Three weeks after the slaughter at Breed's Hill, and the patriots' retreat, I went to see my family, to make sure they were all right. My mother had written to me with news she could only tell in person, so I brought Connor along for support. Connor needed to get out of the manor for a while, anyway - tensions had been rising between him and Achilles since Pitcairn's death. He did not like to admit it, but the words of each Templar, both Johnson and Pitcairn, were affecting him deeper than he cared to say.

We were greeted at the door by Meredith, who shook her head distastefully. "Mother has organised an outing."

"It's nice to see you, too," I said. I hugged her, and she squirmed away - I thought it was because she did not want me to crease her dress, which was white and inlaid with hand-embroidered ruby roses.

We were led into the drawing room, where Lydia waited with restless anticipation. "Sassy, darling." She beamed. "And Connor, how lovely to see you."

He dipped his head. "The pleasure is mine." He had changed in the months since he had last seen my family; he was taller, broader, leaner. He was a flower, a rose, bloomed in the summer sun. His eyes were sharp and his hands were shy. Nadia gave me a look that I ignored.

"Merry says you've organised something," I said to my mother.

She rolled her eyes and deflated a little. "Thank you, Meredith, for ruining the surprise. Yes. I've decided we need something to cheer us all up." With Ryan away in the south, and the harsh shortages throughout Boston as a result of the siege, it was no wonder we were miserable.

When I asked what it was she had planned, Lydia gave me a secret smile. "We're going to the theatre."

The Continental Congress had made all theatre performances illegal a few years prior, in an effort to further distance the American colonies from the ways of the British across the pond. These laws, however, did not stop the few brave writers who persisted in trying their hands at playwriting under the noses of those in authority.

I had only even been to the theatre in my childhood, with my grandparents. We would walk down to the Theatre Royal on Drury Lane and drink cups of tea in the stalls high above the audience. I remembered looking down at all of those people below, so small they were like ants, and I used to giggle because they didn't know I was hovering above them, moments from falling - or flying.

We had seen The Country Wife and The Alchemist and The Beggar's Opera. I wondered now what Lydia had arranged.

"It's a play called Doctor Faustus," she said.

I had heard of it before. There was a performance of Christopher Marlowe's The Tragical History of the Life and Death of Doctor Faustus in the Theatre Royal when I was a child, and I remembered begging my grandparents to go and see it. Sophia, my grandmother, had read a copy of the play before, and had fervently refused to let me see it. I had always wondered why.

"How did you know about this production?" I wondered. "And where will it be held?"

She tapped her nose with a secret smile. "My friend's daughter was cast as Helen of Troy in this show, that's how I know. And the space for the show is being provided by Faneuil Hall."

We set out that evening, crammed into one wagon: Lydia, Gabriel, and Nadia at the front, and myself, Connor, Meredith, and Thomas, whom we had picked up along the way, squashed onto the benches at the back.

Thomas, who was beside me, grinned. "I have a friend who saw Doctor Faustus. He said it was very. . . alternative."

Connor, sitting opposite Thomas and next to Meredith, frowned slightly. "Alternative. What do you mean by that?" Thomas leaned forward and whispered something to Connor that I couldn't quite pick up.

Connor's eyes slid back to me, and a smile curled the corners of his mouth. "Cassandra and Meredith will not like that."

"What won't we like?" demanded Meredith, her dark eyes flashing indignantly. 

Thomas reached over and tugged one of her golden braids, much to her annoyance. "You'll have to wait and see, won't you?"

"That's hardly fair," she insisted. "You say I won't like it and then you don't tell me what it is."

"That would ruin the surprise, wouldn't it?"

Back and forth they bickered, but all was in good humour. I heard Lydia murmur something about, We had better keep an eye on them when Merry gets older, to Gabriel, and the secret knowledge of who Thomas was weighed heavy on my heart. Connor was still looking at me, and his face was thoughtful and almost at peace.

I narrowed my eyes at him. "What?"

"Nothing," he said, and his voice was very soft. "Nothing at all."

Meredith tapped my knee, and I looked away from Connor. She leaned forward a little and said, "I was writing a letter to Ryan earlier."

Though she tried to hide it, my sister missed Ryan terribly. She was the only child in the house now, and I felt a twinge of guilt that she was alone once more. She began to tell me what she had wanted to write but didn't, and I noticed that she artfully avoided telling me what she did write. What a strange thing to observe - to hear everything except what my sister meant to say to him, what was perhaps the most important part. I felt as though I were reading a letter with a large hole burned through the centre of the paper.

Next to us, Connor and Thomas had gone quiet. I nudged Thomas with my knee, but he was still. Meredith leaned across the narrow wagon again and whispered to me, "Are Connor and Tom having a staring contest?"

I looked between them and grinned. "Tom is having a staring contest. Connor is thinking and hasn't remembered to blink for the past five minutes."

Connor blinked, then, and looked at me once more - and I was unsure what I saw in his eyes. He was not one to openly express himself, and although I longed to see the real Connor, whom I caught mere glimpses of, he only rarely let me in, let me see the person within - but when he did, he was more beautiful than any rising or setting sun.

The scariest part about letting someone in, I mused, was that they could take one look inside and never come back. How could I convince him, then, that I wanted to see him?

I looked away from him, and found Thomas watching me carefully. When our eyes met, a slow smile began to take form on his lips. I punched his shoulder. He punched me back, but not as hard.

*

By the time the show was over, the sky was fully dark, and a thin layer of water covered the ground after a light bout of rain. I thought of another visit to Faneuil  Hall, a long time ago, when blood stained the snow a deep scarlet. A glance at Connor told me he was remembering the massacre too.

Meredith and I carefully avoided the puddles on the ground, and neither of us said much as we got into the wagon. Gabriel brushed water droplets from his seat, and once everyone was on board, he guided the wagon out of the street. This time, Connor and Thomas sat beside one another, and I could see them digging their elbows into the other's ribs and chuckling softly.

I knew they were laughing at me and Meredith, and I scowled at them. Lydia turned in her seat and asked how we had enjoyed the show.

"It was very–" I frowned, trying to properly articulate my thoughts into coherence– "secular."

Thomas turned to me with a wide, provoking smile. "What were you expecting, a production of the Gospel?"

"No," I grumbled. "I just wasn't expecting that the plot would be Faustus selling his soul to a demon. Don't get me wrong," I added quickly, fearful that Lydia should think me ungrateful, "it was well-performed, and I commend the actors for their performance, but the subject matter was not to my taste."

Meredith murmured her agreement; at first I thought it was because she still wanted to be a nun when she was old enough to enter a convent, but looking at her, I saw that her eyes were bright and starry. She had loved the show.

"They'll be going to New York next," she said, in a voice more akin to a whisper. "And then Virginia. And the southern colonies. Perhaps Ryan will see it, when it gets to him."

"Perhaps not," I said.

Thomas leaned forward and prodded my knee insistently. "I wanted to talk to you about that."

"About Ryan seeing Doctor Faustus?"

He shook his head. "No. New York. I've been thinking of relocating."

The wagon jolted as the wheels turned over a stone in the road, and with the movement, his words sank in. "You're moving to New York?"

It was only inevitable, I supposed. Many people had fled from Boston during the siege, seeking freedom in the other colonies. Thomas would have a new, better life in New York. And he would also be closer to his lover, I realised. It was convenient for him, really. Though his situation was not an easy one, he was making the most of it, and making a bright life for himself - and I admired that quiet strength in him.

*

My birthday passed in August, and Connor and I spent our days holed up in the basement, poring over maps and keeping track of all our progresses. I saw Connor more often than I did Achilles, and I admitted that to Connor, who demurely agreed. But one thing I would never admit was how desperately I wanted to be loved. I didn't think I could say it. I wanted to be wanted, and I did not know how long poetry and music would substitute for that want.

The portraits of Johnson and Pitcairn in the basement had both been turned around so we could no longer see the faces of the men (men whose blood was on our hands) - it would not do to dwell on the past, for the past was gone and could not hurt us anymore. So we moved on, like every season, like every day - but the dying words of those men remained; two scars in the tapestry of our story. 

Achilles, too, grew concerned. "How fares the hunt?"

Connor did not tear his eyes away from the remaining portraits - and I noticed he lingered on the stern face of his father, Haytham Kenway. "There is progress," he conceded, "but I worry it is not enough."

The old man peered over my shoulder at the map I had spread across the desk. "You must strike where you're needed most," said Achilles, tapping a blunt fingertip on the sketched outline of New York city. "What if you pursued Charles Lee and your father - what, then, of Paul Revere? and the soldiers at Lexington?"

We were laying the foundations of a solid plan between us, but Connor's temper was short today, and before I could get a calm word in, he snapped, "Soldiers? There were no soldiers in those towns - only men and women who were forced to defend themselves."

Achilles' voice carried with it a quiet anger. "Is this not why you fight - to protect your people? Your struggle is the colonists' struggle - in helping one, you help the other."

"Encouraging words from one who thought mine a fool's errand," spat Connor.

Moving away from me, Achilles huffed out a dry, humourless laugh. "Make no mistake, I still do." From the corner of my eye, I saw Connor turn away from the paintings to glare at Achilles with a look of disgust. "But," Achilles continued, "I can't help but feel some pride in your success."

I assumed he meant well, but Connor did not take it that way. "And why should we give you any credit?"

I did not like that Connor had dragged me into this argument, and opened my mouth to protest, but Achilles got there first. "Then don't - but first, return the robes, and the blades, and the darts, and all the years of training and knowledge I have bestowed upon you. Return these, and then your words may have some merit."

Connor shot Achilles a very dark look that was not reciprocated nor noticed; Achilles turned away from us, then, and stepped heavily onto the first step of the stairs, and thus Connor's angered eyes turned to me - not directing his anger at me, but sharing it.

"Or you could just admit that you are wrong," he said to Achilles' retreating back.

The old man cast a pitying look over his shoulder, now halfway up the stairs. "Oh, child. Please. You've killed two men, one more salesman than soldier. You're going to have to try a lot harder than that to impress me."

That was always the same with Achilles - he was tough with praise and liberal with criticism; he would sooner exploit our every fault than commend any small victory. I tried to explain this, quietly, to Connor, as Achilles hauled himself up the stairs, but my friend was having none of it, and strode after the old man, two steps at a time.

"Is that so, old man?" he seethed, completely ignoring the warning looks I gave him. "Or perhaps we should step outside? I will gladly demonstrate how easily I could–"

Achilles' sharp reprimand was drowned out by an insistent knock on the front door. Eager to step away from the tension in the air, I opened the door - and was greeted by a young man with dark hair and a nervous smile.

"Good afternoon," I said, stepping back to let him enter. The open door brought the sweet smells of late summer flowers, and I murmured a prayer of thanks in my heart that the Lord would provide such beauty.

Achilles recognised our visitor instantly. "Benjamin Tallmadge," he said smoothly, and all essence of his earlier ire was wiped away like a cloth over spilled milk. "His father was one of us, no need for secrecy," he added to Connor, who remained sullen.

"Achilles tells me you've uncovered a plot to murder the commander in chief." Tallmadge had a kind voice, though it had a nasal quality that made his Boston accent bounce.

I nodded, and Connor said flatly, "Yes, but we have only false starts and dead ends to show for it."

"Not anymore, my friends." Though his words were bright, Tallmadge's tone was grim. "Thomas Hickey is your man, and I aim to help you find him."

I tilted my head. "How?"

"I'll explain on the way," he said, and his words were quick - this was a matter of urgency. "We three are going to New York."