Three months at sea was more than enough time for me to settle myself into the captain's cabin, and even befriend some of the less-superstitious crew members. I saw little of Connor, for he spent his days at the helm, and his nights belowdecks. We talked when we could, mostly in passing, but it was superficial and quick.

Still, I was happy among the crew, most of whom I recognised from the homestead and their frequent trips to the Mile's End tavern. There were two brothers, David and Richard Clutterbuck, who were gunmen in the Aquila's first days, and were among the oldest in the crew - but this made them, by proxy, the most fun to be with, for they liked to poke fun at the young and inexperienced men with whom they shared sleeping quarters. They told me stories of the first missions the Aquila was taken on: how Faulkner, her first mate for two decades, worked on the behalf of Achilles and the colonial Assassins to hunt down Templars.

What surprised me most, however, was the budding, somewhat reluctant, friendship I felt with Haytham. As Connor was frequently busy, it seemed that both of us were at a loose end: if we could not tease Connor, we could at least tease each other. When it was good weather we sat on the deck and played cards, or talked about philosophy (on occasion, Connor would join these conversations, though only briefly); when the weather was bad we sat in the crew mess amid the smell of salted fish.

On this day, the wide sky stretched high above us, a sapphire dome that went on and on for ever, until it reached the ends of the earth and the blue horizon. Even in February, the Caribbean sun was more than enough to warm our backs as Haytham and I sat on the deck, hunched over my notebook. I had mustered the courage to allow him to read what was inside, and he was full of criticism. His was not a poet's heart, I knew; he did not see the beauty in the mundane in the same way I did.

He squinted at a page. "What even is this?"

"I've been experimenting with pentameter," I said. "That's iambic trimeter."

"Reads like a horse with a sore throat," he muttered.

I had long ago learnt not to take his words to heart, and instead leaned back in my chair, watching the sea spray against the hull. Haytham, too, looked up, and realisation sparked in his pale eyes. He closed the notebook over and handed it back to me, eyes fixed on Connor, who stood, handsome in his navy coat, at the wheel.

To my surprise, Haytham's forthcoming words were not ones of disdain for Connor's skill as a captain, as they had been of late, but were instead words of prose. "This tempest in my mind," he muttered, "doth from my senses take all feeling else save what beats there: filial ingratitude." With a shake of his head he stood and approached the poopdeck to call out to Connor, "I told you this was a poor heading - Church is surely days ahead of us now."

Before Connor could snap back a retort, Faulkner, at his side, said, "Have some faith in the boy! He's yet to disappoint."

Haytham fixed Faulkner with a sharp look. "Well, the bar's not been set very high, now, has it?"

I tucked my notebook into my pocket and ascended the stairs to stand by Faulkner, who greeted me with a cheeky, knowing grin. Our months at sea had been filled with Connor and Haytham's back-and-forth squabbling as Haytham tried to jibe his son into handing the wheel over, while Connor stubbornly refused.

He was, after all, the better captain.

I caught Connor's eye, and saw the crease at the corner of his mouth, the suppression of a smile. He unhooked a telescope from his leather belt and passed it to me. "Here," he said. "Tell me what you see."

I held the telescope to my eye and blinked as my world narrowed down to a circle, slightly blurred, and settled on the horizon. The smooth blue line stretched on for ever, and I scanned it slowly, watching a whale far in the distance. Rising out of the water in a hazy grey cloud was land: jagged teeth of rock that was home to none but birds and ghosts.

And there, rocking gently on the waves, was a ship, silent and stationary. If ever there was a perfectly functioning ghost ship, this would be it. For all appearances, she looked as though she had simply dropped anchor in favour of one expedition or another, but there were no crew members moving on the deck, no captain at her wheel.

With a frown, I passed the telescope to Connor, who also sighted the ship. He lowered the telescope slowly. "Is it the Welcome?"

After Faulkner took a turn with the telescope, he nodded slowly. "Yes - and she's dropped anchor."

I jumped when Haytham said behind me, "Take us in for a closer look," for I had not realised that he had followed, so silently. It was a reminder, if nothing else, that I was attempting to befriend a panther.

As Connor brought the Aquila gently closer to the stationary ship, I could see that the deck had indeed been abandoned. A breeze stirred the limp sails, and the wheel was turning very, very slowly, but save for these, there was no movement from the Welcome.

Connor's furrowed brow was a mirror of my own confusion. Why would Church abandon ship? - and where would he leave the cargo?

Behind me, Haytham muttered, "Church always was a slippery little bastard."

But before Connor could get a word in, Faulkner, after his turn using the telescope, pointed and cried, "Enemy ahead! They're making to flee!"

I followed the line of his finger; and there, just beyond the craggy teeth of the rocks ahead, was a small ship - a schooner, really - laden with oak boxes and manned by few. At this distance I could not recognise which of the men was Church and which was not, but one thing was certain: he was attempting his escape.

Connor reacted quickly, while the crew of the Aquila snapped into action; soon the wind was whipping my cheeks and causing my eyes to water as we gave chase after the schooner who, upon noticing our pursuit, sped away. I gripped the rail to steady myself, and the voices of Connor and Faulkner were drowned in the howling wind.

Haytham, holding his hat down with one hand and the rail with the other, said quietly, earnestly; a tone just for Connor, "Hurry, son. We won't get a second chance at this."

The distance between the Aquila and the schooner decreased with frightening speed, and Faulkner began to order the crew to roll the cannons out. There were sixty in total, and their wheels grated against the wooden deck in a way that set my teeth on edge. If Connor was bothered by the sound, his face did not show it - there was only a cold determination in his eyes, a hard line at his mouth.

As the schooner disappeared into the narrow space between the jagged rocks, Connor swore under his breath (a word not in English, but one that I had come to recognise nevertheless as a swear) as he began to turn the wheel to guide us around the rocks - great rotations of the heavy wooden wheel that only a man of his physical strength could accomplish.

Behind me, Haytham and Faulkner began to argue about the course we were taking, but I ignored their heated words, focusing my energies on remaining upright. As a fresh gust of wind brought us around the rocks and onto open water, dazzlingly blue, Connor gripped the wheel to pull the ship straight once more. For a few seconds, there was nothing but the sea around us and the wide sky arcing above us - but there was an undeniable apprehension in the air, the crackling of a storm about to break.

And then, coming out from behind the other side of the rocks, there it was: a man-o'-war.

Man-o'-war was not an official naval term; it was merely used to refer to a three-masted frigate with cannons. She was almost twice the size of the Aquila with twelve dozen guns to our sixty, and twice that many crew members. The ship acted as a shield for the schooner, which ducked behind the shadow of her hulking mass.

I realised, then, that this had all been a set-up: that Church had never been on board the schooner, but had instead orchestrated these events to draw us into the web of the man-o'-war.

"Church is using the ambush as a cover," snapped Haytham. "Send the bastard to the sea floor."

"No." Connor tore his eyes away from the ships to cut his father a glare. "I need his ship afloat - the cargo must be saved."

Before Haytham could open his mouth and offer a snarky retort, a cry was raised on board the man-o'-war as her crew began to load the guns. Instantly Faulkner ordered our crew to prepare for combat, though they had barely made it to their places before the other ship opened fire.

For a moment, the world stopped and we stood, paralysed on the deck, watching from afar the sparks from the cannons, the plumes of black smoke rising into the clear sky, the soldiers in red ducking and covering their ears–

Connor grabbed my arm and pulled me to the deck just as the cannon balls made impact. It was like nothing I had ever heard before: the sound of wood shattering and splinters raining down on the deck and the water below, that sent the birds on the craggy island screeching into the air.

Our retaliation was swift and immediate, for the crew were experienced and the captain was clever. Faulkner ordered chains to be shot at the other ship's masts, and one by one the thick wooden posts began to crack.

We were closer to the other ship now, and her crew members were dispersing their muskets amongst themselves as they prepared for closer contact. At this closer range, our cannons could do more devastating damage - but so could theirs.

Another round of cannon balls tore through our main mast, and it began to fall; our crew cleared the way and let it fall to the deck with a crash that shook the entire ship. Cries of triumph raised from the other ship, but we were not finished.

Our cannons ripped a gaping hole in the hull of their ship, and even from this distance, I could see the water flooding into her, and now it was we who were cheering as the ship started to sink. Connor's teeth flashed in a grin of dark glee as he turned the Aquila in preparation to board. He looked at me for half a second–

Haytham surged behind him and, grabbing him by the shoulders, yanked him away from the wheel; Connor stumbled back, catching himself on the railing before he could fall - but he was helpless to stop his conniving father from seizing the wheel for himself. For a heartbeat there were no hands on the wheel, and it was enough to send it spinning. Both Haytham and I darted out to try and steady it before we could go crashing into the cliffs, which were getting dangerously close.

"What are you doing?" I demanded.

He did not look at me as he gritted out, "Ending this," and heaved the wheel the other way with a sudden jerk. The ship swerved sharply, sending the crew staggering from one side of the deck to the other. We were careening toward the other ship - and fast.

Haytham tried to turn the wheel, but was not swift enough to pull us back in time, and the Aquila rammed into the side of the ship with a devastating crash. The impact slammed me hard into the railing, knocking the air out of me in a pained wheeze. Waves splashed over the deck, and they carried chunks of broken wood and other debris.

My eyes were drawn to Connor, who took the axe from his belt, eyes fixed on the enemy ship like a hunting dog - and then he was running to the starboard side, and leaped from the railing, crossing the gap between the two ships as though it were but a step for him, and landed on the man-o'-war's deck. He rolled to absorb the impact, and slashed his axe across the hamstrings of a soldier in red.

The man's pained shriek snapped us out of our stupor, and with roars of triumph, the Aquila's crew swarmed across the deck to the starboard side: some used the ropes to swing on to the deck of the other ship; others began to pick off the enemy crew with their muskets.

I followed Connor's path onto the ship with a leap through the thick folds of smoke, and when I landed, I was met instantly with a swinging bayonet coming for my face. I dodged backwards, narrowly missing the blade, and skirted left, slicing the man's arm with my wrist blade.

Behind me, on the Aquila, Faulkner ordered the crew from his station at the wheel. The air was trembling with the sound of continuous gunshots, and the smoke was gathering quickly, making visibility harder by the second. Another man came at me with a sword; I blocked it with my wrist blades, pain reverberating down my arms from the impact, and used all the force I could muster in my arms to push the sword away, opening the man's guard.

I stepped forward into his space and plunged my own blade between his lower ribs. Hot blood spilled over my fingers. The man staggered back, dropping the sword to press his hands to the wound; I kept moving past him, making my way ever closer to the opening in the deck that led into the bowels of the ship, to steerage, fighting off solider after soldier. It seemed that the assault would never end.

I felt air move by my ear, and dropped to the deck a heartbeat before a long musket blade sliced through the place where my neck would have been. I swept his feet under him with my leg, and he fell onto his back with a curse; but before I could pull myself closer, he kicked out with vicious intent, and his boot connected with my nose.

I fell back in shock, and felt something warm trickle down my face. My eyes began to automatically and involuntarily water, rendering my vision hopelessly blurred. I sniffed angrily and clawed my way closer to him, and he lashed out again, this time kicking my shoulder. The pain blinded me as I felt the bone disconnect, silencing all thoughts.

Through the smoke and the tears in my eyes, I saw the man stand up, watched his boots step closer to me. He reached down and took a handful of my hair, dragging my head up. I hissed between my teeth as the motion sent searing spikes of pain through my shoulder.

As the tears finally fell down my cheeks, I could see the man raise his hand, could see his fingers curling into a fist. My eyes shifted to his face - and shock made me forget the pain.

"Rowan?" I panted.

Thomas' brother glared back at me, his fist trembling, suspended in the air. "Bitch."

His hand tightened in my hair, and as his fist swung for me, I used my good arm to stab my wrist blade into his thigh. Rowan howled in pain, and his grip loosened enough for me to wrench myself free; he made to snatch at me again but his leg gave out, dark blood spilling down his shin. I rammed myself into his weakened leg and he collapsed.

I hauled myself to my feet, gripping my injured arm close, and watched with disdain as he tried to staunch the bleeding. "You'll live," I said, and my voice felt disconnected, as though I were a puppet and my master was speaking. "I missed the artery."

My breaths tore through my chest as I stumbled away from Rowan. Not too far from me was Connor, grappling with a soldier: graceful and deadly in his art. The man fell after Connor's axe became embedded in his arm, and then Connor's eyes were on me, and he was by my side in a blink. I knew how I looked: blood dribbling down my face, and cradling my immobile arm; and he wasted no time in opening the way to the inner hull belowdecks. As he started down the ladder, a few of our crew members saw what we were doing, and rushed to cover us.

Once Connor reached the bottom, he looked up at me and held out his arms. I peered down and started to shake my head. "It's too far. My arm–"

"Trust me," he said.

How could I not? I sat tentatively on the edge, shuffling myself forward inch by inch. Gritting my teeth and squeezing my eyes shut, I held my arm tightly and dropped from the edge into the hill.

Connor was as gentle as he could be when he caught me, but the impact still jarred my arm so badly that I cried out, and more tears, not all involuntary, sprang to my eyes. His apologies were soft and sad, filled with guilt, and he made me sit on an upturned crate while he removed his heavy coat and cut a strip from his undershirt.

He knelt in front of me, eyes flitting between my bloody nose and my arm. "You are hurt," he murmured, above the sounds of battle coming from the upper deck.

I managed to raise my eyebrows and smile a little. "You're not."

He huffed as he wiped the blood from my face with his thumbs before gently feeling along the bridge of my nose. Determining that nothing was broken, he turned his attention to my shoulder, using the same light touch. "It is dislocated," he said. "I will have to reset it."

I knew this was coming, and tensed in fearful anticipation. This was not helpful for Connor, and I knew that too, so he took a series of deep, slow breaths, and I followed along with him until I felt my heart rate drop.

Before he touched me again, he slid a knife from his belt and held it up to my mouth so I could bite down on the handle. Then his hands were on my arm again, and with a whispered apology, he forced my shoulder back into place with an audible pop.

It was like no pain I had ever felt. It became everything: as though my blood had turned to poison in my veins and was burning my shoulder from the inside out.

Connor swiftly bound my arm in a sling using the strip he had cut from his shirt, and secured it tightly. While the pain eased, he pulled his coat back on. "We need to find my father," he said. "Who knows what madness he intends." After a pause, he looked at me again, and his smile, in spite of everything, was soft. "You need to stop hurting yourself, my little ótkon. Else I shall have to intervene."

"If I stopped," I said, "you would have nothing to save."

He fixed me with a thoughtful gaze. "You do not need saving."

But every day I needed saving. Every day I needed my Lord, whose mercies are new every day. How could I say that to Connor, who would not believe me? Where he saw human strength, my Saviour saw human weakness filled by His own strength; that the very same Spirit that raised Jesus from the dead dwelled within each one He called His child.

I kept these thoughts to myself, however, as we walked deeper into the heart of the ship, our footsteps light and cautious. That was when I realised that something was very wrong.

Where Washington's stolen cargo should have been, there was nothing. No boxes, no crates - only lines of dust on the floor where the cargo had been hastily moved. It was not on the Welcome nor on this ship - so where had Church taken it?

Far ahead, in the darkness, there was a dull thud. We looked at each other, and quickened out pace just as Haytham's muffled voice began to speak. "So," he was saying, "here we are - face to face at last."

A rat scuttled across our path, its tail dragging in the dust, and disappeared into a hole at the edge of the floor.

"It's been quite an adventure, let me tell you," Haytham continued, his voice growing louder the closer we got, "working my way through your nasty little tricks and traps. Clever - some of them, anyway. I'll give you credit for that. And for the quietude with which you pulled it off."

There was another dull thud that sounded like a person hitting against a wall, and a male voice cried out.

"We had a dream, Benjamin!" Haytham's voice came again, vicious with barely-restrained fury. "A dream you sought to destroy. And for that, my fallen friend, you will be made to pay."

We reached a row of locked cabins and tried the handles on all of them. Each were locked.

Then, from inside one of them, there was a gunshot.

Connor was at the door in an instant, trying to force the handle again. When that did not work, he took a step back, gathered himself, and began to kick the door in. It cracked, and then splintered; the hinges snapped and the door swung limply open.

Church lay on the floor inside the bare cabin, and on top of him was Haytham, with bloodied fists and murder in his eyes. Church's face was mangled, and bleeding from his nose and his temple, and his cheeks were already swelling. He made little effort to fight back in his weakened state, and his open and gasping mouth revealed several missing teeth.

Connor darted forward and grabbed Haytham by the shoulders, hauling him off Church before he could strike him again. "Enough," he snapped. "We came here for a reason."

Haytham shook him off with a glare, and stretched the fingers of his bloody hand. "Different reasons, it seems."

Ignoring his father's snide tone, Connor advanced on Church, still on the floor, and glowered at him. "Where are the supplies you stole?"

Church spat a mouthful of blood onto Connor's boots. "Go to hell."

Before Church could struggle to his feet, Connor was on his knees next to him, and with cold determination he stabbed his wrist blade into the Templar's side. Church gasped as the blade was removed, and pressed a hand to the wound, but the bright blood was already spurting.

"I ask again." Connor's voice was rigid as stone. "Where are the supplies?"

Church's mouth worked for a few moments before he could finally get the words out. "On the island yonder, awaiting pickup. But you've no right to it. It isn't yours."

"No." Connor leaned closer to Church, looking over him in menacing anger. "Not mine. Those supplies are meant for men and women who believe in something bigger than themselves; who fight and die that one day they might be free from tyranny such as you."

Church gave an indignant huff, weak and pained. "Are these the same men and women who fight with muskets forged from British steel? Who bind their wounds with bandages sewn by British hands? How convenient for them. We do the work - they reap the rewards."

I had never thought of Church as a patriot for England; indeed, I had never given him much personal thought. But to hear him speak now struck chords in my heart as the dangerous question began to rise: is it true? But regardless of his motivations, or did not excuse him from the fact that he had betrayed those he claimed to serve, and stolen from the people who needed it most.

I shook my head to rid myself of these thoughts. Pain was making me sentimental.

It seemed that Connor did not share these thoughts. "You spin a story to excuse your crimes, as though you are the innocent one and they the thieves."

A lifted shoulder was Church's noncommittal response - unfeeling to the end, even as his lips grew pale. "It's all a matter of perspective. There is no single path through life that's right and fair and does no harm. Do you truly think the crown has no cause? No right to feel betrayed?" His tone dropped with disdain. "You should know better than this, dedicated as you are to fighting Templars, who themselves see their work as just." He raised a shaking finger and pointed it first at Connor, then at me. "Think on that the next time you insist your work alone benefits the greater good. Your enemy would beg to differ - and would not be without cause."

His speech drained the life out of him with every breath. As the light began to dim in his eyes, Connor said, "Your words may have been sincere, but that does not make them true."

Church did not hear them; or, at least, he did not live to respond to them. After murmuring a few Kanien'kéha words over him, Connor stood and glared over his shoulder at Haytham - back to his usual self.

Haytham, wiping his bloody hands on a handkerchief, said with casual nonchalance, "You did well. His passing was a boon for us all."

Then, as though truly noticing me for the first time, he frowned. "What the hell happened to you?"

I dearly hoped that Rowan was still lying lame on the deck. "You should see the other guy."

He rolled his eyes, and as the three of us gathered at the smashed door, he said loftily, "I expect you'll want my help retrieving everything from the island."

"What is the alternative?" I said. "Dumping you on this ship?" Not a bad idea, really.

His teeth flashed in a smile. "You wish."

"Perhaps we do," muttered Connor, but there was nothing harsh in his voice, nothing that indicated that he was serious.

"Good luck trying," said Haytham. "Good luck indeed."