"It's quite impressive, what you've accomplished." Achilles' tone was at once proud and begrudging. We stood in the hallway of the Pennsylvania State House, waiting for the men in the main hall to finish their meeting so we might witness the signing of the Declaration. 

The State House was a bright building, with high ceilings that arched over us and made way for the tall windows that spilled light onto the red carpet on the floor. We were not the only people waiting; there were other men standing in small clusters, and their voices were no more than muffled rustlings.

I gave him a sideways look. "Is that a compliment?"

He smacked my shins with his cane. "Don't misconstrue. I'm sure the whole endeavour will end tragically. But to have come this far. . ." He shook himself slightly, and his soft voice became harder. "Well, it's more than I ever expected."

For a moment, I put myself into his shoes and looked at the Brotherhood through his eyes: I watched the Assassins crumble at the hands of a traitor, and then watched it be entrusted to a pair of teenagers who knew nothing. The entire legacy of the Assassins - in the care of two people barely out of childhood, whose depths of wretchedness could break the Brotherhood apart.

We were not gods. We did not have Heracles or Yue Fei or Fionn Mac Cumhaill. We had Connor, and we had Cassandra - and that would have to be enough.

The American colonists were birds in cages, and Connor and I had the keys. "The people yearned for freedom, but feared to take hold of it," I said. "That fear is gone now."

Achilles turned his lined face to me. "Thanks to the pair of you."

I began to shake my head, thinking of Connor and his people, thinking of that axe buried in the pillar outside the front door. For what and for whom did we fight? "We do what is right. No more, no less."

I knew why Connor fought: the hatred burning in him spurred him on, pushed him to fiercely protect his people. His people, I thought, were homo sacer: outlawed, hunted like wolves, killed like rats. This sometimes gave Connor tunnel vision, however, and I often felt that there was nothing but death in his dreams.

It was a heavy burden to bear. Many times I wanted to ask him, Why do you carry all of that? but I could almost hear his response, a whispered tête-à-tête inside my mind: Where can I put it down?

I was pulled from my thoughts by the opening of the door to the meeting hall. This was our cue to enter, that we might bear witness to this declaration, this moment of history.

We slipped through the door and stood with our backs to the wall - watching, silently, as four men leaned over the paper, passing a quill between them as they, one by one, placed their signature on the declaration. I recognised the men, though only passively: John Hancock, the president of the Continental Congress; Thomas Jefferson; Benjamin Franklin; Samuel Adams.

Hancock's signature was the largest by far, I observed. I glanced up when he addressed me directly. "You are, once more, our saviour."

I thought of the battle at Lexington, so long ago now; I thought of every battle waged in this war, all the blood that had been shed. How could we be saviours if we couldn't defend the innocent? "I need to speak with the general," I said.

Adams spoke up. "He's gone to try and hold New York - the British intend to take it. I fear we'll need to recall our men from Québec as well. . ." He glanced at the men next to him. "It's one thing to declare our independence. Now, we must make it so."

*

"You cannot tell Washington," Achilles hissed once we had left the room.

"I have to. Otherwise, he will never be safe." By declaring America an independent nation, Washington, as leader of the revolution, was painted with the biggest target of them all. He deserved to know.

"He is safer not knowing," insisted Achilles, and I heard the cold anger in his voice. "By planting the seeds of doubt, you threaten to topple his entire endeavour. If Washington is paralysed, the Templars will strike. You'll cause the very thing you aim to prevent." He stopped me with a hand on my arm, and his tone softened. "Hunt the Templars, as is your duty. But do not drag these men into it."

I wanted to tell him that they were already a part of it, whether they knew it or not. Signing the Declaration of Independence was the ultimate act of defiance against the king: no longer was America a colony, but free. And the Templars did not want that.

I contemplated this as I made my way back to New York; this, and my own place in this newly-forming nation. I was too English to be American, but too western to be English. Which demographic did that place me in? Or was I, too, like the homo sacer - a werewolf trapped between worlds: too wild to be civilised, too human to be monstrous?

My business in New York did not take me long (a mere gathering of information from our spies), and afterwards, I found myself walking to Thomas' house. I had not seen him since before the execution, and though he had surely heard of the events in the papers, I wanted to talk to him myself.

*

I stayed with Thomas for two months while I conducted my work in the city. He was glad of the company, and to be honest, so was I.

Our schedules aligned somewhat: by day, I crept through the city and Thomas worked in a master carpenter's studio, and by night, we returned home for late cups of tea and slightly-burnt crumpets.

It was September, now, and the nights were getting colder - the sort of nights in which one does not want to be alone; the sort of nights when the darkness creeps in. I curled up in Thomas' bed, trying not to get crumbs under the sheets. He sat facing me, holding my feet in his lap, smacking my shin if he saw a crumb fall.

"I'm sorry," I insisted.

"No, you're not." He slapped my leg. "If you loved me, you wouldn't insist on eating your midnight snacks in my bed."

"If you loved me, you'd let me eat my snacks," I grumbled, trying not to think of how many nights he had spent with his lover (whom I knew had now left service and was working in a bakery) in this very bed. It was almost enough to make me want to get out.

How different we were from the children who had come to America so many years ago, seasick on a ship. Where were those children gone? Perhaps there was a tall, domed chamber, glittering with jewels, where soft memories were kept. That was where those children played: a boy and a girl and a fat little dog.

How we had changed. Like he was thinking the same thing, Thomas tilted his head and said, "You've lost your baby face."

I touched my face, self-consciously. "Have I?"

He nodded. "You're not baby Cassie anymore. Your bones are sharper." He sighed slowly, patting my leg like he didn't know what to do with his hands. "Everything's changed," he said helplessly.

I knew he meant more than just physical appearances. "We're adults now," I murmured, "living adult lives. You have your love, and I have. . ." What did I have?

Leaning forward on his elbows, he said, "Finish that thought."

"I don't know how."

He watched my face for a few long moments. "It's Connor, isn't it?"

The mere mention of his name had my feelings bubbling up inside my chest, aching to be let out. "I know we're not perfect," I began, and then the words tumbled out; "and I know it shouldn't work - but the truth is, I have thought of him every single day."

Thomas cut me off, gently. "Stop thinking so much. You're breaking your own heart."

I bit down on the words trying to surface. He was right - thinking in circles would only drive me mad. But, whether or not Connor thought of me as softly as I did him, one fact still remained.

"I really like him," I said, and with those words came a cold fear. Saying the words made it true, made it real - and now there was no turning back. It was out there, and time ticked onwards, a steady march that sounded like the dull, faraway clang of a bell.

"I know." He rubbed my knee in a comforting manner. Though Nadia knew of my thoughts, I felt as though Thomas was the only person I could trust with this. He knew what it felt like to love someone he shouldn't. "What are you going to do about it, then?"

I stared at him, dumbfounded. "What? Nothing."

"Nonsense," he scoffed. "Don't be an idiot. Chances like this rarely come around twice."

That ringing sound echoed in my head again, louder this time. I shook my head. "I can't risk my friendship with him. What if something goes wrong? What if we hurt each other? What if–"

"Hush," groaned Thomas. "Stop overthinking it. You need to stop being afraid, because fear will get you nowhere. Just talk to him."

"I can't," I said. "He's gone far away."

"So?"

What are you going to do about it? He had his love, and I had mine. I was so, so lost. I was stumbling blind through a labyrinth, and I had lost my spool of thread. And all the while, behind me thundered Asterion, his bull's nostrils blowing hot steam at my back, the breaths of the Minotaur getting louder, clanging like a bell.

I realised that I was hearing a bell ringing; the sound was coming from the street outside, and it was growing closer. Louder still were the cries that followed: "Fire! Fire!"

We exchanged a look, but that was all we needed before we scrambled off the bed, crumbs forgotten. We raced outside, buffeted by the wind, and what we saw made us freeze.

New York was on fire. The flames burned orange against the night sky, eating homes and shops, spurred by the wind and the dry weather. People ran, panicking, after the young man with the bell. Thomas and I were frozen, watching the flames lick up the sides of the house across the street. The wooden beams turned black and collapsed before us, sending up a cloud of dust.

The fires had spread all the way down the street. The entire west side of Manhattan was burning. Heat blasted my face, carried on a dry wind, and I coughed out the smoke that followed.

Thomas' eyes were bright - too bright. Terrified. He breathed something, a name, and took off running down the street, against the flow of soot-blackened people.

I called his name but he did not turn, so I ran after him. The very streets were rippling with heat, glowing orange with the flames that burned higher until they reached the sky.

Ahead of me, I saw Thomas stop when he reached a house that was almost totally engulfed in flames. A cry ripped itself from his throat. "Francis!" he screamed. "Francis!"

Then I understood. His love's name was Francis, and Francis was inside that house. I grabbed Thomas' arm and pulled him back. "Tom–"

He tore himself free and, screaming his love's name again, ran through the gap where the front door should have been.

I didn't think. I followed him, narrowly dodging the door frame as it collapsed, and ran into the heart of the fire.

The smoke was so thick I could have gotten lost in it. It choked me. It scratched my throat and burned my lungs, I was burning from the inside out. I heard a muffled, "Francis, where are you?" and fumbled through the hallway. I could see the varnished wood of the floor blistering and turning black.

The heat was like a wall. Somewhere beside me, glass shattered. I couldn't hear my heart, but I could feel it beating my skull like a caged animal as darkness began to swarm.

Waves of black smoke engulfed me. I coughed and coughed but no one could hear me. I was drowning.

I didn't find Thomas so much as run into him; he was halfway up the stairs, clinging to the blistering rail, and my hands found his shirt. "Tom," I rasped, and every breath burned. Stars that I couldn't blink away whirled in my vision.

I gripped him and hauled him to his feet; he was limp but still mumbling. The beams over our heads creaked, and sparks danced in the air a heartbeat before the wood collapsed.

I managed to pull Thomas away from it, but pain grew suddenly from nothing and shot down my arm. My heart was labouring, a flabby beat like a broken drum, and every cough ripped deeper into my lungs. My mouth was clogged and tasted of soot. And all the while, my arm was burning, burning, burning.

I sagged against a wall, gripping Thomas close. Colours swam in a fog of grey that burned my eyes; the black clouds threatened to dissolve me. I was breathing acid.

I fell. For ever. I crashed. Time flipped: I landed; I fell again. Pain lifted me up like a tide. But pain was good, I told myself. Pain meant I was alive.

I opened my mouth, and the smoke rushed in, and tears streamed down my face. I thought I knew what I was afraid of - being abandoned, perhaps. But could I have thought that that was the worst thing? Now, in the blinding heat and the fumes, as the fire roared and pain bloomed across my head, it was as if something inside me - some last protective barrier - collapsed.

I fought for breath. My head was spinning. We were on the floor; down here, there was more space between the veils of smoke. There was another sudden crash of wood behind us - the house was collapsing around us.

Ahead, shrouded in smoke, was the doorway. Flames crackled at the threshold. I reached out and pulled myself along the floor, dragging Thomas with me. My arm throbbed with the ferocity of a thousand fangs, and I knew I was burned - but I did not know how badly.

Inch by inch I crawled, past the roaring flames, through the thickening smoke - and just as I dragged us over the threshold, the ceiling caved in behind us.

Once clear of the burning wreck, I lay limp and numb on the cobbles. I heard people around us, but only faintly. My ribs ached from coughing, and now that we were out of the fire, I could feel that my arm was sticky with blood. The pain took over my thoughts, clouded my eyes, until it was everything.

I was still holding Thomas; he was shaking, and his voice was hoarse. Still he whispered, "Francis. . ." but I knew it was too late. Behind us, the house crashed down and burned.