April, 1775

It poured rain from late November straight into April with little relief between bouts, and hunting was hard as plants were flooded and tracks were washed away. Connor spent days at a time in the forest, searching, tracking, at times with no luck.

I checked the date in my diary: 18th of April 1775. This was one of the good days, for I glanced out my window to see Connor picking his way over the slushy grass, carrying two limp rabbits by their hind legs. I closed the diary and stretched my arms over my head with a yawn, comforted by the dull roar of the rain on the roof. There was a smudge of ink on my finger; I wiped it on my trousers.

As he neared the manor, I found myself going to the landing and calling down the stairs, "Achilles, he's back."

Connor had been gone for two days, and I had been intensely bored, with naught to do but play chess with the old man and study the movements of the Templars. After Johnson's death the Templars had become more elusive: we only heard bits and pieces about them.

Hickey had relocated to New York.

Pitcairn, as a British Army general, was said to have been leading troops near Lexington.

Kenway, having returned to the Americas last year after an absence of sixteen years, had kept a low profile - rumour had it he owned a residence in Virginia.

There was no word on Lee, and Biddle remained at sea.

By the time Connor was in the door, Achilles had made it to the kitchen to put water on to boil for tea. "You must be cold, child," he said, taking in Connor's sodden clothes and dripping hair.

Connor handed me the two wet rabbits. Achilles was right: his hands were freezing. "Would you get started with these?" he asked. "I will be right back."

As I sat at the kitchen bench to begin skinning them, I noted that each had only one shot to the eye - the killing shot. Surely, even in this weather, Connor truly had remarkable aim. He was the best hunter I knew - better than Myriam, who felled the infamous white cougar.

Normally, we would consider selling the pelts in the village or, if there were no buyers, in Boston - the latter of which was now out of the question. The British had begun fortifying the city and seizing ammunition to prepare for war. I'd heard that thousands of American militia were ready to resist these advances, but no fighting occurred.

What the British didn't know was that specialised groups of militia, calling themselves the Minute Men (for they were ready to spring to action at a mere minute's notice) had organised under their very own noses. Stephane Chapheau and Duncan Little (we had recently recruited him in Boston: an Irish man with a grudge against Haytham Kenway) had told us all this in coded letters, and it wasn't hard to feel their glee at how blind the British appeared to be.

I had made good progress with the first one by the time my friend returned, dressed in dry clothes and wet hair fully tied back. He settled in to work beside me, and together we finished skinning the rabbits. While Achilles added more logs to the fire behind us, Connor took the rabbits to hang them, while I cleaned up after our work.

By this time, the water had boiled, and I made us all tea: Achilles - milk, two sugars; myself - milk, no sugar; Connor - no milk, one sugar. We discussed the latest reports from our recruits (Connor and I would have to see them in Boston during the next few days to continue their training. I thought it was funny that our recruits were adults, full grown, yet it was Connor and me training them) and how we could extend the reach of the Assassins to the other colonies.

Connor gathered our cups when we finished and stood to wash them. Achilles prodded the backs of Connor's knees with his cane as he passed and said, "Don't think that, just because you were hunting, you can neglect your duties, boy."

"I know," came the exasperated reply.

"Good." Achilles settled both of his hands on the cane. "You still need to muck out the stables."

"I did that today," I offered.

"Fine," said Achilles. "Then Connor will do it tomorrow, and don't–" he used the cane to point at Connor– "backchat me. No one ever said that raising teenagers was easy," he grumbled.

I sympathised with him; it was difficult enough to raise and train two Assassins, but teenage Assassins? Achilles grew grumpier by the day, but I also failed to miss the soft, fatherly looks he gave us when he thought we weren't looking.

I had grown up without a father - Connor had, too - and Achilles filled that empty space. I hadn't realised how much that part of me ached until, suddenly, Achilles was there: I hadn't realised how much I had needed a father in my life. A figure of guidance. Even if we did piss him off.

Achilles hauled himself up from the table and scooped our knives and equipment into one arm. "I'll bring these down for you," he muttered, "seeing as you two won't."

"I was about to!" I protested.

He gave an irritated hum, but I wasn't sure if his ire was truly genuine. "No point now. I have them."

Still, Connor and I trailed after him as he made his way down to the basement. Once there, Connor took them from him so he could tidy them away.

The portraits of our targets glared at us from the wall; all but Johnson, whose face we had turned away. It helped no one and nothing to dwell on what was gone, only on what could be.

Connor was looking at that portrait, too - at the wooden back of the frame, stark and plain amidst the other paintings. "I thought it might bring clarity," he said, "or instill a sense of accomplishment. But all I feel is regret."

Ah, there it was. That flicker of fire, that bright, burning spirit in him; the spirit that apologised to and asked the forgiveness of the animals he hunted; the spirit that mourned the loss of life.

Achilles saw it, too. "Hold fast to that," he said gently. "Such sacrifices must never come lightly."

Echoes of rain beating down on the earth above our heads made the basement chilly, but it was a cold I liked - the kind that made me think of warm, dry clothes; of fires and candles

"I had to do it," said Connor, but it felt like he was still trying to convince himself of that. "Not only for my people, but for all others Johnson would have harmed."

I rearranged the knives as Achilles said, "It's a start. But to be truly free of Templar influence, all of them must be dealt with in turn. Even your father."

"I know," Connor said sharply. For all of Achilles's fatherly affection, he did not hesitate to keep reminding Connor just whose blood ran in his veins. What a blessing it would have been for Connor's father to have been an ordinary colonist whose eye had snagged on one of the Mohawk women. Haytham Kenway was dangerous - and, with Connor being his son, it would be all the more difficult to kill him. Patricide was not a crime committed lightly.

The irony struck me, then. The Templars had created Connor - when they cornered him fifteen years ago and left the imprint of their rings on his skin; thus the Assassin was formed, fuelled by a deep hatred for the Templars and a quest for revenge.

The Templars had created who Connor was, but Haytham Kenway had made him. Connor was literally formed by the Templar Order. The irony - or was it hypocrisy? - struck me as funny.

Maybe Achilles knew this. "You speak the words–" his voice was soft– "but do you believe them?"

Perhaps it was a reminder for Achilles, too: that Connor was not his son; that I was not his daughter; as much as he may have wanted it.

I looked to Connor but his face was unreadable, eyes fixed on the paintings. We had considered burning Johnson's portrait, but decided against it - if anything, it showed what progress we had made. And as we would make our way through the list of Templars, their portraits would show how far we had come.

There came a knock on the front door, and Achilles went up to answer it. I ran a finger over the back of Johnson's portrait: the wood was rough and splintering.

"We should do something about this," I said. "So it doesn't look so plain."

Amusement was glittering in his eyes. "What will you do? Paint it with flowers?"

It wasn't a bad idea. "Yes, actually."

This time he laughed. "I never took you to be an artist."

"I'm only young," I said over my shoulder as we made our way out of the basement; "I still have plenty of time to perfect my skills."

The quiet voice of Achilles reached us from the front door; not knowing with whom he was speaking, we left the basement open. Achilles was standing at the door, skimming over a letter given by an expectant-looking courier, who was taking shelter from the rain on the porch.

"What is it?" I asked.

It was a few moments before he replied: "A request for aid from Paul Revere. Seems the redcoats are up to something in Boston." He looked up now, and there was something in his eyes I didn't recognise. "Guess you made an impression on the Sons of Liberty."

Already, Connor was shaking his head. "They mistake us for their own." He addressed the dripping courier: "Please tell Mr. Revere that he has our sympathies, but we cannot help at present."

The courier began to nod, but Achilles held out a hand to stop him. "You may wish to reconsider." He passed the letter to me, but I didn't get to read it because he said: "John Pitcairn is mentioned by name."

I met Connor's eyes for a fraction of a second; it was all we needed.

"Where are we to go?" was Connor's response.

After the courier told us of Revere's location and disappeared down the road once more, Connor and I swiftly gathered what we needed and shucked on coats. Before we walked out the door I snatched up my umbrella.

The ride to Boston was a long one, and our horses struggled to navigate the slippery mud. Many times we were made take detours to avoid the worst of it, and this cost us precious minutes. I sheltered beneath my whalebone umbrella, and Connor made good use of his hood.

The city was eerily quiet and devoid of life: stalls were closed down, and the British flags hung limp and dull on their stands. The British had made multiple attempts to seize American ammunition, but Massachusetts turned them back. The crown therefore decided that force was necessary in order to take this ammunition.

We found Revere's house near the centre of the city. The cobbled roads were slick with mud and worse, and rivulets flowed from the gutters of the houses into the street. We had ridden hard from the homestead, and our horses were very grateful (I am sure) for some shelter in a stable just up the road.

As I pulled my umbrella in, Connor knocked on the door, pulling his sodden hood down to reveal equally-wet black hair.

Following the Boston Tea Party, both Connor and I held little patience for the Sons of Liberty - considering how they had attempted to pin the blame for said Tea Party on the Kanien'kehá:ka - but in this instance, with our interests aligned, we had to feign civility.

If Revere noticed our veiled hostility when he opened the door, he didn't let it show. "What a relief," he cried. "You came!"

Unfortunately, I thought as we stepped in the door. Connor remained tense at my side.

Revere lay a hand on Connor's shoulder. "Allow me to–" Connor shook him off; Revere continued– "to introduce you to William Dawes and Robert Newman. Gentlemen, these are Connor and Cassandra."

In the grey light, Connor's eyes were flat and black as a shark's. "Your letter said John Pitcairn was here."

With an eager nod, Revere said, "Yes. He's readying an assault on Lexington, where Adams and Hancock have taken shelter. After that, he will march on Concord, hoping to destroy our weapons and supplies. You must help us."

The threads of Connor's patience were fraying. "Only tell us where to find him, and we will put a stop to him."

I couldn't miss the uneasy glance passed between Dawes and Newman. It seemed Revere shared this sentiment. "He has dozens," he said, "if not hundreds of soldiers at his command. You cannot hope to match him by yourselves. But fear not; for you will not have to. We have an entire army of our own - merely awaiting the order to take up arms."

I almost pitied the Sons of Liberty and their incessant hope. Realistically, the British outmatched them hopelessly - in both numbers and tactics - while the colonial army was a ragtag group of rebels hiding out in the countryside. And blaming their follies on Connor's people.

Was Connor thinking the same things I was when he said, "Then you must call upon them," I wondered?

Revere either saw our doubts and ignored them, or didn't see them at all. "Indeed," he said brightly. "We three will cross the Charles River and rouse the boys." Now he turned his back on us to address Dawes and Newman: "William, I need you to take the overland route and do the same. Robert, I need you up in Christ Church. Light the signal. Two lanterns: our enemy comes by sea."

Plans were sealed, and soon we were on our way to the small docking point that bisected the river and connected the north of Boston with the south. The setting sun was black with oncoming rain, and though my pocket watch told me it was hardly five in the evening, the trees were as dark as though it were the middle of the winter.

When we reached our docking point, Revere tipped his hat to the attendant there, and the man, in turn, gave a knowing nod. A sympathiser, I realised.

Rain pattered against the surface of the river - which was so wide I couldn't see the other bank. A small rowing boat was moored to the dock.

I leaned over to Connor. "Tell me we won't have to row all the way across the river."

Before he could reply (undoubtedly with equal dread), Revere planted a hand on Connor's shoulder. "No time for dawdling, my friends. We have lives to save!"

Connor plucked Revere's hand from his arm and gave a sigh of resignation.

*

The journey across the river went without incident, though Revere kept up a stream of chatter to rival that of little Ryan. By the time we had crossed, night had fallen, and the sky, once dark grey, was now deep and heavy with clouds. The rain had eased off at some point, but the black clouds remained to warn us of oncoming rain.

As Connor and I pulled the boat ashore, Revere squinted at something hovering in the shadows just beyond the reach of his torch. "Ah," he said. "They've only left two horses."

Indeed, two horses - one chestnut, one black as oil - were tied to a rickety fence that bordered the dock. Connor shared a glance with me and said, "Revere and I will share."

Revere himself was already choosing which horse he wanted. "Ah," he said with a grin, "you take the reins; I'll navigate. Cassandra, follow us."

And off we went into the forest. At first, I was unsure if the horse would hold the weight of both Connor and Revere, but the chestnut was a sturdy one, and pushed onward.

Revere, as it would turn out, was terrible at giving directions. Many times, under his questionable instruction, we got lost, or ended up going in circles - but eventually we reached a few small settlements around John's Town and Concord. Revere knocked on the doors of the rebel militia there and warned them of the oncoming British.

Our final destination before reaching Lexington was the home of Samuel Prescott, a doctor and known patriot supporter who lived and worked in Concord. By this time, the rain was easing up, pattering not so heavily against the leaves above us. Prescott's house was small and neatly tucked away in a little village cut into a clearing.

The three of us dismounted (I had hardly gotten off my horse all night, and my legs ached) and waited by the door for Prescott to open it. When there came no reply, Revere knocked again.

Following his knock, there was only a silence permeated by the rain and the gentle buzz of crickets. "Where the devil is he?" grumbled Revere.

My nerves were frayed. "Are you sure we're in the right place?"

Running his hands over his face, Revere sighed heavily. "Sure I'm sure." He knocked again, but I could see in his face that he didn't think anyone would answer.

Something rustled in the bushes behind the house, too far from our torches to be seen. Still, Revere pressed forward. "Prescott?"

It was not a man that emerged but a woman, half-naked and covering herself with sheets. I felt heat rising in my cheeks and looked away. The full implication of what had been going on hit me like a brick as, a few moments later, Prescott himself emerged wearing only his long undershirt, which covered half of his pale, hairy thighs.

The woman must have been his fiancée, Lydia Mulliken, I realised. Prescott, proud as punch, said, "Good evening, folks."

"Listen, the regulars are out." Revere sounded tired. "You need to rally your men - and put on some trousers."

With a suddenly sheepish smile, Prescott nodded. "Right. At once."

Lexington wasn't far from Concord, and we, on our horses, made it there before the moon had reached its peak in the sky. The chestnut horse was beginning to slow, and the trees covered us enough for me to see that it was sweat, not rain, that glistened on its coat. I watched the water dripping from the corners of my umbrella and wished desperately that I was warm.

As the treeline broke and made way for a road, Revere said, "Welcome to Lexington. I'm sure you can become acquainted at some other time. For now, let's find Hancock and Adams."

In the night, the town of Lexington was quiet and dark, though some houses bore lit windows and drawn curtains. As we passed, I wondered who lived here; what they were doing; what were their lives?

Revere brought us to a stable and we hitched up the horses in the shelter. Connor and I followed him to a house cast in darkness, and at first I thought there was no one there - but a flicker of movement behind the curtain betrayed the presence of someone.

Revere knocked on the door, and moments later it was opened by Adams, looking haggard and tired, but otherwise unharmed. "Paul," he said; "Connor; Cassandra. Good to see you."

Connor, ever-blunt, said, "You need to leave. The redcoats are coming."

Adams stepped back to let us in the door, and once we were inside the warm glow of a lit hearth caught my eye. My numb hands began to tingle as the heat slowly began to thaw my skin.

"So William told us," said Adams, and then I noticed Dawes sitting by the fire. Adams added firmly: "Let them conduct their little search. They'll find nothing."

Sitting by the fire, Hancock nodded his agreement.

But Connor wasn't ready to back down. "You do not understand. Pitcairn intends to kill you."

"I'm afraid it's true," added Revere when Adams looked to him imploringly. I spread my hands in a helpless gesture when Adams's eyes came to me, as if to confirm what the other two had said.

After a pause, he sighed. "I suppose we have no choice, then, but to go. What of you three?"

"Dawes and I will continue on to Concord," said Revere, and addressed Connor and me: "It's best if you two stay here and help our man, John Parker, hold the town. It'll give us time to spread the word."

"All right," I said, and that was that. Revere and Dawes gave a hasty farewell and departed for Concord; Adams and Hancock snuffed out the fire and left the house under the cover of darkness. Connor and I remained.

The British weren't coming to kill the rebels, but to destroy ammunition, which was being stored at Concord. Revere and Dawes had been sent by the Boston Committee of Safety to warn the Minute Men of this.

Neither British nor American were willing to back down, and I feared that the worst was yet to come. A war would mean a deep split between the two countries I called home - the land that raised me and the land that forged me. If the British and the Americans began fighting, where would that leave me? I wasn't American, but I didn't consider myself an English citizen.

I would be stuck drifting somewhere in the middle, with neither side willing to accept me.

Suddenly, I was gripped with a longing to be back on our homestead. Our community was full of misfits: Connor was an Indian; Achilles, a black man. Warren and Prudence were freed slaves; Myriam, an outcast from society; Norris, a French man.

I may not have fit in with London or Boston society, but I fit in with them. Maybe home was not a place, but a people.

And if it came to a war between England and America, I would fight to defend that home with claws and teeth.