Two months passed in no time; every few weeks I still visited Achilles's manor, and this time my parents knew that when I went shopping with Nadia I would also meet my friends. That, at least, was a small weight off my shoulders. I vented this out to Thomas, whom I was trying to teach to climb trees, but he was atrocious.

Unfortunately Connor was not around the manor as much as I would have hoped, for he was still helping Faulkner - the old sailor whom we had met in the winter - to rebuild the Aquila, with the help of the pair of Scottish lumberjacks, Godfrey and Terry. Every so often I would venture down to the docks to visit them at work or to bring them cold drinks in the heat of summer or to help them with their building and repairs. I was not yet as strong as Connor and couldn't quite keep up with him, but I put my heart into what I did, picking splinters from my hands at the end of the day, sharing grins with Connor as we returned to the manor in the twilight.

At the end of July I was told that Connor and Faulkner, along with the crew the latter had raised, would go out to sea with the ship for a number of weeks. Indeed, when I returned to the manor after my weeks at home the dock was empty; dead; hollow. I was not used to this silence around the place, but it was good to return to normalcy: training by myself in the basement; mucking out the stables; feeding the horses; reading the books Achilles had set us (I was rather enjoying Homer's Odyssey); helping Catherine and Diana, the wives of Godfrey and Terry around their houses.

By the end of the first week the unnerving silence was becoming almost comforting. I was in the basement doing some work with the practice dummy, and each sound bounced off the cold stone walls and back to me like I was not alone down here.

As I paused, panting, to sip from my water canteen, I heard a key turning in the front door. I froze.

"Three weeks," I heard Achilles snap, "and not even a good-bye before you left."

"Sorry," came the voice of–

"Connor," I called up the stairs, hurriedly fixing my hair and replacing the robes on the dummy before dashing up to meet him.

He stood tall in the light of the doorway. Weeks of sunshine had turned his freckles dark and bleached his hair with lighter tones. His face was lightly burnt by the sun and his lips were chapped, but there was a light in his eyes that I had never seen before. Something inside him had awoken during his time on the sea.

I pulled myself back just before I could hug him, aware that I was flushed and sweaty, so I smiled at him. His returned smile was brighter than he had shown before.

Achilles evidently had something to show him "Well, what are you waiting for?"

Connor and I shared a confused look as we followed Achilles to the basement; Connor's elbow brushed mine in a silent greeting. When the old man stopped before the dummy I had been working with, he said to Connor, "Put the robes on." When Connor's eyes went wide, he added, "You've earned your stripes. Cassandra, with me."

As we went up the creaky stairs, Achilles said to me: "I hope you can forgive me, for I have no robes for you."

"I hold no grudges," I said, "as Christ demands."

Achilles gave a sad laugh. "I'm afraid I abandoned the teachings of Christ long ago. This house could do with some of your faith." Once we reached the dining room, where pale light blazed in past the curtains thrown wide, he drew my attention to a crate that sat on the table. "I do, however, have these for you. They were my son's. Young Connor passed some years ago, and these have only been collecting dust. I had them washed, don't worry. Besides," he added, eyeing me, "you're about the same height as he was."

I ran a finger over the neatly folded clothes and smiled at Achilles, who masked his sadness with a look of bravery. "Thank you," I said quietly.

Light-footed Connor deliberately stepped on a creaky floorboard so as not to catch us off guard as he stepped into the room, now dressed in the dummy's robes. They had been worn by Assassins before - Achilles himself had possibly worn them - and now here they were, on the shoulders of a new generation. His skin was smooth against the rough linen of the robes.

Stepping between us, Achilles laid a hand on Connor's shoulder and one on mine. "Once upon a time we had ceremonies on such occasions," he said, glancing between us, "but I don't think any of us are really the type for that. You've your tools and training, your targets and goals." He paused briefly as shadows passed over his face. "And now you have your title. Welcome to the Brotherhood."

*

We found ourselves wandering the outskirts of the valley. The breeze was gentle, and far above us the trees - oaks and birches and cherry blossoms - swayed in the same manner as clothes on a washing line. Distantly, a cougar called across the mountains. Connor's attention snapped to the direction of the roar and he nudged me, pointing at something moving in the grass high above: a pale mountain goat fleeing its pursuing cougar.

We sat in the shadow of one of the cherry blossom trees, where the grass was speckled with delicate white flowers almost like snow. I could hear crickets in the bushes; squirrels in the trees. A variety of birds were singing, and I closed my eyes, singling out each song so that it drowned all other noise, until there was nothing but birdsong filling my mind.

For a long time, we sat in silence, and the afternoon grew hotter in the absence of clouds. Finally, when I opened my eyes, I said, "Tell me about what you've been doing these past few weeks."

At some point during our silent interval, Connor had decided to lie in the grass, and now he tipped his head back so to see me better. He told me how he and Faulkner had sailed across the water to Martha's Vineyard - he had seen Nicholas Biddle, one of our known targets, and I scoffed - and that the Aquila had been attacked, though not fatally.

"It is a good thing that Faulkner taught me to use the cannons," he said. Somehow he had moved - or I had moved, I really don't know - and now his head was in my lap, and I had begun to decorate his hair with fallen blossoms.

"Yes," I said.

He caught my eye. "You should join our next trip. After all, you did help to rebuild her."

I huffed. "I handed you a few nails and cheered you from the side. Yes, a rather spectacular contribution."

"You did more than that," he protested. "Would you not enjoy the fruit of your labours?"

"I can't swim," I said. "Ships are a no."

He tried to shrug but only succeeded in digging his shoulders into my leg. "Good thing you will be on the water, not in it. A major distinction."

I considered kissing his forehead. "I'll think about it," I said.

We faded into a comfortable silence again; Connor closed his eyes against the sun and I stroked his hair like a dog. Then I noticed a spider on my arm (I wore short sleeves in the summer) and jumped in surprise, shaking my hand furiously to get it off.

Even Connor jolted from his reverie in surprise. "What was that about?" he said.

"Spider," I muttered. "One day I'll find his family and burn his house down."

Amusement made his eyes bright, and in the slants of light that came through the leaves above us his eyes were golden. "You are afraid of spiders."

I shuddered. "I'm not saying that they're the devil's spawn, but they do look an awful lot like demons to me."

With a grin, he prodded his fingers into my legs and hips, mimicking the scuttling movements of a spider, and I whacked him away.

"If you dare to use this against me," I said, "I'll make sure that, one day, you will wake up in a massive pot of soup, and I'll boil you and feed you to Achilles, who will know no better." He began to laugh, and I said, "I'll give some to the horses, and when they die of ammonia poisoning, I'll use their blood to decorate your grave with giant peni–"

By now we were both laughing so hard that we choked, rolling on the grass like a pair of drunks. After we had sobered enough to sit up properly, the wind had dropped to almost nothing. We stood, staggering a little after our laughter, and leaned against the tree until the world stopped spinning. A smile still shone on Connor's mouth, splitting his face in two: his sad eyes and his smiling mouth.

When we calmed fully we began to walk again, clinging to the shadows as much as we could. Every so often Connor would gesture for me to be quiet and he would point at an elk or a fox or, once, at a beautiful stag grazing between the mossy trees.

The grass was worn down into a track that led up to the cliffs, where herds of deer liked to graze, and we followed this trail, panting as the air grew thinner and colder. The wind was stronger up here, as there were no trees to shelter us, and my braid was whipped into my face. On one side of the track a tree had been cut down, and the sawdust was blowing across the grass. I stepped on to the trunk and walked along it like it was a tightrope.

As I stepped off, Connor took my arm and pressed a finger to his lips; his eyes were wide and wary.

Further up the track, a wagon was burning.

Connor jerked his head at a crevice in the rock, jagged enough to provide foothold to climb higher. I followed him up, gripping the grassy stone, and crawled along to lie beside him. Pebbles dug into my ribs as we peeked over the edge.

Below us, four men had gathered around a rope that hung over the edge of the cliff, laughing between themselves at something. Smoke wafted up to us, blurring our vision, but I thought all was harmless until the rope began to move and a weak voice cried, "What is going on around here? Are you soft in the head?"

Connor and I ducked back down. "We have to help," I whispered.

He was already reaching for the bow he had slung across his shoulder. "We must be swift," he said quietly. "The rope is fraying. That man does not have long."

I gathered a few stones into my hand - my only available method of long-range attack. I poked my head up and began to throw the stones at the men.

One man was struck on the back of his head, and he turned and snapped, "Fuck off, you savages."

I kept throwing the stones at them and landed a few more shots. When I ran out of pebbles I debated throwing my shoe, but then Connor straightened and fired an arrow down at them. It struck the first man's leg and he went down with a cry.

The remaining three whirled around and drew their pistols, but we had ducked down again and were crawling back to that gap in the rocks. Every few moments there was a shot fired by one or another of the men when the breeze ruffled the grass of our former perch. Hopefully they would be out of - or at least low on - bullets by the time Connor and I climbed down.

Connor stepped out first, firing another arrow at them; it went through one's hand and he screamed at the blood that dripped to the ground. Foolishly, I had left my own weapons at the manor, so I had nothing but my own determination to fall back on.

When the remaining two caught sight of Connor they ran at him with knives; in their rage they did not see what was before them: that we were only kids.

I barely had time to duck before one of the men took a swipe at my face with his knife. He slashed again, and I jumped back. Before I could disarm him, I had to find his weaknesses.

I used my arm to block another strike, and he tossed the knife to his other hand and slashed. Warmth bloomed along my cheekbone, though I didn't quite feel the pain.

He was a fraction unsteadier on his left foot than his right - perhaps a past injury had not been allowed to heal fully. I lashed out and knocked his left foot out from under him.

As he went down I tried to wrench the knife from his grip, but he held it too tightly and tried to stab me again. I punched his jaw hard; his head lolled to the side and his grip loosened. I took the blade - the handle was warm from his hand - and pointed it at him.

"Leave this place," I said.

He rubbed at his jaw, which was red and would surely blossom into a dark bruise. "Don't tell me what to do," he spat. "You're nothing but a child."

I propped one foot on his ribs and leaned over my knee, tossing his blade between my hands. "I won't tell you again."

With the knife still trained on him, I stepped back and allowed him to stand. Still rubbing his jaw, he glared at me and as he stalked away, I heard him mutter, "Fucking wench."

Now my cheek was beginning to sting, and as I wiped away the running blood, I grabbed the fraying rope and heaved it back up with all of my strength; Connor joined me after a moment. The other three men had fled, leaving only scuffed marks in the blood-speckled grass behind them. I coughed against the smoke from the wagon.

Leaving me to pull at my end of the rope, Connor went to the very edge of the cliff to pull the man's feet as he emerged. The man scrabbled against the cliff face as he pulled himself back up to solid ground, red-faced and panting after being held upside-down for so long.

"Thank you," he gasped out, with little strength to even pull himself to a sitting position. In the blazing sun, his ribs heaved up and down, and his short beard was flecked with gold.

Connor peered down at him. "Are you all right?"

Our freed captive let out a hysterical laugh and waved his hand. "I think so," he said, his breaths calming. "Didn't do much to me aside from a good scare." He glanced over at the burning skeleton of his wagon. "Blaggards."

"What is your name?" asked Connor as he knelt by the man's feet to untie the knotted rope.

"Lance would be my name," the man said. "Lance O'Donnell."

"What did they want with you?" I said, digging in my pockets for a handkerchief to press to my cheek.

Lance gestured with his hand again and propped himself up on one elbow. "My purse, which was meagre, and they decided they'd punish me for their trouble. Thank you, boy," he said to Connor when he stood once more.

After a few moments, Lance sighed and looked mournfully at what remained of his wagon. "Silly, really," he said. "My tools and equipment were worth a king's share to the right man." He hauled himself to his feet rather slowly. "In any case, I'd best get on my way, it's a long walk to the nearest inn. I thank you again for your kindness."

"Have you no home?" asked Connor.

"Well," Lance said, "I was a proud resident of Boston until recently, but I'm not a big supporter of His Majesty, and I was forced out of my wood shop and home by loyalists."

We were silent for a few moments, then I said, "There are plenty around here who could use the services of a skilled craftsman, if you were looking for somewhere to settle."

"Is that right?" A new light entered Lance's pale eyes. "I may look into that. Who are you kids?"

"I'm Cassandra," I said. "This is Connor. We're from the small village in the valley." As we gave him the directions to the small village, Lance nodded with growing enthusiasm.

"Thank you," he said. "You're just kids, but I already owe you my life. Thank you."

When we eventually parted after giving Lance what money we could spare, Connor and I walked back down the grassy trail, for the sun was growing lower in the sky. The shadows of the trees grew longer, like they were reaching out to us.

Connor gave me a sideways look. "Are you okay?"

"It'll stop bleeding in a minute," I said, dabbing at it with my handkerchief. "Don't worry about me."

"Yet I worry." For a second I thought he was going to caress my cheek, but then he rolled his eyes. "You will put me in an early grave."

"You deserve it," I said. "You're a prick."

He laughed and shoved me with his shoulder. "And you are an ótkon."

"I'm a what?"

"You are a devil," he said with a grin.

"Oh, I'm a devil?" I slapped him across the shoulder. "You've obviously never seen a mirror, have you."

He slapped me back. I whacked him again - and it spiralled into a war between us, and once again we were laughing so hard our ribs hurt. My cheek stung, but I didn't care. The light in Connor's eyes was enough to make the pain worth it.