It did not take long for Connor to return, this time wearing a dark jacket and trousers stolen from some poor unconscious - and naked - man somewhere in an alley. A tricorne was pulled low over his stern eyes. I found it jarring to see him dressed like this - it was so not him that it felt, for a moment, like there was a stranger looking at me through Connor's familiar eyes.

Haytham gave him a once-over, and his face hardly changed save for a twitch at his mouth as he straightened Connor's neck tie. "That should suffice," he said. "Follow me."

Connor and I exchanged a look; I could not decipher his expression as we followed his father out of the shadows. The men guarding the abandoned brewery straightened when they saw us approach, and their fingers tightened on their muskets.

The ranking officer stepped forward to meet us - at once a guarded greeting and a warning for us to leave. "Hold, strangers. This is private property. What business have you here?"

Haytham was unfazed. "The Father of Understanding guides us."

This seemed to settle the soldier as he relaxed his guard slightly, acknowledging Haytham as his superior. The man's eyes narrowed and he leaned a little closer, peering at my face and at Connor's. "You, I recognise," he said. "But not the girl, and not the savage."

Without missing a beat, Haytham said, "My daughter, and my son."

At this, the soldier began to laugh. "Tasted of the forest's fruits, did you?"

Connor was not impressed. He was fine with people insulting him for his heritage, and he was used to being treated differently for the colour of his skin - but the objectification of his mother made him bristle, though outwardly, he looked impassive as ever, if not a little colder: the gentle Connor I knew had retreated, and the wolf within had raised its head.

When he did not get a reaction from Haytham, either, the soldier sobered up. "Right. Off you go, then." He stepped back, and the other soldiers at the door moved aside to clear the way for us to pass unhindered.

Inside the brewery was dark and damp, and smelled of mould and old beer; the shadows seemed larger in here, like every wisp of shifting darkness birthed a monster at our feet. The wooden door groaned as it closed behind us, and soon our only light was the silver glow of the moon through the high windows. Crates were piled high on either side of us, and broken glass gleamed on the floor, scattered among bits of straw.

We were silent until we reached the end of the long room, where another thick wooden door stood closed. Haytham reached out and tried the handle. "It's locked," he muttered, and looked between me and Connor for a moment. "Cassandra, your hands are small. See if you can pick this lock."

I felt him watching me as I knelt down and got to work with some picks I took from my pocket; he watched my face closely, eyes narrowed ever so slightly.

I didn't look up. "See something interesting?"

I had expected a snappy response, but Haytham sounded thoughtful as he said, "Your face is familiar."

His tone suggested that he knew the reason for this and did not want to reveal it. It didn't bother me - Haytham was a London man; he doubtless saw my grandfather's face in mine. Or, I realised, my father, whom I did not know - but perhaps Haytham did.

While I was twisting the locks, Connor, once again, began a conversation with Haytham. "It must be strange," he said, "discovering my existence as you have."

"I'm actually curious to know what your mother might have said about me," was Haytham's lofty response. "I always wondered what life might have been like had she and I stayed together. How is she, by the way?"

My heart dropped into my stomach. No no no.

Connor's voice was cold. "Dead." Then, with more venom: "Murdered."

Haytham was silent for a long moment while this information sank in. "I am sorry to hear that."

This was entirely the wrong thing to say to Connor, who was already stirred after the guard's comment. "Oh, you're sorry? I found my mother burning alive. I'll never forget her face as she sent me away." His voice trembled with passion - not the passion of sadness, but of deep and simmering rage. "Charles Lee is responsible for her death by your order - and you're sorry?"

The door opened silently; I stood slowly, so I would not call attention to myself. Indeed, neither Connor nor Haytham noticed me as the latter insisted, "That's impossible - I gave no such order. I spoke the opposite, in fact: I told them to give up the search for the precursor site; we were to focus on more practical pursuits."

"It is done," Connor snapped, "and I am all out of forgiveness."

He brushed past both of us and stalked into the room beyond the door. I avoided Haytham's eyes as I followed. This next room was just as dim as the first, but it was wider, evidently a storage space for the boxes and bottles that went out of business long ago. The smell of mildew was stronger in here.

In the centre  of the room, with his back to us, stood a man. Waiting patiently, like he had expected us.

Haytham stepped forward. "Benjamin Church, you stand accused of betraying the Templar Order and abandoning our principles in pursuit of personal gain. In consideration of your crime, I hereby sentence you to death."

But the man that turned to face us was not Church. He wore the doctor's coat and white wig, but the face was thinner, more rodent-like, and his slow smile was missing a few teeth.

"You're too late," he jeered. "Church and the cargo are long gone - and I'm afraid you won't be in any condition to follow."

The shadows around the piled crates moved, and suddenly there were men slowly closing in around us. I heard one of them spit on the floor and hiss, "A girl, a half-breed, and his handler. This should be an easy one."

"We've chosen to stand with the victor," the impostor continued. "It's Britain who will win this war. But you always did prefer principle to profit. Perhaps that's why your little kingdom has started to crumble. It was a nice dream you had - but a dream is all it ever was."

At his signal, the men sprang forward and attacked.

Connor was a whirlwind of steel and fury as all of the anger that had built up over the course of the evening came spilling out. Where Haytham was poise and precision, Connor was all vicious brutality, a living weapon that could not be tamed. I heard one of the men gasp, "He's like a feral dog!" before Haytham turned on him.

One of the men raised his arm to drive a blade into Connor's back while he fought off another, so I ran behind the man and wrenched the arm back, twisting his wrist until his fingers released the dagger and the man gave a shout. He kicked out at me, and I could not dodge quickly enough; he hit the side of my knee and I fell, landing hard on my hip.

I dragged him down with me, and he turned halfway, gripping the knife handle tightly as he tried to stab me; I twisted beneath him, and the blade embedded into the floorboards a hair's breadth from my ear. He yanked the knife up, and prepared to stab again, but I got there first. My wrist blade sliced his ribs, and I felt the hot blood spill over my hand as he cried out in pain. I took advantage of the shift in his weight to kick him off me.

A hand descended from above me to help me up: Haytham's hand, slick with blood. I let him pull me to my feet, and once I was up I could see that the rest of the attackers were either on the floor or had fled. Connor had pounced on the man disguised as Church, and had him pinned against the wall. Haytham meandered closer, hands behind his back.

"Where is Church?" Connor was demanding.

The man quivered. "I'll tell you anything," he bleated. "Anything you want. Only promise that you'll let me live!"

Connor was a man of honour. "You have my word."

The man looked terrified, and I could see the rapid rising and falling of his chest. "He left yesterday for Martinique - took passage on a trading sloop called the Welcome. Loaded half its hold with the supplies he stole from the patriots. That's all I know, I swear."

Connor regarded him for a long moment, and then pulled the man off the wall, though he still gripped the dark coat. "All right," he said.

The man started to say something - and then he was abruptly cut off as Haytham drove his wrist blade through his ribs. He was frozen for a moment, and then wheezed, "You promised. . ." to the horrified Connor.

"And he kept his word." Haytham's voice was soft and vicious, but the man did not live to hear it, and slumped instead to the floor.

Connor stared at his father. "Seriously?"

Haytham ignored him. "Let's go."

There was a pool of blood slowly expanding beneath the dead impostor; Haytham stepped carelessly over it, while Connor edged around it, and I heard a prayer whispered on his breath in his native language.

I cast a look over my shoulder at the wreckage of the room we were leaving behind: our would-be attackers lay, some unconscious, others bleeding heavily. I saw one of them move his arm, saw something glint in his hand, and then there was a spark.

A spark was all that was needed for the dry wood of the floor to catch alight, and the fire spread quickly, tracing ancient trails left by decades of spilled alcohol.

The flames reflected in Connor's wide eyes, and for a split second I saw him freeze - and then I grabbed his arm and pulled him through the door at the end of the room that Haytham pried open. Thick smoke began to follow us: creeping, silent, grey death.

Flames had started to lick up the dry walls and across the beams overhead. We followed Haytham down narrow, dusty hallways, listening to the flames as they got closer; beams started to fall from the ceiling, showering us with sparks and engulfing us in thick black smoke that stung our throats.

There were no more guards in the brewery - all had either fled or been taken by the fire. We reached a room from where we could go no further. It was square, and empty of most things save for a few dry, discarded boxes. A small window was embedded high up on one wall, but I met Connor's eye, and knew we were thinking the same thing: neither he nor Haytham would be able to fit through it, but I might.

Haytham pushed on the door at the end of the room: nothing. While he was busy, Connor wasted no time in using his tomahawk to smash the glass of the tiny window, and then laced his fingers together to give me a boost up to the window.

I got my arms through and scrabbled for something to hold, to pull myself through. I had expected to see solid, frozen ground below me, a safe distance away, but below me swirled the black waters of New York harbour. The broken glass sliced my stomach and legs as Connor gave me a final push, and then I was falling, falling, whipped by the icy wind, and hardly took a breath before I hit the frigid waters.

I kicked to the surface before I could sink into the endless dark, gasping with the shock of the cold and the stinging pain of the salt water on the fresh cuts. The street lights that lined the dock were faraway stars that I set out to reach, and soon my fingertips touched the dock.

As I was pulling myself up, I heard a muffled yell from behind me, and looked back just in time to see the wooden door smash open as Connor and Haytham fell through, and hit the water with a crash. They resurfaced and took a moment to gather themselves before swimming to the dock; Haytham scooped up his fallen hat, loath to leave it behind.

I stood, shaking, on the edge of the dock, and offered my hand to help them up. Haytham was first: he gave me a dark, wary look, but accepted my hand and let me pull him up. After I had helped Connor up, Haytham said breathlessly, "Church has at least a day on us."

Connor, equally as winded, said, "I have a ship that we can use. We will set sail in the morning."

A logical decision to leave it until the next day: we were all too cold to do anything now, and with the icy wind picking up, it would become dangerous for us to stay outside like this. I was so numb that I could hardly move; my thoughts were becoming foggy.

Our accommodation was not far from the dock, so Connor put an arm around my shoulders, ignoring the curious stare of his father, and helped me along. I could feel him shivering against me, but he managed to ask Haytham, "Where are you staying?"

The Templar's breath turned to white mist. "Nowhere."

By now we had reached the door of the inn. Why were we outside? I focused my eyes on my wet shoes and tried to speak, but my tongue was heavy in my mouth.

I heard Connor's voice as though through water. Water - why was I in water? "I need to get Sassy inside," Connor was saying, and there was urgency in his voice. Why? I was simply tired. Nothing a brief nap wouldn't cure. "We are staying here. I would advise you do the same."

My heavy eyes were starting to close, and I heard no more of their conversation. Or maybe that was the end of it. The next thing I knew, we were in our room with the door locked. Had we ever left this room? Perhaps there was a leak, and that's why my shoes were wet.

"Sassy," I heard him saying, that voice that was so dear to me. My eyes struggled open, but I looked at him: he was dripping wet, and I was too. His voice was a sound in my ears, but his words did not register until a moment after. "We need to get out of these clothes." He was hoarse from the smoke.

I nodded dumbly, and my slow fingers fumbled with the buttons of my jacket, soaked through. I realised that I was no longer shivering, and knew distantly that that was not a good thing. A moment later, I felt Connor's hands helping me along, opening my jacket and my shirt and peeling them off my shoulders. He let me handle my trousers while he knelt down to unlace my shoes.

I barely registered my clothes falling to a wet heap on the floor. Numb, I let him nudge me towards the bed, and when I lay down, he briefly examined the cuts on my stomach and legs for splinters of glass. Finding none, he wrapped me tightly in the blankets with hands of ice.

I watched him swiftly remove his own clothes, and, with only the moonlight as his guide, climbed into the bed next to me, and pulled me close. I recalled, then, one of his many forest lessons, from many years ago, that skin to skin contact was the best aid for hypothermia. Was that what this was?

Thus we lay for several minutes, tangled together, so close that I could hardly discern where I ended and he began. I listened to his heart, strong and steady, and wondered at this little cocoon we had built ourselves, a little warm haven.

How our relationship had changed since we first met! I remembered that awkward boy with the stone tomahawk knocking on Achilles' door, remembered the defiance in his dark eyes. The children who had met that fateful day would never have dreamt of doing something like this. My best friend had become something so much more, and it was a progression that felt as natural as breath. There had been no other path for us to take but that which we walked now - side by side.

I looked at his face and found him watching me. The fog was slowly lifting off my brain; I managed to mumble, "You're so warm."

He laid his chin on the top of my head. "You are so cold."

But I could feel my blood start to warm again with heat borrowed from him. Symbiosis - that's what this was. I took his warmth and gave it back to him: we created a life-giving circle between us, and with each passing moment, we came to life again.

Time passed; minutes or hours, I was not sure - all time I spent with him felt the same. No, I decided, this was not symbiosis, for symbiosis pertained to a relationship between different species, and he - he was blood of my blood, and bone of my bone, and though I knew that those were the words of a wedding vow and therefore meant nothing for us in any sense, I felt their meaning in my heart.

"Sassy," he murmured, "you do not have to come with us tomorrow. I do not know how long we will be at sea."

"I don't care," I said. "I'm going with you, even if I have to sneak on board with the cargo."

I felt him laugh very gently. "I do not think it will come to that."

And so it was settled. We arose before dawn the next morning and ate a subdued breakfast before joining Haytham on our way to the dock. Connor remained at my elbow, keeping a close eye on me, weak as I was in my recovery. Haytham eyed us again with interest, but said nothing.

Faulkner was waiting for us when we arrived, and only then did Connor detach himself from my side to take the wheel. I stood by the railing to keep myself out of the way while the rest of the crew hurried to their places.

Haytham found his way to me, and stood for a few moments in silence, watching the crew warily. "How are you faring after your ordeal last night?" he asked without looking at me.

I was reluctant to reveal my weakness to him, but found myself doing so anyway. "I could be better."

He nodded slowly. "Connor seemed very worried for you." When I did not respond, he pondered a few moments before adding, more a question than a statement: "You two seem close."

His tone probed me for answers. "Yes."

"He calls you by a nickname. Sassy." He tried the name out, and I cringed. The name sounded strange when it did not come from the mouths of Connor or my mother.

There Connor stood at the helm, eyes on the horizon, strong hands gripping the wheel. Faulkner called orders to the crew, and above us, the massive sails unfurled and caught the breeze. As the ship jolted into movement, Connor's eyes found me, and the grin he gave me was boyish and handsome, and prompted me to return the smile.

Haytham scrutinised my silence and formed the answer he was looking for. "Ah. I was unsure at first of your relationship to him beyond the confines of your Order, but it makes sense now."

I did not respond, for I knew he was only searching for leverage. Instead I fixed my eyes on the horizon, which was turning red with the rising sun, a slash of blood where the sky met the sea. The sails caught the wind fully now, and then we were off, setting sail upon a course that would take us south to Martinique.