Haytham has always been a fighter. Always, ever since he was ten years old and killed a man for the first time (right here, in this house, on the night his father died). So he reacts now as a fighter, shepherding Connor into place behind him and turning to face the door, weapons not drawn but ready.

And then the door swings fully open, and Haytham is face to face with an elderly man, bent over from age and deeply wrinkled, who looks just as surprised to see Haytham and Connor as they are to see him. He looks at least eighty years old, and doesn't immediately strike Haytham as a threat. Still, it's best to be cautious.

"What are you doing here?" Haytham asks.

The old man draws himself up, puffing up his skinny chest as much as seems physically possible. "I am the house's caretaker," he says, in a tone that implies he has absolutely every right to be here. "What are you doing here?"

"This is my home," Haytham says, and then—as the old man seems ready to argue the point—he goes on, "Not legally, of course. Title passed out of my family's name many years ago."

"Then you have no right to be here," the old man says, and while a part of Haytham recognizes the man is simply doing his job, another part of him flares with anger (this is his home).

"Who is it that pays you?" Haytham asks.

"None of your business," the old man snaps. Haytham fights back the urge to sneer at him. There's something about the man's tone, the way he always seems to emphasize the wrong word when he speaks, that just sets his teeth on edge.

"I think it is my business," he says. "But I understand that you have a job to do, and loyalty to one's employers is certainly an admirable trait. So I have a proposal for you."

"And why should I listen to anything you have to—"

"Just go," Haytham says, talking right over the old man. "And tell your master that Haytham Kenway would like a word with him."

"Who?" the old man asks.

"He'll know," Haytham says. "If he has any interest at all in this house, he'll know my name."

The old man gives Haytham what he must surely imagine is a withering glare, but Haytham has seen too many truly terrifying things in his time to even notice the look. He smiles back, and the old man leaves. Quickly.

"Trouble?" Connor asks, and Haytham makes an effort to smile as he looks down at him.

"No," he says. "We aren't in any trouble. We are exactly where we are supposed to be." And Connor clings to him more tightly, so that Haytham can feel him nod his head against his arm.

Haytham hasn't eaten since their arrival the night before, and he's fairly sure Connor hasn't either. Not unless he's been sneaking into the kitchen and stealing food, at any rate. So he suggests heading into the kitchen and digging through the cabinets, and Connor agrees, with more enthusiasm than he has shown for anything since their arrival. They spend a solid two hours there, mostly because Connor has no memories of any English foods—everything they find is a new experience for him, and Haytham is absurdly, disproportionately happy by how delighted Connor is with each new taste.

And then the front door creaks open for a second time, and this time Haytham leaves Connor in the kitchen while he goes to investigate. He's half expecting the caretaker again, and is pleasantly surprised to see a different man standing there. Younger, with an expression on his face that is sharply intelligent. The Templar insignia graces his clothing in three different places.

"My man tells me there's someone squatting in this old house," he says. "Calling themselves Haytham Kenway. Only that can't be true, because Haytham Kenway is dead."

"I suppose I was," Haytham says. "Clearly, I've recovered."

"I don't think there's anything clear about it. Who are you, truly?"

"Haytham Kenway," Haytham says, with a calm he does not really feel. "And now that I've given you my name twice, perhaps you will be good enough to give me your own in return."

The man laughs—startled more than amused—and some of his self assured veneer slips a little. Haytham sees then that he is nervous, not quite sure how to proceed. He is very young, mid-twenties at best, no matter how hard he may be trying to seem older. "Crawford Starrick," he says.

"Starrick," Haytham repeats. "Your family has been in the Order for quite a while, I imagine? I knew a Rupert Starrick once."

"An ancestor of mine," Starrick says. "A great-great-grandfather, the first man in my family to join the Templars." He rallies quickly. "But anyone could have looked my name up. My family tree is hardly a national secret."

"I suppose they could," Haytham says. "So ask me anything else you want to. I will prove to you that I am who I say I am."

Starrick nods, and the questioning begins.

-/-

Crawford Starrick has been in charge of the Templar forces in London for all of one month. One, single month. It's supposed to be an exercise in humility—no one's really expecting him to gain control of the city. It's been many years since either Templars or Assassins had total power here, and when Starrick had gotten the assignment to consolidate Templar power here, he'd known it was supposed to be an impossible task.

He fully intends to do it anyway. Whoever controls London controls all of the British Empire, and he who controls the Empire controls the world. Or all the parts of the world that matter, in any case. Starrick intends to be the man that gives that control to the Templars.

And now a long dead Templar grandmaster has appeared out of nowhere. Starrick does not quite know yet what that will do for the careful plans he is just now beginning to set in motion. But he is hopeful.

By the time the conversation ends, Starrick has been convinced that the man in front of him is truly Haytham Kenway. He's not quite sure how or why (Haytham firmly refuses to explain what had happened between his death and his arrival here, and Starrick is content to wait the matter out for now). Just knowing that there is a grand master in the city—a competent, intelligent one, by all accounts—is enough for today.

"Alright," Starrick says at last. "You've convinced me."

Haytham smiles, and there's something about that smile that sends shivers down Starrick's spine. How is this man even here? How does he exist, right now? He is impossible and unknown and possibly even dangerous. And yet, Starrick is fascinated.

"You may have full access to the Order's affairs in London, of course," Starrick goes on. "And the house."

Haytham inclines his head, just slightly, a gesture somewhere between acknowledgment and thanks. "And in return?" he asks. "I'm sure there is something you would ask of me."

"You're a Templar," Starrick says. He strives to match Haytham's tone of calm control, and utterly fails. His voice shakes like a schoolboy's. "This city is desperately in need of a guiding hand."

"Of course," Haytham says. "And I…"

But then he trails off. At first, Starrick doesn't understand why, and then he realizes suddenly that they are not alone in the room. There is a boy standing in the doorway, scarcely more than a toddler, dirty and big eyed and nervous.

"My son," Haytham offers, in a tone that implies that this should explain everything. But Starrick is wondering whether this son had come back from the dead with Haytham, and if so why Haytham hasn't mentioned it, and if not where he had come from. But he doesn't press. Perhaps it is better to watch for now, and form his own conclusions. Haytham has gone to where his son still stands in the doorway, and now he looks back at Starrick. "This is not a conversation for young ears," he says. "I'll be back in a moment."

Starrick nods, and stays where he has been left. But as he listens to the sound of Haytham carrying his son upstairs, he finds himself thinking back on everything he's ever heard of the old Templar Grandmaster. And the one thing his mind keeps circling back to, over and over again, is that Haytham Kenway was said to have been killed by his own son.

Interesting.

-/-

Evie doesn't like cooking, but she likes that Jacob won't go near the kitchens (he likes the food but not the work), so it's always just her and Grandma. And Evie's not so good at helping yet, but Grandma's always patient. She tells stories while she shows Evie what to do, and Evie hangs on every word. Grandma is really good at stories.

Today she's telling Evie about what her mum was like when she was Evie's age, and it's a great story, Evie loves hearing about the parents she's never met, but Grandma stops in the middle to frown down at Evie and ask, "Where's your brother?"

"I dunno," Evie says.

Grandma sighs, and wipes her messy cooking hands off on her skirts. "Usually he's gotten into some kind of trouble by now," she says. "I worry when he's this quiet."

"Maybe he's napping," Evie says.

Grandma laughs. "Our Jacob?" she says. "I practically have to tie him down at night to get him to sleep."

"He had bad dreams last night," Evie says. "Maybe he's tired."

"Well—" Grandma sighs. "Maybe. I'm sure we'll know soon enough if he decides to start making trouble."

Evie nods. Jacob is not a quiet kind of trouble. He's always really, really loud.

So they go back to the cooking, and when that's done, Grandma lets Evie go while she cleans up the kitchen (and Evie will cook but she's not going to clean up, not unless she has to). She's a little worried about Jacob, because Grandma's kind of right, Jacob should have made some kind of trouble by now. And he hasn't. Maybe he's sick.

Evie looks in their room—she looks under her bed and under Jacob's bed, just in case he's hiding. She looks in Grandma's room, even though Jacob knows he's not supposed to go in there, he always breaks stuff. Then she goes outside, and finds Jacob sitting on the back steps, looking up at the sky.

Evie thumps down next to him on the steps, and he rocks sideways and bumps her shoulder with his shoulder. She bumps him back.

"Look," Jacob says, and Evie follows his pointing finger until she sees the moon just starting to rise. It's late afternoon, not quite night, and it's only just barely dark enough to see the moon at all.

"What?" Evie asks. "Jacob, 's just the moon."

Jacob tilts his head sideways, and rests it on her shoulder. "It's nice," he says, and puts his hands over his chest where his heart is. "Nice in here."

Evie doesn't get it. She usually doesn't get it, when it comes to Jacob. But she puts her arms around him and hugs him, and sits with him until it gets real dark and the moon is way up high. Then Jacob shivers abruptly. "I feel yucky," he says, and sticks out his tongue and makes a face.

"I told Grandma you were sick," Evie says.

"Not sick…" Jacob shivers again. "Just don't feel good."

"You should go to bed if you're sick," Evie says.

"You're bossy."

"You're silly." Evie stands up and helps Jacob stand up too. He doesn't argue with her when she helps him climb the stairs to their room, or even when she bundles him into bed. Evie leaves him shivering in bed, and goes downstairs to tell Grandma that Jacob feels yucky.

Grandma goes up to check on him, but he's already asleep—she leaves him alone and comes back to Evie. They eat their dinner and then Grandma helps Evie practice the alphabet and then it's bedtime for Evie, too. When she goes upstairs, Evie finds that Jacob has moved from his bed to hers, and squished right up against the wall so that Evie will have enough room to sleep next to him. She changes to her nightclothes, and then gets in bed too. Hugs Jacob tight.

Her brother needs so much taking care of.

-/-

It's late when Evie jolts awake, a creepy, twisty, scary feeling of something changing that's not supposed to change. She shakes off her dreams and only then notices the whimpering. Jacob is squirming in bed next to her, kicking the blankets and making this really sad, whining noise. Evie cracks her eyes open to see what's wrong, and after a moment of squinting through the dark bedroom she sees the fur. It's growing on Jacob, all over Jacob, and Evie's so gob smacked by that, she doesn't notice the other stuff right away.

Jacob cries out, a noise that raises the hair on the back of Evie's neck, it's not the kind of noise people are supposed to make. He reaches for Evie's hand with fingers that can't quite grasp them at the moment, and Evie responds with a terrified noise of her own. She lunges across the bed and hugs Jacob tight, pulling him into her.

She's so wrapped around him that she feels it when he starts to change. He bends and cracks like he's breaking into pieces, and he's changing shape, he's smaller, and Evie is so scared she cries even though she's not the one that's changing. She's still crying when Jacob finally stops changing, and finally lies still in her arms.

Only he's not Jacob anymore, not really. Evie's lying in bed with a puppy (and she feels so stupid, not taking Jacob seriously when he had his dream about turning into a shiny puppy). Jacob-puppy wedges himself right up close to Evie, and she hangs onto him tight until they both stop shaking.

Evie is scared of whatever's going to happen next, but she's still a normal girl like she's supposed to be, and Jacob's not a normal boy like he's supposed to be. So she cuddles Jacob, and she tells him that everything's going to be okay (even though what if it isn't), and spends the rest of that long, long night crying on the inside because her brother is a puppy.

When the sun comes up the next morning, Jacob changes back. Evie hits him for scaring her, and then she hugs him for coming back.

"Didn't like it, Evie," Jacob complains. He's rubbing his face with his hands, like he's wiping tears off only not because they're both trying to pretend he's not crying. "Don't wanna do that again."

"You won't," Evie says.

Jacob frowns at her, and moves his hands down from his face to press against his chest. "Puppy's still in here," he says. "I can feel it."

Evie sighs. "Then we'll figure it out," she says. "We'll make you better, Jacob. Promise."