signal?"

A moment later the doors opened and a myriad of voices, both male and female, pierced the quiet of the street. "That one," Molineux said and bade us step away from the doors.

All at once the group of people began their clamour once more as those who had attended the meeting left the building with the airs of men who had solved the world's every problem. When Adams saw us waiting for him, he beamed.

"Good evening, lady and gentlemen–" he caught my eye with a good-natured wink– "shall we be off?"

"No," Connor said.

This shocked Adams for a moment and he stopped in his tracks. "What's the matter?"

Connor's face was unreadable - but by now this was no surprise to me. I had noticed that as he got older he became more and more difficult to read; like he purposely shut himself off; like he had built a wall around himself to protect a soft and vulnerable soul; a wall so high that none could climb it. A wall to keep the pain out.

But maybe I wanted to climb that wall. Maybe I wanted to tear it down with my bare hands.

"We have spent today," Connor said (and his ever-soft tone had been replaced with something sharper), "drawn from one bit of madness to another with nothing to show for it. Before we go any further I would like to know exactly what it is you intend."

"Of course." Adams still sounded surprised. "First we make our way to Nathaniel Bradlee's house to fetch the rest of our little group; then it's off to Griffin's Wharf where we board the ships and dump the tea. Simple as that."

"Simple seems a bit charitable," muttered Connor.

Adams looked like he would have patted Connor's arm to comfort him, but hastily thought better of it and said, "Cheer up, for tonight we are all victors: the Sons of Liberty get to send a message to England, and you get to rob William Johnson of his financing. Your village will be saved!"

Connor and I locked eyes for a few moments, and an unspoken understanding passed between us. "We'll meet you at Griffin's Wharf," I said.

"Will you not come with us?" said Molineux. "We are fetching disguises, too, and perhaps it would do well for the two of you to wear–" He broke off when Adams elbowed him in the ribs and hissed something in his ear. Regaining his composure, Molineux said, "Right. Of course. We will meet the pair of you there."

"How long will you be?" I asked.

"Shouldn't be more than an hour," he said, glancing at us over his shoulder as the men left.

Connor watched them leave. "I dislike them," he said. "Chapheau is decent but the other two. . ."

I understood that. "We must be careful," I said, "ere they stab us in the back."

It didn't take us long to get to Griffin's Wharf, and the sky was a purplish cloud-covered blanket over our heads. The wind was freezing - too cold for snow. While we waited for the rest of our group to arrive, Connor, once again, and very kindly, let me shelter in his coat with him. He radiated a strong warmth beside me, and I debated slipping my cold hands up his shirt and on to his back, but I just knew he would cut my hands off then and there. So I let him be.

Over time more people had gathered by the harbour, where three ships - the Beaver, the Dartmouth and the Eleanor - had moored; even from here I could see their cargo: crates and crates of tea. Enough to last decades. And we were going to dump it?

I began to mourn the loss of the tea before it was even gone. Without looking at me, Connor said, "Do not be sad about the tea. Material things are not worth such emotion."

"But it's tea," I mumbled.

He mimicked me and then said, "So? It could be worse."

"How could it possibly be worse?"

Now he looked down at me, his eyes glinting in the fading light, and his grin was utterly wicked. "It could be raisin cookies."

I gaped up at him. "I would cry."

"Oh, I know," he said.

The sun had set fully, and the sky was a dark grey mass of clouds and smoke above us, by the time the rest of the group arrived - and they brought more people with them. At first I was unsure if it was indeed them, for they wore different clothes, but I recognised Chapheau trailing behind them (he was the only one not wearing a disguise), and as they passed a brightly-lit window I could see their clothes more clearly, and my heart dropped.

They were dressed like the Kanien'kehá:ka.

As they drew closer Connor stiffened, watching them approach with a deadly calm expression - looking for all the world as though he were merely distracted; but his arm tightened ever so slightly over my shoulder, and I knew how this blatant display of disrespect towards his people had hit him. These men would publically dress themselves as the innocent Kanien'kehá:ka and then blame tonight's actions on them - surely only a coward would think of such a thing.

Adams was oblivious to all of this and beamed like he thought himself a genius - was this his idea, or the suggestion of someone else? "Greetings again, friends," he said when he was close enough. "A fine night for a tea party, eh?"

Connor gave him a cold once-over and did not reply. I spoke for both of us: "What's the plan?"

It was more difficult to recognise the Sons of Liberty with their disguises and painted faces, but after a few moment's scrutiny I did see Paul Revere and Francis Akeley. A few of the men finally copped on when they saw just who Connor was, and had the decency to look sheepish. I stepped out from under Connor's coat (trying not to let them see me cringe as the cold air attacked me) and glared at them; I knew this was in vain, however, because I looked too young and as such I was always underestimated.

Adams briefly explained the plan: Revere and a few others would keep watch for the redcoats while the rest of us boarded the three ships and dumped the tea in to the harbour. A plan so simple in its method that I had trouble believing it to be true.

As the Sons of Liberty ran to the ships, cheered on by the gathering crowd, I looked at Connor, mouth pressed thin. "Bastards," I muttered.

His eyes had never left them. "I will skin them all," he said quietly.

I did not doubt that. "I know," I said, "but we need to prioritise. Johnson's tea comes first, so that your village may remain free."

He did not like this plan one bit but he gave in. "Fine. Let's get this over with, then."

I cannot accurately put into words the acute level of pain I felt as we dumped the boxes and boxes of tea into the ocean. Around us, the ships and the dock were utter chaos: people had gathered, screaming and cheering, at the dock as we filled the decks of the ships; the hurried movements of the people on board resembled scattering rats. The Sons of Liberty were easily distinguished by their disguises, and every time I saw them a sour taste came in to my mouth.

Salty water splashed up and rained on my face with every crate we dumped; my sleeves became damp with it; the cold night air took hold of it and turned it against me; twisting a knife in an open wound. Connor reached over to help me to lift a particularly heavy box when someone gave a shout.

It was Revere. "Regulars," he called.

All movement on the three ships stilled for just a moment as every eye turned to the streets, where a large group of redcoats had indeed come to investigate the source of the noise at this hour. One or two broke away from the main group to scout for back-up while the rest took their muskets in their hands and charged for the ships.

But we had the support of the onlooking crowd, and they surged against the redcoats like a tidal wave, pushing them back, back, back. . .

One of them fired a shot into the air, and the crowd lost control. As redcoat reinforcements arrived, panic began to spread, slow as treacle. "They will not open fire," Connor muttered to me. "Not after the backlash of the Massacre."

That was true. If the soldiers dared to shoot a civilian there would be riots. Still, I couldn't help looking over my shoulder as I emptied the crates into the water, which swirled below us like ink in a well.

I could count the number of tea crates left, now. We were almost there. There was so much tea in the water that England would probably be able to taste it tomorrow.

Honestly, in spite of my devastation at the colossal waste of tea, I thought we were doing rather well - until another shot was fired into the air and the crowd scattered. The redcoats pushed their way through the crowd; blood oozing from an open wound. Connor and I shared a look, the empty crate now suspended between our hands like the world had frozen.

Everything seemed to have slowed down, like we were breathing in honey, and sounds were muffled as though we were trapped under water. The wind held its breath; even the waves lapping against the sides of the ships calmed their icy rage as those soldiers advanced.

The world jolted back into place as they started to climb on board. I didn't want to get my hopes up, but Connor's words brought me a small amount of peace of mind. They wouldn't kill us - if they were to open fire they would shoot to wound.

One of the soldiers came running towards us; as one Connor and I turned and swung the heavy wooden box at him, and he collapsed as it struck him a blow across his chest that knocked the air out of him.

And then Connor was torn away from me to fend off another soldier, and I dropped the crate with a heavy thud. Someone close by fired another shot into the air, and through the haze of smoke I saw those red coats, like drops of blood, slowly filling the deck. Most of the tea was, by now, in the water, and there was nothing anyone could do about that. This crime was not worthy of execution, at any rate - arrest was the worst that could happen.

I was the only woman on board and the redcoats saw it - one after another they came for me, thinking to grab me and haul me away because I would be an easy opponent. I proved each of them how wrong they were when they all stumbled away from me, clutching their ribs or their jaws.

Having lost sight of Connor in the chaos, I focused on standing my ground. Someone took a swing at me with a bayonet, and I lifted the crate at my feet to use it as a shield. As the thick wood dulled the impact of the blade, I pushed the redcoat back with the box and struck him with it. When he fell another took his place, and I hit him with the crate, too - but then the wood shattered, weakened as it was, and I tripped at the sudden momentum.

I scarcely had time to straighten myself before I caught half of Connor's strained call, "Cassa–"

The rest was drowned out as another shot went off, and I cried out as a sharp, burning pain ripped through my shoulder. I stumbled over the chunks of wood at my feet and fell to my knees; I pressed a hand to my shoulder and it came away red.

As I hauled myself to my feet I picked one of the jagged chunks of wood from the ground. I would have used my wrist blades had my intent been to kill, but my motive was not death on this night. Not when the faces of those children still floated before my eyes.

The fabric of my dress was warm and sticky against my skin, but I ignored it, ignored the pain in my shoulder, as I swung my piece of wood like a sword against the soldier who had shot me. He ducked back and tried to jab the butt of his bayonet between my ribs; I only just blocked in time, but the impact shuddered up my arms and made my shoulder burn. I gritted my teeth against the pain and lashed out with the wood again, the pointed end scored a long red line down the man's cheek.

He wore no hat, and in the moonlight his blond hair was almost white. His was a young face, elf-like in every way save for his cold, hard eyes. As his blood dribbled down his chin, he met my eyes and smirked at me, using his gun to push me further back.

I was getting closer to the edge, and below me the black water churned like some beast far below was writhing. I didn't look back as he swung again, as my shoes slid on the wet deck planks.

He lashed out again with the blade of his bayonet, and I tried to block it with the broad side of my makeshift weapon, but the blade embedded itself in the wood and ripped it from my hands. I instinctively stepped back–

–and slipped on the deck and fell to the water below.

*

I didn't register the cold at first; all was numb, and for a moment I questioned if I had even fallen in the first place. My shoulder was on fire, and I tried to press my hand to it - everything was slow.

My chest ached and, slowly, the cold began to seep in. I knew that if I panicked I would drown, but I couldn't help kicking my legs uselessly. My feet only became tangled in my dress. Why had I worn a dress today?

I opened my eyes and the salt water stung like someone had thrown sand in my face. I imagined the salt particles seeping into my eyes, trapping themselves under my eyelids, coating my eyelashes in crystals.

Though the world around me was still and silent, I knew I was sinking. My dress, my corset, my weapons. . . I pulled my hand from my wound, keeping my injured arm close to my chest, and began to tear at the strings of my corset. Perhaps if it was off the pressure on my chest would ease and I would be able to breathe and I would float back to the surface. . .

I had managed to rip a few of the strings free when a dark shape came into my view, high above me, blocking out the moonlight. I thought it to be a shark, and I cried out, but all that came from me was a stream of bubbles. My blood had attracted a shark–

This was it, this was the end of me–

As loose hair billowed out before my face and blinded me, the shark bit my hand and I pulled my arm back, but there was no blood, and it bit me again, firmer this time, and then the surface was growing closer; I could almost touch the moonlight. 

It wasn't a shark gripping my wrist, I realised, but a hand. With this knowledge I kicked alongside them, and the surface glimmered above us like a mirror; like mist. And then we broke that glass, shattered it, and I gulped down a deep breath of icy air, which had never felt so good before. Still holding my wrist, Connor gave me a look as we swam back to shore (or rather, he swam and I kicked along rather uselessly alongside him). We weren't far and it did not take long for our feet to reach sand. He didn't let go even as we both stepped out of the water, clothes clinging to our bodies like second skins. 

Water trickled into his eyes from his dark hair, which hung in dripping rat's tails, and he blinked repeatedly. Though his face remained carefully blank, there was a look in his eyes such that I half expected him to pull me in to a rather uncharacteristic hug, but he only said, "Of everyone on board, I somehow knew it would be you who would fall overboard."

"I was at a disadvantage," I grumbled, pressing a numb hand to my wound. 

His eyes followed my hand, followed a thin trail of blood that snaked through my fingers and down my wrist. He did not mention it and instead addressed the strings of my stay: "Undressing so soon? At least buy me dinner first." 

The chaos on the ships had not calmed, but slowly the redcoats had outnumbered the Sons of Liberty. I caught a glimpse of Francis Akeley just before he was dragged away by a pair of redcoats, presumably arrested. I didn't care for him, really - not after the disguise he and the rest of that group had taken on. 

I looked down at my soaked dress and tried to squeeze some of the water from it. "I wasn't expecting a saviour so I had to improvise. Thank you," I added, "for coming for me."

His mouth twitched with the traces of a gentle smile. "Why would I not?"

Scuffing my ruined leather shoe in the sand, I said timidly, "Does this mean I can hug you now?"

It was only half meant as a joke, and I sure as hell did not expect him to relent, but he said, "Fine," and opened his arms to me. 

He did not go rigid when I wrapped my arms around him; he did not freeze as I pressed my head against his chest. He wrapped his own arms around me and held me there. I am unsure how long we stood like that, but we were both shivering, each of us savouring the warmth from the other. What surprised me the most was that I was the first to let go, not Connor - but as soon as I had stepped away his eyes were drawn back to the wound, but he didn't seem to know or care that I had left a bloody patch on his coat. 

"We need to get you to someone who can fix that," he said. 

"I can do it," I protested.

Raising his eyebrows at me, he said, "I do not particularly wish to see that, thank you."

"You don't have to watch," I huffed. "It will just be me removing the bullet before I get lead poisoning–"

"Lead is not poisonous," Connor said with a frown. "It is a metal."

I nodded seriously. "I've heard that it's poisonous. My grandmother, bless her soul, swore on it. Said she knew someone who knew someone who wore lead makeup every day for twenty-five years, and when she eventually took it off her skin underneath was so red it looked burnt."

He shook his head like he had heard enough, and his eyes lifted to the dock, where Chapheau had managed to force his way past the redcoats. "Connor," he called above the clamour on the ships. "We saved the last one for you."

Connor nodded once, an indication that he had understood, and after a moment he looked back to me. A softness that I had rarely seen entered his eyes as he took me in: soaked and shivering; and without saying a word to me he took his coat off and draped it over my shoulders. It was cold and heavy with water but the thought was there.

As he walked up the dock to meet Chapheau, shirt clinging to his torso, he pushed his hair out of his face, and I looked away. To my right three men stood, pale figures against the shadows, oddly calm amidst the calamity of the Tea Party. I tried not to make it too obvious that I was watching them, though I stood some distance away.

They were looking with vicious intent at something on the dock. Following their collective gaze, my heart dropped into my stomach as I saw that the object of their attention was none other than Connor, who had by now reached Chapheau.

Now uncaring if they knew I was watching them, I stared at their faces and took a step closer. They didn't notice me. Slowly, I began to recognise them - they were the Templars from the basement portraits: Charles Lee, William Johnson and John Pitcairn.

Though we had spent years keeping tabs on them I had never actually seen them in person, and now I was filled with no small amount of cold dread. Why were they here?

As Connor took the crate of tea from Chapheau he noticed the Templars, too, and his eyes did not leave them as he stood on the very edge of the dock. Almost mockingly, he held the crate out towards them, shaking it slightly as if to taunt them. We both knew they wouldn't do anything in such a public setting, so Connor was free to provoke them as he pleased.

He dropped the last crate of tea into the water with such deliberate intent that I couldn't help but laugh. Though his actions were calculated and taunting, his face showed an almost-comically fake apology, like he had dropped the crate by accident - but his eyes never left those three men and it was plain as day to see that it had been anything but accidental. 

The Templars looked at one another, a silent agreement passing between them. Johnson, however distressed he may have been inwardly, showed no feeling towards the Tea Party as he turned on his heel and disappeared into the night. Pitcairn and Lee followed after a few moments, not sparing me a second glance but focusing only on Connor. 

The wind grew colder, and in vain I pulled Connor's coat tighter around me; the cold was not quite enough to numb the pain in my shoulder. He said something very briefly to Chapheau before swiftly returning to me.

By now I was swaying on my feet, but the sensation of rocking was the only thing keeping me rooted to the ground, the only thing stopping me going stiff with the cold. Connor was visibly shaking with the cold but he did not ask for his coat back; he lay a tender hand on my good shoulder and gently steered me in the direction of the main street; and where his hand touched, roses grew.

We knew the location of every doctor and apothecary in Boston for times like this exact situation, and we wasted no time in reaching the nearest one: a smallish ratty man, bleary-eyed behind his spectacles, for it was late in the night by now. I recognised him as the man who had helped Lydia in delivering Ryan, but he evidently did not seem to recognise me, because he asked our names.

"Catherine," I said.

If he smelled a rat he didn't mention it as he directed us inside. At first I didn't quite feel the heat from the fire, numb as I was, but the mere sight of the glowing embers was enough to ignite a spark of hope.

The doctor bade me sit before the fire while he fetched a few things and lit the oil lamps, and Connor tugged the coat from my shoulders and hung it on a chair to dry. The patch of blood on the coat was painfully obvious but Connor didn't mention it.

At the doctor's order I removed my stay and outer layers of clothing, but before I pulled my shift off my shoulders I looked up at Connor rather sheepishly.

"Could you please turn around?" I said.

He raised his eyebrows, but he obeyed without a word. Once he had done so, the doctor got to work cleaning the wound, removing the bullet, and bandaging my shoulder.

An age seemed to go by before he finished - an age in which all I knew was pain - before he finally said, "All right, Ms. Catherine. The pair of you can stay the night here if you so wish, but that will cost you a little extra."

Without turning, Connor gestured to his coat where his money lay. "We will stay for the night only."

If the doctor had any complaints about having an Indian under his roof, he did not make them known. His thin face betrayed nothing. "Very well," he said. "The spare bedroom is just across the hall on the left. There's another one further up on the right if you'll be needing two."

"One will suffice," said Connor smoothly.

After the doctor and Connor worked out the price of our stay, the doctor asked if he could help with anything else, which we politely refused. "All right," he said. "I'll be in the very last one on the left should you require anything else."

I waited until he had left the room before I told Connor he could turn around again. As I pulled my shift up again I said, "I'm sorry about that."

"Nonsense." He brushed me off. "It was a very interesting wall. I counted thirty-seven cracks and fifty-eight bumps in the plaster, though I am unsure of the accuracy of the latter."

I didn't particularly want to move from my place by the fire, so I spread my wet clothes on chairs and, when there were none left, on the floor in front of the hearth. Left in only my shift, which still clung to me, I took my shoes and my stockings and padded, barefoot, over to the window and opened it.

At the first touch of the icy air on my skin I cringed back, emptying the water from my shoes and squeezing it from my stockings as quickly as I could before I slammed the window shut again. When I turned around I saw that Connor had followed my idea and had also spread his clothes out to dry - soft firelight danced on his bare torso, and I looked away.

As he brushed past me to empty the water out of his own boots, I said, "Undressing so soon? At least buy me dinner first."

His teeth gleamed as he gave a soft laugh. "You use my words against me, woman."

"That's what they're there for." I grinned and lay my shoes and stockings out to dry before sitting on the floor in front of the fire. "Why did you only ask for one room?"

Before he sat he took something from his coat pocket, and with his other hand he pulled his hair loose from its tie. "It was for you. I have no intention of sleeping tonight."

"Well, that makes it awkward for me," I said, "because neither do I. I like to sleep on my side, and unfortunately this shoulder is being a right bastard."

He stretched one leg out to the fire so that his trousers might dry quicker. Reaching between us, he placed something on the floor: a rather soggy pack of cards. "Well, since neither of us will sleep, we may as well pass the time."

I shifted closer to the fire. "I'm afraid I don't know how to play," I said.

He took the top card from the pile and shook it out; tiny drops flew from its corners. "It is a good thing that this paint is oil-based," he muttered, "else my cards would be ruined."

We split the pack between us and worked on drying them one by one. As we laboured on, I looked at him curiously. "I didn't know you played card games."

"I can do a lot worse than play games," he said, eyes glinting almost devilishly. "The crew of the Aquila are very bad influences."

I gaped at him. "Don't tell me you gamble with them."

He only grinned, and his silence was my answer. As the night wore on he taught me to play various games: simple ones at first, then slowly progressing to more difficult ones. The moon was high in the sky when my shift dried somewhat, and I turned so my other side would dry a little faster, careful not to touch the bandage around my shoulder.

"How will I explain this to my parents?" I said quietly.

His dark eyes seemed to soak up the firelight. "That you are playing cards with me?"

I looked out the window; the stars were not visible tonight, shrouded as they were by the dark clouds, heavy with snowfall. "All of it," I murmured. "Tonight. The past few years. I need to tell them. . . but I don't know how. I don't know where to start."

He studied me for a moment, but I don't know what he saw. Something deeper than my damp hair and flushed cheeks; something only he could see. "Start with the truth," he said softly, "and the rest will follow."

I knew that - I knew I needed to tell them. This secret had been slowly eating me for years: how oblivious they all were; the joy on Ryan and Meredith's faces when they saw me again, completely unaware that they may never see me again. How close I had come to death tonight. My stomach churned, and I was distantly glad that we had not eaten dinner.

I bit my lip to keep these thoughts from spilling out, and looked at Connor rather shyly. "Would you come with me?"

He didn't look me in the eye and absentmindedly shuffled his hand of cards around. "Would you like me to go with you?"

As his hair dried it gained volume: I had never realised how thick his hair was until now, for I had never seen it loose like this. He had unwound the braid from by his ear and lined the beads from it on the floor in a military straight line. One side of his face was lit by a gentle bronze glow from the hearth; the other was cast in deep shadow. His shoulders and arms were strong after years of wielding that tomahawk of his; his hands were broad and scarred - a hunter's hands.

"Yes," I said. "Yes, I would."

I couldn't read what was in his face when he met my gaze - a thousand unspoken words, a hundred different emotions, none of which I could place to an exact. Firelight danced in his eyes and turned them to gold. I could feel it seeping into me: molten gold replacing blood in my veins.

"All right," he said. "I will go with you."