Lee smelled worse than Hickey, which was something I found very surprising. While the latter stank of old beer and body odour, the stench that clung to Lee was a more potent stink of dog piss, both new and old.

We escaped Bridewell through the door I had entered earlier that night. I wondered at their leaving the warden's body in Hickey's cell - surely he would be found in the morning and a prison-wide lockdown would commence?

Unless, of course, Hickey and Lee had already found a replacement: someone who was sympathetic to their cause, someone who knew of the warden's death and did not care.

Connor stood no chance, if that was the case.

Panic would get me nowhere, not as a side gate was opened - and Lee slipped the guard a coin for his silence - and I was bundled into the street. Hickey's grip on my arms was tight, preventing me from even thinking of struggling. I was completely at the mercy of the Templars.

I didn't even know what Lee had done to Connor. When he had rejoined us, he was quiet and cold as ever - but there had been no blood on him. I held onto that fact: that, whatever had happened, Connor was still breathing. They wanted him alive so he could be hanged; he was alive now.

Anxiety was a curse with which I was familiar, and it burrowed into my skin like a tick, sucking the marrow from my bones. It was a smoke that filled my lungs and I could not cough it out; a black mass that surrounded me so I could not see.

It was Lee who led us through the dark, silent street - not one soul peeped from their window; no noise stirred the night save for the occasional hiss from a cat. As Bridewell disappeared into the night behind us, so, too, did my hope.

Hickey whispered furiously with Lee, and his voice was too low and gruff for me to understand him, though I thought I heard the words France and one of their recruits, and I managed to piece together what they were saying. Hickey feared that we would enlist the help of the French, given the heritage of a certain recruit, Chapheau.

After the siege of Boston ended in March - due to Washington's seizure of Dorchester Heights outside the city, the claiming of British artillery by Henry Knox, and the subsequent retreat of the British under the command of General William Howe - after all of this, France began to express interest in the war.

Hickey's apprehension continued until we reached an inconspicuous door hidden beneath vines of sweet honeysuckle. He opened it and pushed me through with a grunt. The hallway that stretched before me was long and dark, and I hesitated. What awaited me at the end of this corridor? Certainly there were only two manners in which I may leave this place: dead, or barely alive.

My moment's hesitation caused Hickey to shove me again, and I stumbled forward, gritting my teeth to prevent myself from rounding on him and clawing his eyes out. I was doing this for Connor, and no one else.

When Lee closed the door behind us, Hickey made me walk forward. The air in this corridor was close and warm, and I felt like I couldn't breathe deeply enough.

A sharp prod to my shoulder blades and a gruff, "In here," was Hickey's indication for me to turn, so I pushed open the door on my left.

The room that unfolded before me was small and dark. Heavy curtains drawn over the single window inhibited the entrance of moonlight, which darkened the room so that the only source of light came from one solitary candle on the desk at the far end of the room.

My heart began to hammer in my chest when a dark figure behind the desk moved, but thoughts of Connor kept me rooted in place. My Ratonhnhaké:ton, locked in the dark. If this would help me get him out of there, I would do it thrice over.

My conviction wavered when Grandmaster Haytham Kenway moved into the light.

Save for the portrait in our basement, I had rarely seen Kenway in person, and now that he stood before me, I saw that, while the painting had captured his physical features, it had failed to render the coldness of his disposition - like the only warm thing in him had been cauterised out. He was crafted from glaciers and his blood was mercury.

The flicker of his pale eyes to Lee and Hickey behind me was the only indication that this meeting was unprecedented and unplanned.

"We found her trying to help that Assassin out of prison," Hickey explained, jabbing a dirty finger my way. "We showed him what's good for him."

"Thank you." Kenway's voice was icy. I saw, at that moment, something of Connor in his face - something harsh, something brutal, that was rare in Connor and familiar to his father. Kenway had the same clever eyes, the same hard set to his jaw; but Connor had a warmth, a spark, that had died long ago in Kenway. 

He carried himself like every last drop of kindness had been drained from him, but I truly hoped to be wrong - both for Connor's sake and my own. If we were to make it out of this alive, I would need to prey on any shred of mercy I could find. But Kenway was a man carved from ice, and I knew before I spoke that I would never be able to crack that exterior.

"I would like an audience with you," I said, firm in spite of the fear that gripped me. 

He considered me for what felt like an aeon, his face a mask of cold impassivity. I felt, for one horrifying moment, that he was, with his eyes, peeling my skin away, prying my ribs apart, to peer into my chest - not to destroy, but simply to see what was there. 

Though Kenway was the leader of our enemies, the face behind the schemes, the blade behind the blood, and possibly the most terrifying man I had ever met, a private audience with him was still preferable to me than one with Hickey, whom I could sense leering next to me. 

When the Grandmaster said, "Very well," his tone was dismissive and slightly bored; I wondered if it was fake, if he was feigning disinterest. I did not look behind me, but a beat passed, a beat in which Lee and Hickey hesitated, sharing a look between them, before taking their leave. 

With the full attention of Haytham Kenway now on me, I felt smaller than a mouse. Though he did not wear his uniform, his authority was still evident in his stance, in the way he held himself.

"It seems we meet under unfortunate circumstances, Cassandra Glade," he said, with the sort of condescending tone one might use on a child.

It was a careful attack - to target my youth, to try to twist it against me. I imagined he was the nine-headed Lernaean Hydra, and I was a small boat, slamming every window and hatch shut against its poison.

I took him in: dressed in simple clothes, deadly in spite of his lack of visible weapons (but if he was anything like Connor, which I suspected he was, the majority of his weapon arsenal was kept out of sight on his person). His silver Templar ring was a dark stain on his finger, one that I avoided looking at.

"Indeed," I said. "I regret that we could not meet under better conditions. We might even have had tea."

I knew full well that I would rather cut off my big toe than sit down to tea with Kenway, and he would likely agree. In fact, he would probably watch.

His eyes narrowed a little, like Connor's did when he was amused and did not want to show it. But Kenway was, in all likelihood, planning how best to murder me without getting blood on his shirt.

Instead of replying wit for wit, he sat on the chair at his desk. He did not extend an invitation for me to sit, leaving me standing, vulnerable, in the middle of the room. This was a power move, a way of showing me that he was in total control. He was the king to my pawn; I was staring into the face of a tiger.

"Tell me, Cassandra–" he used my name again, and I got the distinct impression that he knew far more about me than I did him– "why did you request an audience with me?"

I thought of Connor in that prison. I did not know what Lee had done to him, but it was enough. "I want you to stop this execution."

He regarded me with a look of piteous contempt, and a single, harsh laugh escaped him. It was a chilling sound, like a vulture closing in on its prey. "And why would I do that?" he said.

He looked at me like I was stupid. "Because he's your son."

He didn't even blink at my admission; this was something he already knew, I realised. In the dim light, the shadows on his pale face deepened, lengthening until his countenance was ghoul-like. "Appealing to my sense of morality will not work," he said slowly.

I knew that. It was not his morality that I was appealing to. "He's Ziio's son," I said quietly. "Doesn't that matter to you?"

Kenway's eyes flashed. "Do not speak of things you know nothing about."

There was a new edge to his voice. A kink in his armour. "He could be the only chance for peace."

In the half-light, Kenway gave me a dark look. "There is no peace. There is only surrender."

My window of opportunity was steadily closing; I felt trapped in this dark room with him. "So you would let him hang," I snapped. "Your own son."

"I do not care who he is," said Kenway, his tone cool. "I care what he is." He flexed his fingers, and that silver ring glinted in the light, and each time I saw that cross, I thought of my Lord crucified; I thought of my Connor swinging from the gallows.

My hope was steadily disintegrating, leaving behind a hard determination, as water evaporates from salt. If Kenway would not help me (indeed, he had no reason to), then I would do it myself.

He was watching me with those sharp, clever eyes. "So now you see where we are at," he drawled. "That begs the following question: what am I to do with you?"

He was expecting me to blanch at the implication of my death; I did not. "Killing us will make us martyrs," I said. "Do you want that?"

Kenway's gaze was level and stony. "Frankly, I don't care." Without taking his eyes from me, he called for Lee, who appeared at the door within a second. Against my will, my pounding heart roared in my ears, so that I almost didn't hear Kenway say, "Let her go. But teach her a lesson."

Lee took me roughly by the arm and wheeled me from the room. I looked over my shoulder as the door was closing behind us, and the last thing I saw of Kenway were his pale eyes, like ice, before the door was shut and we were in the dark corridor again.

There was no light, but Lee knew the way. This did not comfort me, however; my inability to see only made me more frightened.

"You know," Lee hissed to me, leaning close enough for me to gag on the stench of his clothes, "I should just let Hickey have his way with you, for all the trouble you and that Indian cause us. But I shan't." He sounded smug, and I longed to punch his teeth in, until his moustache was coated with blood. "His verdict will be the same whether he is tried or not. Either way, he will hang."

His words sickened me. In my mind's eye, I watched the trial play out: Connor pleading his innocence, and the jury declaring him guilty. I watched as he was taken away to the gallows. 

I could not let that happen - not when we had so much more to talk about.

As Lee pushed open the door under the honeysuckle, I felt, more than heard, Hickey step closer. The silhouettes of the Templars were long and horrifying in the darkness outside.

I let them land the first hit - a sharp punch to my ribs - but after that, I fought like an animal, using even my teeth and nails. I felt the soft flesh of a forearm under my hand and dug my nails deep, and heard Hickey cry out.

His grip loosened, and I used that moment to drive my elbow into Lee's face, feeling his nose crunch. I shook free of them and ran.

*

I gathered myself in the safety of our makeshift home in Tallmadge's aunt's attic. Every small sound, every creak in the wood, had me tensing up. I did not sleep that night, and thought carefully through my plans while watching the sun rise over Manhattan and nursing my bruised ribs.

I did not know when, exactly, Connor's trial would be, but I knew that the Templars would rather have it as soon as possible. But when would be the logical time? Kenway did not strike me as one to operate on emotion; he used cold logic and strategy, and if I were to think one step ahead of him, I would first need to put myself into his boots.

So, if I were to plot the death of my adversary, I would want it at the earliest convenience. The sooner the better, really. With that in mind, I began to think objectively of Connor. When could I arrange a trial for a man arrested less than a week ago?

Arranging a trial took months. After the Boston Massacre, which took place in March 1770, the accused soldiers were not tried until November of that same year. The Templars, I gathered, would not wish to wait that long.

I sifted through my earlier conversations with the Templars, tried to remember something, anything, that might be a clue.

And then it hit me. Something Lee had said stood out like an oak tree in a desert.

His verdict will be the same whether he is tried or not.

If the Templars could get out of the arduous process of a trial, if given the chance, they surely would. Why bother arranging the trial of a man who would be found guilty either way?

There would be no trial. Horror - pure, unfiltered horror - filled me; my soul was being attacked by something with claws and wings.

There would be no chance for justice, only death. It was late June already, and I knew the Continental Congress were planning to hold a vote at the beginning of July in regard to America's independence. Knowing the role that Connor played among the Continental Congress and Army, getting rid of him would be an excellent way to obstruct their plans and hinder Washington's progress.

Of course, I would not want his execution to happen on the day of the vote; news might not reach the Congress in time, and affairs would continue as normal. To choose the day before was to cut it a little close.

Which left only four days. I looked out the window, watched the dawn rising over the city. People were beginning to wake up; women were drawing back curtains and opening windows. A man far below was whistling a merry shanty while he collected eggs from the chicken coop at his back door.

I watched the city come to life, and all the while I thought, Connor will die in four days.