Hey guys, some preliminary stuff. 1) This chaper is really long and it's probably kinda boring? There's not much action in it, just kinda focusing on what Aveline's been up to and watching her generally be a verbal badass. In the next chapter we'll see Aveline be a physical badass. 2) It's kinda heavy on historical context because I think that's really important to making Assassin's Creed work. 3) Connor probably won't show up until Chapter 3.

Where It's Cold

Chapter 1: The Lady

It had been six years since Monsieur Blanc had buttoned his coat, tipped his hat, and walked out of the warehouse into the rain, never to return. Aveline de Grandpre had made no attempts to stop him. For all of his stutters and his meekishness, she knew for certain that when Gerald Blanc's mind was made up, he would abide absolutely no protestations.

Since then, their Assassin's faction, disguised as an emancipation operation, disguised as a trading company, was faring...passably. It fared well enough to survive without Gerald's sharp financial acumen, but never well enough as it did when Gerald was still around.

Aveline took a breath and slumped in her chair. It was the same old chair Gerald used to occupy when he perched himself at this desk, burying his nose in paperwork that only he could decipher. It was the Year of our Lord 1792, and now she was the master of these silly books. After six years of struggling with the banal formal language of business, and the mad algebra of finances, she realized that none of it had gotten any easier – it had only gotten more familiar. Aveline found that after you partake in a task for a certain amount of time, you're able to do it well enough, whether or not you find it easy, or whether or not you like it.

And she did not like this.

Aveline raised a piece of parchment close to her face, so better to read the exhaustingly fine handwriting striped across the page from end to end. Aveline had learned to read as a little girl, taught first by her father and mother, and then further tutelage was provided by her stepmother. However, at forty-five years of age, it was going to take a pair of spectacles and an entire life's worth of motivation to get through one line of this illegible scrawling.

"Dear Madamoiselle Aveline de Grandpre," she struggled to read the document aloud, "How fortuitous that we should make your acquaintance. We hope our correspondence will continue with your earnest participation over the course of the coming time. We and our benefactors, situated at positions of high esteem amidst our parent company, are prepared to offer sizable dividends for the acquisition of your..."

She had to go over the sentences a few more times before she realized what it was she was actually reading. Her eyes scanned the page for the signature. "John Jackson Rodolpho". Beneath it, in smaller writing, was his company name – Rodolpho & Abstergo Enterprises.

Whoever this John Jackson Rodolpho was, he and his business were in plans to buy her company.

Well, that simply would not do. Her father may not have been with her anymore, but she knew exactly what he would say. He would insist that her resolve remain strong and unmoving, after chiding her about being "out and about" instead of focusing on more ladylike concerns like marriage, or in this case, business. She'd laugh at these statements, like she did when he was younger, and then kiss him on the cheek to let him know his protestations did not go unheeded (even though they most definitely did).

Aveline smiled. Memories like this were good for her heart. She always thought very warmly of her father when he was alive, and she continued to do so now. Such was a warmth that she could not connect to her mother, who, as a result of her lack of participation in letter correspondence, was more a stranger to her now than ever before.

And she definitely couldn't connect that warmth to Gerald, who'd hurt her more than she ever thought possible on that fateful day six years ago. The depth of Gerald's love for Aveline was always too vast for Aveline to estimate, comparable in volume only to his self-pity. His desire for Aveline's affections amused and charmed her for a number of years, until it became so insatiable and desperate that her amusement turned to fear. The warehouse had become a battleground when he'd come home drunk and cry that she never loved him. He'd flip tables and punch walls. She never imagined such demons dwelled within Gerald's heart.

Then one night, he came home sober and declared he'd made a decision. He was quiet and poised, as he normally was, and said...

"Aveline, I am sorry to you for what I've caused you. But I'm more sorry...to me." And with that, he grabbed his hat and disappeared into the rain.

Poor Gerald, Aveline often found herself thinking. It was never enough for him to be my friend. If only he could understand that for a woman with scars of betrayal lining her heart, to call you her friend was the highest honor she was capable of bestowing.

She sighed, and stood. She stretched her back and arms, and then looked again at the parchment. It was rather new stationery, and the business seal adorning the corner of the page looked none at all faded. This proposition had been written up recently, which means this daring business venture by Rodolpho & Abstergo Enterprises to seize her warehouse was rather sudden. A bit too sudden, for her tastes. She knew very well – if it seems like there's no greater plot behind something – there probably is.

After all, why seek to acquire the only business in New Orleans that just so happens to be run by an Assassin?

Rolling up the parchment and tying it with an elegant green ribbon, she crossed into the changing room and opened her wardrobe. It was brimming with a variety of wonderful costumes, each with their specific function. For obvious reasons, donning a slave's attire for a business venture wouldn't offer her very much credibility, and she could count out attempting to secure her business' future in any respectable manner when dressed to slit a man's throat.

Then it was settled. Her gown would be her armor that day.

She kicked off her boots, loosened and removed her tunic, and untied her pants. She removed her gown from the mannequin that held its shape. Aveline grimaced at the gown's weight. It was so heavy; but she'd be remiss to deny her excitement to wear it. The weapons tradeoff was acceptable, because she knew how to handle herself without a sword – but after spending so much time in functional clothing to kill with blades, she didn't mind dressing fashionably every now and then to kill with looks. To reassure oneself of one's beauty was...nice. And as well, beauty itself offered tactical advantages here and there. She struggled to put on the gown for the next five minutes, after which she affixed her hidden blades and grabbed her poison umbrella. She grabbed the parchment and marched downstairs and out of the warehouse.

The moist heat of the Louisiana July seemed to bombard Aveline from all sides; a ghastly, sour smell travelled with the wind from the bayou. The sun shone bright enough to blind a man. The breeze offered no comfort from the heat; it was warm and muggy, as if the entire population of the town was breathing on her all at once, never ceasing to remind her of its presence. Loud. Nauseating. But so very alive.

Ah, New Orleans. How she loved her town.

Aveline walked down the street, listening intently to the whistles and murmurs of dirty drunkards who'd taken notice of her dress. Normally, they were nothing but that, dirty drunkards, but every now and then, their state of inebriation betrayed knowledge she'd need. Perhaps they'd feel they had something to offer, and they wouldn't realize they'd offered too much until the lady with the bustle had a knife at their balls, asking them to elaborate.

"Bonjour, mademoiselle," one screeched from down the street, mug in hand. "Where are you going?"

She walked on, ignoring.

"Ah, fine, then" he said to himself. "And Rodolpho says the women in New Orleans are polite."

There it was. That name. Rodolpho.

Aveline turned around, put on a faux smile, and returned to the man. He was a short man, his beard grown unevenly about the lower half of his face, and his breath smelled so nauseatingly of rum that Aveline had to give herself about four feet of berth.

"Excusez-moi," she said, accentuating her words with an innocent giggle, "Did you say, Rodolpho? Surely you do not mean John Jackson Rodolpho?"

"Oui, mon cherie, I know the man," the man said. He was not French, although the throaty rasp of his r's suggested he likely knew the language on a sub-intermediate level. His accent held characteristics of London English and another nation, one she couldn't recognize. "I know John Jackson Rodolpho, though I wish I didn't! Why do you want to know John Jackson Rodolpho?"

"Why do you wish you didn't know him?" Control the conversation, she reminded herself.

"Because he's got a pretty lady like you looking for him, when you should be looking for me!" The drunkard spread his arms open wide, as if inviting her into his embrace. "Come on, I've got so much love to give!"

She stretched her smile wider, and, swinging her hips in a sultry fashion, Aveline closed the distance. She held her breath in the presence of that awful breath of his. She brought her voice down a whisper. The secret to manipulating a stupid man—a drunken stupid man, especially—was to make him think that a woman's words were meant only for him. Even if there's nothing particularly romantic about them.

"Do you think," she whispered, delicately, seductively, "you could show me where he lives?"

The drunkard's voice sank low, turning into a phlegmy purr. "That depends, ma douce cherie," he said, placing his free hand on her hip. "What will you show me in return?"

"Careful with those hands," she cooed, guiding his hand off her side and back onto his own person. "Time and a place, monsieur."

"Very good!" He roared as he cackled. Aveline looked around, wary of the attention he was assuredly drawing to her. A lady of her class, consorting with a man in his state? What would people think? Worse yet, a woman of her color, consorting with a man in his state...she knew what people would think. She took a few steps back. When he tried to move in close to her again, she planted the tip of her umbrella at his feet, creating a barrier that he was too drunk to understand. Instead, he simply lurched and continued talking.

"He and his business partner work at the office two streets over. The big ugly black one." He pointed to his right. She looked to where he indicated. Through the space between two buildings, she could make out a black building. That must be it.

"Merci,", she curtseyed, and turned toward the building, walking away from this conversation before she got in any deeper with this disgusting creature.

"Hey! That's it?" he called after her. But Aveline kept walking, having attained the information she needed. He waved her off and slumped back to his perch outside the tavern.

She approached the building. It was small, unassuming. She placed a hand on the black walls. The paint was spotless; not a chip or fade anywhere, which means the coat was rather fresh. Perhaps less than a week old. The wood was solid and smooth, although she was never knowledgable enough to tell what kind of wood. And the sign that rested above the door, greeting all who enter, read "Rodolpho & Abstergo Enterprises" in gold lettering – gold that surely would have faded to silver after a considerable amount of time in the Louisiana sunlight.

This building was quite new, indeed – about as new as the parchment she held in her hand that proposed to take her family's legacy away from her. This tiny business wanted everything her family had built, and it wasn't even old enough for the paint to chip. What a disgrace.

Just then, she heard the bell ring as the door opened – a short man in a grey wig and blue coat looked her up and down with trepidation. "Woman, if you seek to return those garments to your master's wife, you shan't find her here. Nor will you find the lashings you're sure to receive upon your return."

Aveline chuckled. She was not unused to being mistaken for a slave – she's used it to her advantage countless times – but this was the first time anyone had mistaken her for a slave when she was wearing a dress that broadcasted her social class. Some men's prejudices run too deep to be corrected by something as plain as evidence, she mused.

"I don't think I should expect lashings." she said, walking closer to the man. He turned his nose up as she drew nearer. Far be it from him to allow something like height difference to keep him from looking down on her. "After all, she stitched it for me with her own two hands. The wife of Monsieur de Grandpre was known to extend such generosity to her own family."

The man puzzled over this, before his eyes turned wide with realization. His mouth gaped for a second, before finding the words. "Oh, my sincerest apologies!" he cried. He grasped both her hands in his and shook, being careful not to squeeze. His hands were sweaty and clammy. Aveline hid her revulsion behind a superior smile. "I'd heard of Monsieur Grandpre and his wife, but I never imagined that his daughter would be-"

"So very intelligent?" she finished his sentence for him. God, did she love toying with fools. "Well, that's a mistake onto which we should place a very hard limit." She gestured to the door. "May I?"

The man stepped aside, gesturing her into his place of business. "Oh yes, please, do come in, my dear." She gave a polite nod and stepped past him, raising up her skirt to step over the threshold.

The inside of the place was lavish, much more so than she would have expected. She'd always thought her offices at the Grandpre warehouse were luxurious, but this place put her abode to shame. The walls and floors were built of a glossy wood, with a sheen that glinted in the light of the torches. On the ground were tasteful red rugs, surrounded on all sides by inviting furniture of a similar color. On the walls hung hunting trophies; stuffed heads of unfortunate animals roaring at any who'd challenge the hunting prowess of their killer.

Aveline felt out of place, wearing a dress so completely green in a room so red and brown; but she decided it didn't matter, because she wouldn't stay long.

"Please, sit," the short man asked of her, but she was already moving to one of the chairs by the time he said anything. When she turned around and sat, she became very aware by the crestfallen look on his face that she was sitting in his chair. Well, it looks like it's the customers' couch for you, monsieur.

At that second, another man, dressed in stylish black, significantly younger, taller, and with black hair and a fresh shave, approached from the back room. His eyes scanned the room, thin and scowling, as if he distrusted the validity of everyone and everything he saw at first glance. His mouth was small and tight, suggesting displeasure with what his eyes surveyed. But when his eyes fell upon Aveline, they widened, and his mouth turned to a smile, revealing that there was a modicum of handsomeness to the man. He outstretched his arms invitingly and walked toward her.

"Ah, here we are!" he sighed. "I was hoping we would receive a call from you."

"Oh?" she asked. She did not stand, even though his body language beckoned her to do so. "You didn't make note of that in your message." She indicated that she was carrying his letter.

"Well, when one makes an unexpected request like that one," he said, "and one as ridiculous as that one, we'd expect for you to want to make a personal visit." As she listened to him speak, she noticed he placed stress on every second or third syllable, even though his inflections suggested he hailed from London. It was the same strange mix of accents she'd noticed in the drunk man from earlier. She also noticed that there was a charm to his demeanor, a charm that she didn't see when he'd entered the room a minute earlier. Was he putting it on as a business tactic?

"But then," she returned to the subject at hand, "if you recognize the ridiculousness of these requests, why do you continue to place them?"

"Because, despite all the complications, I am of still of the mind that it would be the best direction in which both our companies could possibly embark."

"And what is your company exactly?" she asked.

"Er, Rodolpho & Abstergo Enterprises," the short man chimed in from his seat on the end of the couch. "It's a trading company, like yours, madame."

"Madamoiselle, not madame," she corrected him.

"Oh, you're unwed," he said, an indecent purr lining his tone. "My deepest apologies."

"There's no sense in apologizing for circumstances you're not in any position to change," she spat back, "is there?" she watched his spirits plummet as she finished her sentence.

The man in black turned to his associate. "Mr. Cavendish, would you be so kind as to fetch us some coffee?" The short man, now identified as Mr. Cavendish, flubbered a bit in his embarrassment before rising, giving a curt bow, and retreating to the back room.

The man in black sat down on the couch, on the side nearest Aveline, but not so close as to make her uncomfortable. "Apologies for my friend...he is new here." He cleared his throat and adjusted his collar. "Modestly efficient with paperwork, but he brews excellent coffee, which, between you and me, is why I keep him around."

He outstretched his hand, adorned with numerous rings. She noticed a tan line on his middle finger from where another ring surely sat.

"Rodolpho," he named himself. "John Jackson Rodolpho".

Aveline smiled and bowed her head politely as she daintily took his hand. His charm was definitely rehearsed. She could see it in the rhythm of his speech. It was the same rhythm that Gerald used to use when setting up affairs with new clients.

"Have you had coffee from the Blue Mountains of Jamaica?" Rodolpho asked. "It's said to be some of the best coffee in the known world. It's the principal import for our company at the moment."

"Jamaica is a British colony," she pointed out. "Importing goods from the British must not sit well with the Americans."

"Ah, but New Orleans is not American." he replied. "Not yet, at least."

She furrowed her brow. What does he mean, not yet? Before she could open her mouth in inquiry, he followed up.

"There are rumblings all around town that within the next few years the new United States of America will acquire a large swath of land from the French, including our precious Nouvelle Orleans."

"Those are surely still rumors."

"True, but given the trajectory history has taken in the past few decades, we would be remiss not to take due precaution. And thus, we arrive at the letter. I will not disrespect you by skirting the issue. I wish to buy your company. I am of the opinion that when New Orleans joins the United States, it would be healthiest for us to combine our efforts such that we can already have a strong, unified hold on the city's exports before the Americans come in to take control."

"My company is not failed nor failing, and it's in very good control of itself." Aveline protested, keeping her tone under control so as not to incite undue aggression. "It's in no position to be bought, and, judging by the newness of this place, you're in no position to buy."

"And yet, your company underperforms compared to other business ventures, including my own. You see, I mean no disrespect nor offense. I mean only to propose that there might be a better future for the Grandpre company-"

"If it were in different hands, yes?" she finished. He bowed his head in affirmation. "Well, you've meant no offense, and yet I'm sorry to report that I've taken it."

At that moment, the back door opened. Three mugs of steaming coffee on a tray were being carried to Aveline and Rodolpho by Mr. Cavendish. The door creaked to a close very slowly. As it closed, she saw through it a desk with a number of papers strewn about it. She didn't pay it much mind.

But she did a double-take when she thought she saw a red cross-

Mr. Cavendish lay the tray on the coffee table, rather loudly, which broke Aveline's attention. She looked back to the doorway—it was closed. Her brow furrowed. Rodolpho eagerly grasped his mug and took a sip. He let out an overstated "aahhh" to indicate his refreshment. Trepidatiously, Aveline took a sip of hers. The coffee was bitter, as all coffee is, but with a soothing, earthy texture, which she had never tasted in coffee from the mainland. Although she wouldn't say it, it was surely the most delicious coffee she'd ever had. And that made her very, very suspicious.

"And this coffee is from Jamaica, you said? The Blue Mountains?" Aveline inquired.

"Yes, indeed, it is." Rodolpho responded, puzzled that she'd fixated on the coffee once more.

"Interesting." She set down her mug and leaned forward, studying the faces of both Rodolpho and Mr. Cavendish. "Because I find it puzzling that you'd be able to legally bring imports from a British colony into a French territory without running into certain...obstacles."

Rodolpho seemed to trip over his own words. "Mad-Madamoiselle Grandpre, we-"

"In order to secure trade relations such as these, you'd need connections. Serious connections," she said. She lingered at the end of that sentence for a bit, letting that statement stew in their brains for a minute, before she got up and changed her tone into one much more genial.

"Well, I must thank you for the lovely coffee and for allowing me a few minutes of your time," she said. "I'm afraid I must now take my own time to think about your proposal." She made for the door.

"But we haven't even discussed terms!" Rodolpho called after her.

"Write me your terms in a letter. You're very keen to do that. Au revoir, monsieurs." She walked out the door, leaving Rodolpho and Mr. Cavendish standing there, looking very perplexed.

She made her way back to her headquarters, going over the facts in her mind. Their office had only opened recently, and yet they'd already established successful trade routes to Jamaica. They anticipated some theoretical purchase of Louisiana – and were very determined to make sure that they controlled trading in New Orleans before that purchase should happen. Ergo, they wanted her business. In short, they had connections, and they had control – and they wanted more.

But none of these facts were more damning than what she was almost certain she saw on the desk in the back room for a split seconds.

The cross of the Templars.

She'd pay them another visit tonight – but this time, she'd be dressed for the occasion.