Conditions began to worsen as the war began to turn in favour of the British. Following the American victory at the Battle of Princeton, America gained her flag on the 14th of June - thirteen alternating red and white stripes, and a blue field with thirteen white stars, the first symbol of our true unity and freedom. But in September, the British marched on Philadelphia and took over the city, forcing the Congress to flee. Following the Battle of Germantown, Washington and his troops were forced to make their way to Valley Forge in Pennsylvania, where they were making camp for the winter.

The winter of 1777 was desperately cold, and brought snow drifts almost taller than my head. We had spent a day clearing the road down the hill so that the wagon could get through (Connor also stuffed snow down my neck until I screamed).

Baby Hunter grew with each passing month, and I found it my joy to walk to Warren's farm to babysit. The child reminded me of my brother, whose letters home were becoming increasingly infrequent.

But for all the joy I found that winter, there was hardship, too. Food was running low, and we made do with dried and preserved foods from the store room. Morale was low as news of the terrible conditions in Valley Forge spread: almost a thousand American soldiers had died from disease and starvation. The Prussian military officer, Baron Friedrich von Steuben, and the French officer, Marquis de Lafayette (when Clipper told me his full name was Marie-Joseph Paul Yves Roch Gilbert du Motier de Lafayette, I almost spat out my tea), had joined Washington in the encampment to help train the soldiers, and indeed, their input was vital to the Continental Army, but it did not stop the men from freezing to death for their lack of adequate clothing.

Tensions were rising in the Davenport manor, too, as Connor and Achilles clashed more and more often. Connor remained convinced that we should warn Washington of the Templars' plot against him and reveal to him our true identities as Assassins, but Achilles was adamant that we keep quiet.

He and Connor argued every day, and these disputes usually ended with one of the other storming off, a walking black cloud.

So, one day in December, Connor and I rose before dawn and packed our bags. We mucked out the stables, fed the horses, and when we had completed our chores, we walked out of the manor, sleeping mats under our arms, into the snow.

Achilles stomped after us, cane hitting the ground after every angry step. "Don't do this!"

Connor whirled on him then, the hidden anger of the past few months suddenly raising its head. "Then what do you propose we do? Sit and watch while the Templars take control? We are sworn to stop them - or have you forgotten?"

"Assassins are meant to be quiet," snapped Achilles. "Precise. We do not go announcing conspiracies from the rooftops to all who pass by–"

"Who are you to lecture anyone?" I had seen this seething anger in Connor only rarely: the glinting eyes, the bared teeth. "You locked yourself away in this crumbling heap–" a disdainful gesture at the red-brick manor– "and gave up on the Brotherhood entirely. Since the day we arrived, you have done nothing but discourage us - and on the rare occasions you've chosen to help, you have done so little, you may as well have done nothing at all."

For a few moments there was silence as Connor's harsh words hung between us, caught in the frozen air. Connor was stiff as a wolf; one sudden move and he would snap.

Achilles' weathered face hardened. "How dare you."

Connor took one menacing step towards him, his voice low and dangerous. "Then tell me: on whose watch did the Brotherhood falter? Whose inaction allowed the Templar Order to grow so large that it now controls an entire nation?"

The old man looked like he was about to snap something equally as cruel, but stopped himself and took a deep breath. "If I sought to dissuade you," he said slowly, "it was because you knew nothing. If I was reluctant to contribute, it was because it was because you were naïve. A thousand times you could have died, and taken God knows how many with you!" He matched Connor's step forward with one of his own, glaring into his dark eyes. "Let me tell you something, Connor: life is not a fairytale, and there are no happy endings."

Resentment was written across Connor's face as he regarded Achilles with a look I had never seen - a look of utter contempt. "No," he said coldly. "Not when men like you are left in charge."

He turned, then, and fastened his bags to his horse, and waited for me to do the same before mounting. Achilles hobbled down the steps and reached out, holding the reins before Connor could pull away.

"In your haste to save the world, boy," he said softly, "take care you don't destroy it."

The men held eye contact for a few drawn-out moments, and I almost thought that Connor seemed to nod, just once, before jerking away and kicking his horse into action. I looked over my shoulder as we rode away, looked at the old man standing on the steps of the lonely manor, a dark figure against the snow.

We rode the horses long and hard, past breaking point, barely stopping for food or rest. For almost four days we kept this up before we were forced to stop, if only for a night.

The wind howled through the empty trees as we made a poor excuse for a camp. We huddled around a small, smokeless fire, trying desperately to rub some warmth into our hands. After a gruelling ride and a miserable meal, neither of us were in the mood to talk much.

Above us, the branches spiked the stars - they would catch the morning sun in their pointed fingers. I rested my chin on my knees and watched the sky grow dark as snow-filled clouds began to gather.

Connor was watching the clouds, too. "It will snow tomorrow," he said. "This will be a cold night."

There were bigger things on our minds than the snow, however. I pulled my blanket tighter across my shoulders and glanced at him. "What will we tell Washington?"

He met my level gaze. "The truth."

I knew the web of his thoughts did not end there. Though he did not speak it, I knew the reason why he wanted to speak with Washington: he wanted to find Lee, of whom we had heard neither sight nor sound since Connor's attempted execution. We heard that he had been captured by the British in December of 1776, and was still in custody.

Since Artemas Ward's resignation as second in command of the Continental Army due to his poor health, Lee stepped up to take the position. With such control over the army, the Templars were creeping back into prominence. All Lee needed to do was dispose of Washington and he would have complete control over the army - and could therefore swing the war in whichever direction the Templars chose.

With Lee still in prison indefinitely, we needed to speak to Washington - and soon.

I looked at Connor, watched the way the fire lit his face golden. "Penny for your thoughts?"

His dark eyes flicked up to me. "You would pay twice that not to know them."

I frowned. What darkness was there that I would not gladly embrace for his sake?

His expression lightened a little. "I am a brooder," he said in that soft voice of his. "Brooders brood."

He did not expand on this, and I did not ask him. There existed some things that simply did not wish to be spoken, and Connor's dark thoughts were among them. How I longed to shove my closed fist into that darkness, to feel the shadows against my fingers as minnows, and slowly to open my hand to allow light to spill forth - to light up the darkness.

Would he be willing to let the light in? Or was he so acquainted with his pain and anger that he would close himself up, never to see the sunlight again?

I was distracted from my thoughts by Connor settling himself on his sleeping mat and pulling his blanket over his chest. He had barely spoken, and I knew this should not concern me, but I found myself watching him anyway, for a sign of his mood.

After a moment, he noticed my eyes on him, and when he spoke, his breaths misted in the freezing air. "Are you cold?"

I nodded, curled tightly into myself in front of the fire. He shifted over and lifted his blanket slightly - an invitation that I did not refuse, and swiftly joined him under the shared blanket. He was warm and solid beside me, and I tucked my head against his shoulder; I needed something to hold, to remind me that, enigmatic as he was, he was nevertheless my Ratonhnhaké:ton.

His silence was unnerving. Physically he was here with me, but in his mind, he was far away, mulling over his fight with Achilles and thinking what he would say to Washington.

He did not usually wish to talk when he was deep in thought like this, so I nestled closer to him and closed my eyes, savouring the warmth that came from him. Neither of us smelled too good - in fact, we rather stank of horse - but I could not find it in me to care.

One of his hands came to rest on the back of my head, a gentle, reassuring touch that comforted me as I drifted into a deep sleep.

*

I was shocked by the conditions in Valley Forge when we arrived there some ten days later. It was not common knowledge that the soldiers were suffering - we heard it from Jacob Zenger and Clipper Wilkinson, two of our recruits - and to see them now horrified me.

Small cabins had been constructed to keep out the snow, but the stink of decay hung heavy in the air as improperly-transported food was thrown to the rats. The soldiers that I could see were pallid and thin, patrolling the perimeter with lifeless eyes or sitting limp as dolls under the dull, unforgiving sky.

We found Washington at the crest of a small hill from which we could see the entire miserable encampment. He watched us approach with cold eyes.

Connor dipped his head. "Commander."

Washington greeted us with a somber, "Connor, Cassandra." Snow flecked his grey wig, and the cold turned his lined face pink.

"Any word on Lee?" asked Connor, disguising his restless impatience with careful blankness.

The commander in chief shook his head. "Not yet." He broke off and sighed, shifting on his feet and clasping his hands behind his back. "My apologies. I have been distracted. Supply caravans meant for the camp have gone missing. . . I suspect treachery."

Connor and I glanced at each other. Surely this was the work of the Templars.

"A traitor," Washington continued, "named Benjamin Church, recently released from prison, has vanished as well. The two events are surely related."

Of course, I realised. Church was found to be secreting information to the British general Thomas Gage, and was arrested after one of such letters was intercepted in Boston. Washington had declared the doctor disgraced.

"Caught sending letters to the Loyalists," muttered Washington, "detailing our troop strength. He claimed it was a scare tactic, that we might avoid war. . . A poor lie."

I spoke up. "We will find Church for you."

The commander looked at us, face creased with confusion. "Why? What reason have you to help?"

Connor's voice was even. "Does it matter?"

Washington regarded us for a few long moments, scrutinised our faces with unreadable eyes. "As you wish. We've received reports of trouble along the southern road. Might be he's responsible - I suggest you begin your search there."

At his dismissal, we retrieved our horses and set off into the forest, following a trail only Connor could see. He could track anything: he could almost seem to hear the heartbeats of the birds, the individual steps of the beetles.

Since the supplies were being brought to Valley Forge behind the backs of the British, we knew that they would therefore need to be stored in a safe, secluded place where none would come looking, save for the American soldiers.

The trail brought us to an abandoned church. Its white planks were caving in, and the glass windows had been smashed out. The surrounding forest was eerily silent save for the creaking of trees under the weight of the snow and the faint rushing of water from a stream somewhere behind us.

I stayed outside while Connor stepped into the church, his footsteps hardly audible. There was no use in both of us going inside if there was no one keeping watch outside, but the air was freezing, and I grew restless. There were a few chipped wooden crates outside the door, but they were empty, with only bits of straw and discarded threads to speak of the former contents.

A shuffle and a muffled thud from inside the church had me springing around, hands going to the knives at my waist.

A dark figure had knocked Connor down from above and was pinning him to the chipped floor; I saw the silver glint of a blade at my friend's neck. But before I could pull my arm back to throw a knife, I heard Connor's defiant voice spit out, "Father."

In the same cold tone, Haytham Kenway said, "Connor. Any last words?"

Connor's eyes met mine for a fraction of a heartbeat and pushed against Kenway's hand on his chest. "Wait."

I could not see the smirk on Kenway's face, but I heard it in his voice. "A poor choice."

I threw my knife, then, and knocked the tricorne off his head. Startled, he twisted around, and the momentary distraction was all Connor needed to push him off and stand. His hood had fallen back, and in the cold winter light, he was pale and deadly as ice.

Kenway did not appear bothered, and acknowledged me with a dip of his head. "Cassandra," he said coolly, "we meet again."

"Come to check up on Church?" snapped Connor, turning his father's attention back to him. "To make sure he'd stolen enough for your British brothers?"

Kenway was appalled. "Benjamin Church is no brother of mine - no more than the redcoats or their idiot king." The two men glared at one another, and then Kenway sighed heavily. "I expected naïveté, but this. . ." He paced for a moment, and then turned back to Connor, speaking slowly and stressing his words. "The Templars do not fight for the crown. We seek the same as you, boy: freedom; justice; independence."

I spoke up. "But."

Kenway raised his eyebrows at me. "Hm? But what?"

"Johnson," Connor said; "Pitcairn; Hickey. They sought to steal land. To sack towns. To murder George Washington."

Kenway let out a long, slow breath, and pinched the bridge of his nose in annoyance. "Johnson sought to own the land, that we might keep it safe. Pitcairn aimed to encourage diplomacy - which you cocked up thoroughly enough to start a goddamn war. And Hickey? George Washington is a wretched leader - he's lost nearly every battle in which he's taken part." He paced a few steps, and the sword at his hip caught the light. "The man's wracked with uncertainty and insecurity. Only look at Valley Forge to know my words are true. We're all better off without him."

Connor kept circling, kept pacing - a cornered wolf preparing to spring. His dark expression did not change.

With a huff, Kenway said, "Look, much as I'd love to spar with you, Benjamin Church's mouth is as big as his ego. You clearly want the supplies he's stolen. I want him punished. Our interests are aligned."

The enemy of my enemy is my friend. I watched Connor, who looked to me for a moment before saying, "What do you propose?"

"A truce. Perhaps–" Kenway cleared his throat, like he had difficulty saying the words– "perhaps some time together might do us good. You are my son, after all, and might still be saved from your ignorance." A bland smile curled his mouth as he held up his hand, and a wrist blade appeared, shining in the cold light. "I can kill you now, if you'd prefer?"

Connor's eyes met mine again, but neither of us spoke. Kenway did have a point about the truce - and I knew that Connor harboured thoughts, a dream, perhaps, that he might sway his father in favour of the Assassins.

Thus, our silence was Kenway's answer. "Excellent," he said, suddenly bright, and picked up his hat from the floor, dusting it off. "Shall we be off?"

Connor scowled at him. "Do you even know where Church has gone?"

"I'm afraid not." The Templar replaced the hat on his head. "I had hoped to ambush him when he or one of his men returned here. It seems we're too late. They've come and cleared the place out."

So that was why he had been up in the rafters: he had been waiting for Church to enter, and instead of his target, it was Connor who stepped through the door, as an unsuspecting fly is trapped in the spider's web.

I stepped back to let the two men out of the church, and Connor crouched before the empty wooden crates for a closer look. Kenway and I stood back to let him work, and the Templar tilted his head at me. "I trust you are keeping well," he said, a poor attempt at small talk.

The last time I had seen him, I was begging him to help Connor. He had done it, too. "Why did you save him?" I asked him quietly, referring to Connor's execution.

Kenway's hard face did not change, but there flashed in his eyes a certain small sadness, a wistfulness that disappeared as swiftly as it appeared, swallowed up in sinking sand. "Curiosity."

We followed Connor through the snow-covered forest, avoiding deep and slippery patches. Ahead of us, a road wound through a clearing, where a man knelt by a loaded wagon, trying to fix its broken wheel.

Bold as anything, Connor stepped forward, hands clasped together, and said, "Are you Benjamin Church's man?"

The driver took one look at him and his face drained of colour; he bolted off in a desperate dash up the road. Fast as a viper, I darted after him and managed to grab him by the collar. He stumbled backwards, and I slammed him into a tree.

I leaned into his back, pressing his chest harder into the rough bark. "It wasn't very wise to run," I said.

"What do you want?" he spluttered.

I felt Connor hovering over my shoulder, heard his voice say, "Where is Benjamin Church?"

"I don't know!" the man cried as I pushed him harder against the tree. "We was riding for a camp just north of here. It's where we normally unload cargo. Maybe you'll find him ther–"

There was a deafening bang in my ear, and suddenly the man's head cracked, blood spraying, gore dripping from the skull. I staggered back as the hot blood coated my face, shaking my head hard to cease the ringing in my right ear.

Beside me, Kenway replaced a flintlock in its holster. "Enough of that," he said coolly.

Connor whirled on him; where his father was all ice, Connor was a burning fire. "You did not have to kill him!" I heard him faintly, for my head was still buzzing.

Kenway sighed. "Let's not waste time with all this pointless banter. You go catch up with Church's men - infiltrate that camp of theirs."

"What about you?" Connor's tone was suspicious.

"Never you mind." Kenway pinned him with a stare. "Just do as I ask."

*

Since this chapter was published on the 7th of July 2023, the same day Taylor Swift released Speak Now (Taylor's Version), this chapter officially belongs to her.

Chapter 42 (Taylor's Version).