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TW: suicide
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I visited Dr. White every two weeks so he could examine my arm. The burns were not as deep as I had feared - he told me that because I could still feel pain in my arm, the nerves had not been damaged too badly. I would recover in a few months, though the scars would remain. I didn't mind about the scars: they were a reminder of everything I was, and could never be again.

The heavy snows hit soon after that, and for weeks the roads were blocked with it. It was a hard winter. The British occupation of New York was a topic that was never far from our lips - as were the refugees from the fire.

Thomas did not return to New York. I brought him with me to speak with Terry and Godfrey about the possibility of a home built for him when the snows cleared. The two Scots promised that they would start building when the wood was dry.

On a day when the snow had stopped sheeting down, I walked down to the homestead village, cheeks and nose pink with the cold. Christmas had come and gone, and my hands were wrapped in a fur muff sent by my mother, along with a letter stating that my family would visit next week. There was much to be done in preparation for that visit.

Frost crunched under my shoes, and I watched my breaths turn to mist. Silence was my company. I had invited Thomas to join me, but he had declined, preferring to spend his time in solitude. I walked alone, but I did not mind: the pale blue sky above me conjured thoughts of the Heavenly throne, and I was content to let my thoughts wash over me.

I was on my way to visit Prudence, who was now a few months pregnant, to return a shawl I had mended for her. We all knew how she and Warren had longed for a baby. The couple had been unable to conceive, run off their land, and attacked by bears - they deserved this glimmer of joy.

I crossed the wooden bridge over the river and waved at Diana, who was hanging clothes on a line outside her house. Her two sons went racing by, fighting each other with sticks, and were followed swiftly by Catherine's sons, slightly older, with rosy cheeks and tumbling red curls. After so many months of hardship and lack, it was good to hear laughter again, and I couldn't help my smile as I stepped aside to clear the path for them. The bare trees creaked above me and echoed the children's laughter back to the frozen ground.

I found Prudence at her farm, leaning against the wooden perimeter fence and hardly suppressing her laughter at the sight before her. I could not see what she was laughing at until I was almost by her side, by which time she turned to me, and she could not keep the smile from her cheeks.

The object of her laughter was Connor: he was on the other side of the fence, trying desperately to herd Prudence's pigs into their pigpen. His hood was up and his back was facing me, but I didn't need to be able to see his face to envision his comical distress, evidently the source of Prudence's amusement. Every so often, I saw a puff of his breath as he muttered in Kanien'kéha with exasperation.

I couldn't help myself. "Hurry up," I called to him.

"Let him work," said Prudence, though her voice was shaking with unreleased laughter.

"Yes. Let me work." Connor did not look at me, but he stuck his middle finger in my direction, all the while desperately trying to guide a pig with his foot. "No no no no–"

The sow scurried past his leg, keen to continue nosing through the cold muck. My friend glared at her and finally glanced over his shoulder at me. "They are faster than they look."

"That sounds like an excuse to me," I said smugly. "Maybe you're just slow."

He opened his mouth to snap back at me and was almost immediately distracted by the sow's return, and this time he managed to guide her into the pen and close the gate after her.

I stopped watching him, for fear that I would never look away from him, and smiled at Prudence. "How are you?"

She gave me a smile I felt I could never fully know. "I do not feel real."

I tried to imagine that feeling and felt as though I might spiral down, down, down past literature and philosophy, into a cavern unexplored. I knew I existed, as surely as I knew the sun and the moon and the Lord existed - to try to ignore what I knew to be true and examine another manner of thought would surely drive me mad. "Is there anything more I can do for you?"

"No," she said, "Connor is already doing it." In the silence between our voices, I could hear Connor grumbling at the pigs. Prudence continued, "It is good to see that your arm is healing. How is your friend doing?"

"Thomas is. . ." What was he? Perhaps that was the wrong question - what had he been, and what was he now? There was a narrow space in between, like a crack between two glaciers, and Thomas Carter was trapped in there, his bones slowly freezing together. Would his breaths melt the ice? Or would the cold take over until there was nothing left, until in Thomas' place lay an ice-crusted skeleton?

Prudence filled my silence. "I will stop by tomorrow with some soup."

A creak from the gate alerted me that Connor had finished herding the pigs. I glanced up to see him triumphantly closing the latch on the gate, behind which Prudence's four pigs snuffled with irritation. His eyes were bright beneath his hood.

"Thank you, Connor," said Prudence. "I could never have managed that."

In spite of his grumblings, he said, "It was my pleasure. Are you well?"

She beamed at him. "I am. Warren and I couldn't be happier." She did not have to say the words for us to see that it was true: her joy shone, radiant, from her face. She bent down and picked up the basket I had placed at her feet. "Thank you, Cass. I am in debt to the pair of you. How can I ever repay such kindness?"

"Name the baby after us," I teased, and she only laughed.

After we had seen her inside and bid her farewell, Connor and I began to walk back towards the homestead village. We had no more errands to run for the day, so we turned to quiet conversation to fill the time. The river ran smooth and quiet under the bridge, and I stopped so I might look over the edge into the water.

Connor tucked his hands beneath his arms to stay warm, so I offered him my fur muff. He shook his head. "You keep it."

"Share it with me," I said.

He agreed to that, and slipped his hands in next to mine. He grimaced. "Your hands are cold."

"Yours are warm." I tangled my fingers with his.

He looked down at our joined hands, brow furrowed. "How are we supposed to walk like this?"

"Let's not walk," I said. "Let's stand for a while."

Silence followed after that. Connor looked up to the sky, bathing his face in icy light. I watched him for a moment, and then turned my eyes to the bare trees arcing over us, waving brittle branches that rattled like dry bones.

A crow alighted on one of the branches overhead - it ruffled its feathers, and a harsh cry escaped its wicked beak. I was at once fascinated and unnerved by the way it turned its beady eye towards us, like it was watching us, studying us. The bird caught Connor's eye, too, and for a while, we stood and watched: two wolves studying one bird.

Eventually, Connor removed his hands from the muff (the absence of his hands left an aching cold at my fingertips) and for a moment, his gaze lingered on my neck. The beginnings of a flush began to creep into my cheeks, but he reached out and pulled my shawl tighter against my neck so I would not grow cold.

"Your family will be here in a few days," he said; his tone was light, but I knew there was something beneath it.

"Yes," I replied, "though Ryan will not be joining us. He is quite happy in his school, so I am told."

He murmured something that might have been an agreement. "What are we to tell them?"

"Must we tell them anything?"

I knew that we ought to tell Lydia and Gabriel something of our courtship so they might know what to expect, but, in truth, I did not want them to know just yet. It was our little flame that we fed in secret, and I did not want it to be blown out by them. The world was harsh, the war made everything cold and cruel - what we had was soft.

Connor had not answered me. "In truth," I said, "I don't want them to know because I don't want them to ruin it."

Beneath his hood, he looked puzzled. "How could they ruin it?"

"They'll find a way."

He faced me fully, and his tone became firm. "You need to stop worrying about what might be and what could be. Focus on what is present and what is."

He had every right to be frustrated with me, but I found myself growing defensive nevertheless. "What would you have me do?" I demanded.

For a moment, he looked as if he was about to say something harsh - and then he let out a breath. "I just want you to admit it," he said finally. "So we can move forward without the need for secrecy."

His implication was clear. No more hiding in the shadows. I knew that among his people, expression of emotion was frowned upon, especially during courtship - what had he said before? One does not show one's heart until the axe reveals it. He would not ask this of me unless it was something he really wanted.

I wanted it, too. He was all I had wanted for so long - and now here he was, standing before me, full of quiet determination. I knew, then, that this would be the end of me: spiralling down into the black depths of his eyes.

I started to nod, and to see the smile curling the corners of his mouth. "I'll find a way to tell Thomas," I said. "And we will tell my family when they are here."

Why should I be afraid of them? Was I not worthy of love too? I pushed Connor's hood back: he was smiling at me. We turned and faced the river, standing shoulder to shoulder, and by our sides, my hand found his.

"It's all so complicated," I said, watching the clear water flow over the stones below. "If we do this, we endanger the Brotherhood and put each other at risk. The Templars will never stop until we are both dead. But if we don't do this. . . If we stay apart, we will never know what it is to feel like this. I'd let the whole Brotherhood burn if it meant I could hold your hand."

Connor did not respond. I looked up at him and saw that he wasn't listening - he had gone still, staring at the river.

I shaded my eyes with my hand, but couldn't see much for the glare. Only a beaver on the far bank, and a log in midstream, sliding downriver.

Someone began to scream - a tearing sound that rose above the rapids and chilled my blood.

People came running from the village. Diana was screaming, her clothes line forgotten.

That wasn't a log floating downriver.

It was Thomas.