We headed north, towards home. The inns were full with refugees of the battle, so we made no stops until nightfall, when we decided to set up camp beneath a wide tree. The earth was still damp after yesterday's rain, so Connor spread his coat out for us to sit on.

As the evening grew colder, we got a fire going beside our camp. I divided up the packet of hardtack biscuits I always kept on me in case of emergencies like this one, and Connor shared his flask of water.

His leg had, for the most part, stopped bleeding, so he rolled his trousers up to assess the damage. "I will live," he decided, examining a small patch of still-sticky blood.

I offered him a handkerchief from my pocket. "Good. I'd hate to see you die so young." I imagined, for one terrifying moment, that his face was among those we left behind at Concord. One of those rotting in the dirt.

I examined my hands: grubby; there was dirt under my fingernails; blood had dried in the creases of my knuckles. I wanted to cut my trigger finger from my hand.

"How did you do it?" I asked him quietly.

He knew what I meant. "Taking a life is a difficult thing," he murmured, dabbing at his leg with my handkerchief. "You take everything a man has, and everything he will ever have. There is nothing so sacred, nor so damned." He pressed the handkerchief to his leg, and a muscle in his jaw twitched at the pain. "At first, I tried to see it like hunting an animal. All animals have life, and we kill only what is necessary. I tried to see Johnson's death as a necessary one."

"And was it?" I asked.

He looked at me. "No. It wasn't."

His jaw was tense. I wanted to brush my thumb over the corner of his mouth, smooth out the creases until he was soft again.

"I am trying to convince myself," he continued, "that Johnson needed to die. If he had been spared, my people's land would have been seized. My village would have been sold. As for Pitcairn. . ." He gestured to his leg; my chin; the battlefield we left behind. "If he lives, this war will not end."

"But what about the innocent?" I asked.

His expression grew distant, but he didn't say anything. Neither of us were prepared to answer that question. I listened to the hiss of the sparks from the fire, watched little burning dust motes float up to the sky, and wished things were different.

This revolution had its reasons. Its wrath would be pardoned by the future; its result would be a better world. Hope was a spark in my chest.

Connor's eyes alighted on something beyond the fire and he stood, testing his bad leg gingerly before limping over to a plant. He picked some of the flat, white flowers from the thin stems and returned to me, stuffing the flowers into his mouth as he sat down.

I raised an eyebrow. "I didn't know you were that hungry. I'd have given you my share of the biscuits."

He shook his head, still chewing, and didn't grace me with a reply until he spat a greenish-white paste into his palm. "It is not for eating," he said, and pulled a face. "Tastes nasty. Yarrow is for wounds."

He spread the paste on his leg with a delicate finger, jaw tensing every so often with the sting. Then he turned to me. "Do you require some?"

I rubbed the cuts on my chin; they had dried and scabbed over, and I shook my head. "That is the single most disgusting thing I have ever seen."

He laughed, and what a sound it was. I could drown in it. As he applied the rest of the yarrow paste to his leg, I pulled a brush from my pocket and let my hair down so I could brush it.

Fire danced in his eyes. "Just what do you carry in your pockets?"

I winked at him, blaming the fire before us for the heat that had sprung into my cheeks. "I'll show you mine if you show me yours."

Both of us emptied our pockets, and we spread the contents around us like two children playing pirates. In total, our booty consisted of eight knives; five cartridges; a pocket watch; two spills; a switchblade; a ring of keys; smelling salts; various coins and notes that, when counted, amounted to eight shillings; a hairbrush; two rope darts; three flintlocks; a spare umbrella handle; twenty-two sugar lumps for the horses; and three blood-coloured rocks, each about the size of a peach stone.

I reached out and brushed a finger over these stones. "What are these?"

Connor's gaze followed my finger. "My mother gave them to me," he said softly. "For good luck. They represent the three planes from whom we exist and cease to be: the sky, the earth, and the spirit." He turned them over in his hand - they were smooth, and the flames reflected on the shiny surfaces like little lanterns - and he tilted his head at me. "Do you carry a token of good luck?"

"I don't believe in luck," I said.

He nodded like it was a fair point and replaced the stones on the ground. I picked up the brush to continue dragging it through my hair, but he gently pried it from my fingers.

"Allow me," he said.

He repositioned himself so he sat behind me. Tingles fizzed and sparked up my spine with every gentle touch, every stroke of the brush.

"Your hair is getting long," he commented. "One would never notice it when you keep it tied up all of the time. You should let it down more."

"Yes, but your hair is almost as long as mine," I teased. "People will think we co-ordinated it."

"Next we will be wearing matching clothes," he muttered.

"I'm not giving you any of my dresses," I said. "You can buy your own."

He laughed again, and ran his hand over my hair before resuming his brushing - long, tender strokes that reminded me of my grandmother's touch. I wasn't, therefore, surprised when he leaned forward and pressed a feather-soft kiss to my shoulder.

I chose to interpret it as his way of telling me he was finished, so I took my brush back, even though my shoulder felt like it was burning from the inside out; filled with molten gold.

As we collected our respective belongings and packed them away into our pockets, we decided that Connor would take the first watch for two hours while I slept; then we would switch. After getting no sleep the night before, our heads were spinning with exhaustion.

I was all-too glad to curl on to my side and rest my head in Connor's lap. He reached down and moved his tomahawk aside so it wouldn't dig in to my ribs, and then, hesitantly, he brought his hand to my hair.

I went still beneath his touch, and for a few moments, neither of us moved. Then he started to slowly stroke my hair, and I relaxed against him, watching the flames until they glowed yellow when I closed my eyes.

The sound of Connor quietly humming to himself was the last thing I heard before I fell asleep.

*

It was just before dawn by the time we returned home, so I made us breakfast, which we took upstairs with a chess board where we could discuss our plans for the weeks ahead. A letter had arrived in the night from Duncan Little, in which he explained that Pitcairn and his men had fled southward.

With that in mind, we agreed that I would meet with Chapheau and Little in two day's time, when I went to visit my family; while Connor would remain on the homestead to plot our next move.

Once Achilles was up, our day commenced as any other. Connor mucked out the stables while I made Achilles breakfast and cleaned up. By early afternoon, Connor and I had finished our exercises and training. But there were always things to be done on this homestead.

On our way in to the village (slowly, for Connor was still limping), we encountered a most peculiar scene: around half a mile from the centre of the town, just off one of the dirt tracks, there met a small group of people. Most of them I knew - Lance; Myriam; Godfrey; Norris - but the others were unfamiliar.

All were holding tin cups, and Norris and Myriam, seated side-by-side on a fallen log, took sips from these cups and laughed with each other, cheeks and noses rosy. The two strangers - a middle-aged man and his wife - had set up a small table beside their cart, which they had parked by the side of the road, and the unfamiliar woman was in the middle of pouring Godfrey another drink at said table when we were noticed.

It was Godfrey who first saw us, and his face split into a grin - white teeth gleaming from within a russet beard. The strange man, following Godfrey's eyes, beamed at us. "Good afternoon. Would you like a draught of ale? or some bread and cheese?"

Eagerly, Godfrey joined the conversation, ale splashing over the rim of his cup. "This is Oliver, and that is Corinne–" he pointed out the respective parties. "Great people." Now addressing Oliver and Corinne, he continued: "These are Connor and Cassie-lassie, the folks I was telling you about. The lord and lady of the manor."

Oliver's round face lost its openness and became a little more nervous. "We were just passing through, is all," he explained hurriedly, "and met some of your townsfolk. They were thirsty and we had some barrels in the back and–"

Connor cut him off gently. "We are no lord nor lady, and these are our friends, not our townsfolk."

"What brings you to the road," I asked, "with a cart full of spirits for sale?"

The new pair looked uncomfortable. "We were innkeepers," said Oliver carefully, "until the king took our inn for some military such-and-such and left us out on our round parts."

I liked the expression. Norris apparently did, too, and laughed very loudly. "You should settle here," he cried. "We could use an inn."

"Good idea," agreed Myriam heartily, and leaned a little too hard into Norris's shoulder, causing their drinks to spill over their hands. Flies started to buzz around their fingers, attracted over by the tartness of the ale.

Connor glanced my way, head tilted while he thought. "We certainly have need for something of the sort," he conceded. "I will speak with our friends at the mill, and see what we can do about building ourselves one. If it can be arranged, would you consider ending your search here?"

The joy on Corinne's face reminded me of those young street boys I had given my shawl to, on the night of the Tea Party - raw and unbridled joy. "Of course!" She beamed. "Ollie, we'll have an inn again!"

And thus the matter was settled. Godfrey practically raced to Terry's house to propose the idea to him, and together they agreed to the building of the inn. Achilles would be pleased - a local inn would provide both income and entertainment.

Connor's limp had gotten worse over the course of the day, but he didn't say a word about it. I took it upon myself to look after him as we left the group to drink themselves blind. "You should rest your leg."

"You should not fuss over me," he said.

"Forgive me for being unwilling to drag you back up the hill when your leg gives out." I shuddered at the thought.

He reached down with one hand and ran his fingertips through the long grass as we walked, picking blades wet with dew only to scatter them once more. I plucked a wild daisy and almost gave it to him; I pulled out the petals, one by one, instead.

As the sun gradually made its way across the sky, the shadows in the grass grew longer, and the world had a gold tint to it such that I almost kept walking, caught up in a dream, but Connor lay a hand out to hold me back.

"Look up," he said.

I followed his direction: above us, with only a rope ladder to provide access, was one of Myriam's tree blinds. She had not used this one for quite some time, and the wooden planks of the roof were caving in.

Connor tested the sturdiness of the ladder with his foot. "It holds," he reported back, and started to ascend into the tree stand. I watched from the ground, fearing that his injured leg would collapse and he would fall, but he climbed into the blind swiftly and steadily.

Once I followed him up, I found him peering at the fallen ceiling. "This can be repaired," he said.

I was small enough to be able to stand up straight inside the blind, but Connor had to stoop. I nudged some dusty fallen planks on the floor and said, "I'm sure we could fix this."

It seemed he had had the same idea, because his eyes were bright when he looked at me. He bent down and picked up one of the planks, inspecting it for rot, before tossing it aside. "New wood will be needed," he said. "Time and bad weather have caused this to decay."

Faded light drifted in through the cracks in the ceiling, and I watched the dust we disturbed dance in the late afternoon air. He moved the wood to one side, brushed away splinters and dead leaves, and sat down, and I beside him.

I brushed bits of twig and crumbled leaves from my skirts. The climb up had caused Connor's leg to start bleeding again, but only lightly. He gave it a disappointed look and stretched his leg out before him, lacing his hands together in his lap.

The world was humming around us; birds sang their sweet melodies; leaves whispered to one another; bees flitted by, buzzing so close that I felt my spine tingle. How was it that our scene here - our sanctuary, our haven - was so peaceful, but our throats still stung from smoke? How did it come to be that the sun could still shine golden when blood still stained our fingernails?

Connor and I occupied two worlds: the brutality and violence of the Assassins; and our peace on the homestead. And now, these two worlds were coming close to colliding. What would happen then? Who else would we have to lose to this war?

I focused on picking the dried blood from under my nails. "If you had to pick how you were to die," I said, "which manner would you choose?"

Connor gave me a strange look. "I would rather not die."

"But if you had to choose," I prompted. "Between, say, dying of an illness like the pox, or being stabbed."

He gave it some thought. "Stabbed. Less pain if done correctly. You?"

"I haven't quite decided," I said. "But I know that I don't want to be buried. Don't waste a plot of land on me. Burn my body, and plant a tree in my ashes. Then I'll live forever."

"Only a small tree, mind you," he said. "It must represent you as you lived. Short."

"Maybe a potted plant, then. Put a plaque on it."

"Cassandra Glade," he mused. "She died as she lived: without occupying much space."

His jibes about my height did not go unnoticed. "No grave will be long enough to fit you," I said. "We'll have to cut your legs off and pack them separately."

He chuckled softly. "The dwarf and the giant, laid to rest side-by-side. What a pair we would make."

"Promise me one thing."

When he tilted his head, his eyes were almost black. "Anything."

I only gave him a half-smile. "Don't die before I do. I don't want to have to go through the ordeal of losing you."

"I cannot make that promise," he said.

It was foolish of me to even ask. Our line of work was vicious - we faced the prospect of death almost daily. But I had never truly allowed myself to think of what life would be like if I were to lose Connor along the way. The burden of the Assassins would be mine alone to bear.

Suddenly I wanted to spend every spare moment I had with him. To make the most of his presence. Every day we faced the possibility that one of us might not make it to sundown, and I wanted to drink him in; absorb every last essence of his being; so that, should the fated day come when I would lose him, he would inhabit such a part of me that I would scarcely miss him.

"I'm going to teach you to dance," I decided.

He cocked his head to the side. "Oh?"

I nodded, looking down at first his hands, then my own. "Yes. Tonight will be our first lesson. After dinner."

His laugh was a song I wished I knew the words to. "All right," he said. "I shall clear my schedule."

"We'll do it after the old man's gone to bed," I suggested. "Otherwise he won't sleep."

"Tonight it is," said Connor, with a smile.

I grinned back, and repeated, "Tonight it is."

*

The moon was a full pearl-drop in the sky that night, bathing the grassy cliff in silver; the sea, far below, was still and quiet. My hands were pale and milky, cleaned of blood, and his hands were grey in the dim light of the moon.

I taught him baroques and reels and cotillions, and I hummed the tunes so we could stay on beat. We danced and danced and danced, laughing when we stepped on each other's feet (at times on purpose), standing so close we could breathe each other in. My chest almost ached every time we turned away.

My skirts brushed against his legs; his hand on my waist pulled me ever-closer. I held his hand in mine tighter, and still we danced: spinning on a carousel of our own, weaving tapestries with our feet. The trees, the grass, the land, faded away - everything became his eyes; his smile; his hands. Our world was music and shared breaths and our hearts, beating as one. The stars were our audience; the gentle sigh of the waves, our melody; the moon was our light, guiding us through the steps.

When at last we stopped, heads bent close and eyes closed, we didn't let go of each other - even as the world came back into focus and the music faded and our hearts calmed. A night owl began to hoot - long, rhythmic notes that rattled in my bones.

I let go of his hand and stepped out of his grip, and I lay on my back in the grass. The stars burned brightly over my head - hundreds and hundreds of them, more than I could count, and I thought of the Lord's promise to Abraham. Look now toward heaven, and tell the stars, if thou be able to number them: so shall thy seed be.

I didn't know the exact moment when Connor lay beside me, but when I looked over, he was there. His eyes were on the moon.

How small we both were! The universe was so huge, so incomprehensible, and here we were, breathing it all in. A horse, a dog, a rat all have breath in their lungs, and so, too, did we. To be able to share such a precious sliver of oneself with the rest of the world was breathtaking. We were alive, at this moment, in this lifetime, every beat of our hearts. We were not history yet. We were happening. How miraculous is that?

I looked at him. "Can I hold your hand?"

He didn't ask questions. By our sides, his hand found mine.

"The universe feels so huge right now," I murmured. "I need something to hold on to."

His eyes were soft. "I'm here."

Grass rustled in my ear. I turned my head. Around us, scattered in the grass like snow, were daisies - with petals closed for the night.

Connor, I decided, was a flower. By day they reach for the light, following it, grabbing for it with both hands. But, by night, they close up, curl in on themselves, and wait for the light to come. He was a night flower - and there was no sun to rouse him from his sleep.

Connor was a flower, a soul trapped in darkness, searching for a light that grew only further from him. And the further it grew, the more he closed himself like a rock sealing a cave.

But as he lay there, watching the moon, I thought: maybe he didn't need the sun. Maybe the moon would have the same effect - a light in the darkness. And, maybe, I could lie with him in the darkness and wait for the light to come. Maybe we could lie as we did now: surrounded by flowers, waiting for the sun to rise again.

Tomorrow would bring bloodshed. With Britain and America at war, the future was uncertain and shrouded in darkness. But the light would always come.

We would just have to wait for it.