All is Fair in Love and War

31

I knew better than to try to visit Connor in Bridewell. With so little time between now and his execution date, the Templars would surely prohibit any visitation, and knowing their influence over the prison, I thought it best to steer clear.

Thus, I spent my few days exchanging desperate letters with Achilles, who arrived at our attic in Manhattan the night before the dreaded day. Every recruit who could be spared had been called to us: Dobby Carter, Clipper Wilkinson, Jacob Zenger.

That night was spent planning. We knew we were powerless to stop the execution from going ahead - but we could prevent Connor's death. Our plan was simple: cut the rope as the platform released. Connor would fall, yes - but only to the ground below.

Throughout our meeting, Dobby kept shooting me particular looks, and I got the impression that she saw right through my veiled desperation; she saw how I felt for Connor underneath it all. I wished desperately that she would not look at me, for behind her eyes, I saw pity.

When the meeting was dismissed and the others went to bed, Dobby, seeing that I was in no state to sleep, stayed up with me. I couldn't stay still, couldn't stop the anxiety gnawing away at my bones, bit by bit by bit until I was crumbling.

Dobby and I washed the tea cups in silence (for fear of disturbing the others, who were just behind the partition screen Connor and I had set up so long ago) and when we were drying the cups, we began to talk.

I had never gotten the chance to get to know Dobby on a level deeper than a professional one. Tonight, however, I discovered that her nickname had come from her childhood on the streets, when she took a disguise as a boy. Her real name, Deborah, became obsolete.

I was grateful for the distraction our conversation brought, because the night grew as dark as my thoughts. I envisioned anxiety as a small, grey-furred demon that sat on my back, twisting its neck to sink its needle teeth into my jugular - and our idle chatter shooed it away.

As we put the cups away, I grew quiet. Whispers had been circulating Manhattan for the past few days as rumours of the execution of a traitor on the 28th - tomorrow - began to arise.

Dobby nudged my side and brought me back to the present. "It'll work, you know," she said. Her accent softened her vowels and clipped her consonants; Irish people were naturally fast speakers, and Dobby was no exception.

Weakness was not something I could afford to display - not to our recruits, not to anyone. I raised my chin and said, "I know."

As the sun began to cast its first pale rays over the rooftops, I tried to sleep but found I could not. All I could think of was him.

Why were we chosen for this life? Why did the Lord see fit to give us this burden to carry? We wanted to be loved, but were forced to become warriors. To calm my racing heart, I shut my eyes and took slow breaths. We glory in tribulations also: knowing that tribulation worketh patience; and hope maketh not ashamed; because the love of God is shed abroad in our hearts by the Holy Ghost which is given unto us.

I was calmer when the morning came. Every anxiety was quieted, leaving behind something cold and hard; glittering black obsidian.

As I strapped my knives to my body beneath my shirt and breeches, I envisioned the sneering face of Charles Lee, the malicious snarl of Thomas Hickey, and thought of the satisfaction the sight of their blood on my blade would bring me. My gauntlets were heavy on my wrists: both a reminder and a promise.

Everyone in the town knew where the gallows were set up. I followed the sound of voices, the rambunctious rabble of the people waiting in anticipation for this week's entertainment. It was a grey, drizzly day in June, and I wore a cloak with its hood pulled over my hair. Dobby, Clipper, and Jacob spread themselves into the crowd that was gathering before the gallows, placing themselves evenly between the platform and the escape routes.