I followed Connor through the frozen pines as he tracked the way to the makeshift camp. It was little more than a few tents propped up in a clearing, enclosed by snow-covered shrubs under which hare prints were scattered. We crouched behind the thick shrubbery, masking our tracks with snow, and waited.

Our silence allowed me to sink into my thoughts. Connor had gotten his way (Again, I thought. He always makes sure he gets his way) and our truce with his father was tentative - an almost-alliance, somewhere in the grey area between enemies and friends.

We took shallow breaths so the men in the camp would not see the white vapour. There were three of them, each wearing thick wool coats to keep out the bitter cold, and tricorne hats to keep the snow off their heads. Two of them stood by the beginnings of a fire and warmed their hands, while the other poked around in the stolen crates, which were piled in their convoy wagon between the two tents.

"It was a good haul today," one of the men by the fire said. "I saw a bit of gunpowder in those crates. We'll get extra for that."

His companion nodded and tucked his hands under his arms. "Aye. Church'll be pleased and we'll be rich."

The first man noted his companion's lack of heat, and commented, "I almost feel sorry for the Yanks, shivering and starving out there. It's a hard way to go."

"All they need to do is raise the white flag," the other grumbled.

The first shook his head slowly, more sympathetic than his companion. "They should have done that a long time ago. All this fighting serves no purpose. The crown's sure to win in the end. To waste all these lives chasing a fool notion. . . Breaks my heart, it does."

The foreman, standing apart from the others, looked up with a face hard as stone. "There's another run planned for tonight." As he spoke, I saw that his teeth were black and rotten.

The shivering second man looked horrified. "You're not serious. I was planning to go see that show with the missus."

Interest sparked in the first man's face. "Which one?"

The other man was despairing. "The one that you saw. The Country Wife."

"Oh yes!" He nodded. "An old one. You'll enjoy it - the little actress is a real cracker. A spitfire."

"Which one? I'll have to keep an eye open."

"The little blonde lead."

Connor and I exchanged a silent glance. Could it be possible that they were talking about Meredith? My heart crawled into my teeth.

I wished I could glean more information from them, but the man with the rotting teeth cut in sharply. "Listen here. You won't be going to any shows tonight. Boss wants to try something new tonight. A raid. No more convoys. We're to steal from the Yank camp itself."

While the second speaker mourned, the first man's shrewd eyes narrowed. "Valley Forge?"

Rotting Teeth nodded. "That's right."

The first man did not look convinced. "You sure about this?"

"It's not my business to be sure or not sure," snapped Rotting Teeth. "I just do as Church asks. If you're so concerned, take it up with him."

Casting a furtive look around the clearing, the first man said, "Is he here?"

"Of course not," scoffed Rotting Teeth. "Hiding in New York, last I heard, trying to keep a low profile - what on account of him not wanting to go back to jail and all."

Without looking at him, I squeezed Connor's arm, intent on the words that the men spoke. Just like that, we had our lead. The only question that remained was this: where was Connor's father?

It did not take long for that question, too, to be answered, for two more men came bustling into the camp, dragging something between them: the bristling form of Haytham Kenway.

There was a little dribble of blood from his mouth, and his eyes were dangerously dark, but he seemed otherwise unharmed, bearing his usual temperament of a wet cat. He allowed himself to be hauled into the camp, and his lip curled with disdain as one of the men holding his arm called out, "Look what we found! He was creeping around the camp, all suspicious-like."

The first speaker drew a pistol. "Must be a Yank spy."

Rotting Teeth, however, looked thoughtful - almost malicious. "No," he said, "he's something else. Something special." He strolled a few languid steps until he was right in front of Kenway, looking down on him. "Isn't that right, Haytham? Church told me all about you."

Silent as death, Connor slipped the bow off his shoulder and slowly notched an arrow, his eyes hardly leaving the men in the camp.

In spite of his apparent vulnerability, Kenway was as cold was ever. "Then you should know better than this."

The man guffawed. "You're not really in a position to be making threats, are you?" With a sneer, he struck Kenway a hard blow across the jaw, hard enough to jerk his head sideways.

Kenway spat blood into the snow, and his pale eyes slid to the bush where Connor and I were watching, and the slightest smirk touched the corners of his mouth. "Not yet."

Connor loosed the arrow, and it skewered through the side of the man closest to us; he went down with a cry and a spray of bright blood. For a moment, all was still as the shock slowly crept upon the men, and then they bellowed and drew their guns. Kenway was thrown roughly to the ground, forgotten in the momentary panic as Connor stood and fired again.

I dived out of the bush before one could fire a shot, slipped two knives from my belt, and slashed at the arms of the man swinging a gun into my face. Red rose up through his sleeves in wet lines as he staggered back.

Just behind him, I saw Kenway climb to his feet, and met his eyes. "Once you've dealt with these louts," he said, indicating the three remaining, "meet me in New York."

"What?" Connor snapped, breathless yet raising his voice above the din of the fight. "You mean to just leave? Now?"

Kenway sounded smug. "If you can't handle a couple of mercenaries, then we've really no business working together."

"Unbelievable," grumbled Connor before Rotting Teeth took a swing at him; he ducked back before the butt of a pistol could touch his face, and stabbed into the man's shoulder with his hidden blade. Those blackened teeth snapped once as the momentum jerked him backwards.

Kenway slunk off into the forest, limping slightly, but I could not follow, not as another man landed a punch to my ribs that knocked the air out of me. Then Connor was behind him, pulling the handle of his tomahawk tight against the man's throat, a rare, seething kind of anger glittering in his eyes.

The man scrabbled against Connor's iron grip and eventually went still. We fought savagely, blades flashing silver in the winter light - we were two weapons of war doing what we did best.

When we were sure that the men would not rise any time soon, the world stopped, and we stood panting and aching. We gave each other a once-over and, determining that neither was fatally injured, walked a few feet from the camp to determine our next move.

The two horses that had led the wagon into camp were not far beyond the treeline; we untied them from their posts and hitched them to the wagon. I climbed into the seat and watched Connor pick his way through the trees on foot - he was fetching our horses and would meet me on the road, and from there we would return the supplies to Valley Forge. It was not enough for the soldiers to survive on, but it was something.

The wagon jolted as the wheels rolled over stones in the frozen road, and I gently tapped the reins against the horses' flanks to spur them on. It was not long until I saw Connor standing in the road, holding our two horses by the reins; I pulled the wagon to a halt and waited for him to latch our horses to the back before moving over in the chair to make room for him.

We rode in silence for a few minutes. Every breath made my ribs ache. I lost myself in thought, chewing the inside of my cheek, and unintentionally ignored Connor until he nudged me and said, "Stop biting yourself."

I spoke the question that had plagued me since I heard the men in the camp. "Do you think they were talking about my sister?"

"There are many young women that might fit that description. We cannot be sure it was her." He did not sound certain.

I wanted to believe him, I really did. But as we arrived at Valley Forge, I found myself drawing further and further into my thoughts, content to bring the horses to the stable while Connor helped some soldiers to move the crates to the storehouses

Horses were good company in their silence. I took care to ensure the horses from the wagon were properly sheltered and untacked, and fed our horses while I waited for Connor to finish. Behind me, I could hear Washington's exclamations of joy and surprise as he watched the crates pile up - crates of life-saving medicine, clothes, and preserved foods.

A gentle hand on my arm alerted me of Connor's quiet presence; I saw his breaths turn to mist beside me. I leaned into his side and looked up at him, feeling the exhaustion of the day settle in like a thick fog. At that moment, I wanted nothing more than to burrow deep into the earth and sleep - I imagined the life of a mole to be quite ideal.

"When we get to New York," I heard myself say, "I'd like to find out where we can see that show those men were talking about." My tone was casual, but underneath I was desperate - I needed to know if those men were talking about my sister.

Connor nodded slowly. "I knew you would say that, so I asked a few of the men here. It is playing every night this week. We will not reach New York in time to see tonight's show, but we will be able to see tomorrow's if we hurry."

Oh, what a friend he was: to know my heart better than I knew it! The intimacy of it, of being so comfortable with one another that we could guess at what the other was thinking, was sweet enough to rot my teeth.

We pushed the horses as much as they would allow for the rest of the day, and arrived in New York close to midnight. The air was bitterly cold, and I could see the muddy puddles on the cobbled road beginning to freeze over. Even the lamps lining the street were muted, their orange glow hardly casting a light on us as we stabled our horses and walked into a late-opening inn. I was shivering hard, almost caved into myself in an effort to stay warm.

We paid for a meagre dinner of lukewarm watery stew, and once that was finished, we took our room. A hot bath cost us extra, but we did not mind in this rare instance. Peering into the grimy mirror, I saw that my lips were blue with the cold, stark against my pale skin.

The bath took almost an hour to prepare, as we had to heat the water over the fire and pour it, bucket by bucket, into the tub. I found a jar of salts and dissolved them into the water until it was fragrant and cloudy.

In the name of saving water, Connor sat at one end, and I at the other, our legs tangled together. We did not speak for a few minutes as we sat in the hot water, and I watched the ice on the inside of the window opposite us start to melt.

The light of the flickering candles danced across Connor's face, his bare chest, and I suddenly became very, very aware that we were sitting in the bath together, and we were very, very far from the watchful eyes of Achilles.

Like he was thinking the same thing, Connor gave me a soft smile, and there was a gleam in his eyes. "Have you warmed up?"

I nodded and settled deeper into the water, resting my head against the rim. The hot water eased the pain in my bruised ribs. "Your hair is getting long," I told him.

He looked down at the ends of his hair trailing in the water, plastered across his chest. "Yes. I may have to cut it."

I reached over the side of the bath - the air outside the water was freezing - and picked up a hairbrush from where I had left it next to the bath, and leaned forward. "Hold that," I said, pressing it into Connor's hands, and reached out again, this time picking up a small jar of conditioning oil.

I rubbed it into my hands and smoothed it over Connor's hair. He looked mildly perplexed, but did not protest, and handed me the brush when I asked for it. We were close enough to share breath as I brushed the oil through his hair, and though he wore a slight frown, there was a softness in his eyes that he showed only me.

We sat like that for a while, for it took a long time to clean one's hair. Connor's eyes were down, and it occurred to me that no one had touched him with this much gentleness - except for me. The only other hands that came to us were hands that hurt.

I kissed his forehead when I was finished, and tucked both arms around his neck so I could use my forearms to gather his long hair and push it behind his shoulders.

With my arms around his neck, it was easy for him to close the distance between us with a kiss that sent my world spinning. It was so easy to love him, to let myself be loved by him.

His hands, so gentle and kind, found my waist, my back, warm against my chilled skin. He pushed me until my back came to rest against the bath, and I was in the water again. One of his hands braced against the rim of the bath, the other cupped the back of my head.

We were closer than we had ever been before, mouth to mouth, skin to skin, and my arms around his neck tightened, pulling him closer still. I wanted to feel his heart beating with mine.

Breathless, we parted, though scarcely far enough to let the cold air come between us. His fingers traced the curve of my cheek, and his dark eyes were thoughtful, so thoughtful as he said quietly, in a voice just for me, "I will never love another again. I feel it in my bones."

I watched a drop of water trickle down his bare chest and felt myself smile. "Thank goodness," I breathed, "because I was yours from the start."

His grin became cheeky as he kissed me again, sweetly, and then moved back to his side of the bath, flicking water into my face while my guard was down. I jolted with a yelp, but he was laughing softly, and how could I not forgive him?

I slid myself down further into the bath, until the water reached my chin. Connor swatted at my legs, which pressed against his chest. "Hey!" he protested. "You're in my space."

I grinned smugly. "Good."

We bickered until the water was cold, and then we got out. I could feel his eyes on me, on every scar and bruise, and when we got into the bed, he let me curl against his side. Outside the window, snow was beginning to fall. We watched it silently for a few minutes, but I could feel my eyes drooping. "Good night, Ratonhnhaké:ton," I mumbled.

"Good night, my Cassandra."