Crawley was exactly as Evie remembered. The train station was mostly empty, only a few women with their maids and nannies guarding wayward children keeping guard over the platform. Outside, the wooden sign clattered above the pub as workers toiled in the fields, scything huge bales of hay that stood high in the fields. The sight reminded Evie of the endless afternoons spent practicing her leaps with Jacob. There had been a particularly good tree, with sturdy branches and a tall trunk, that they must have climbed a thousand times. She had mastered the trick before him – a fact she still liked to remind him of– but it was he who had leapt from the top first, pulling off a perfect dive into the autumnal hay and emerging with his smuggest grin. Shaking her head, Evie trudged on. Her bag was not heavy, but passers-by gave her strange looks as she hoisted it back up onto her shoulder, and for a second she regretted not taking a carriage. It would certainly have been easier, and there were plenty for hire outside the station. It wasn't the thought of the cost that had stopped her, or even her distrust for hired drivers. It was more that now she was here, back in the town she had spent so long trying to escape, she found herself desperate to delay her arrival for as long as possible. Her life here had been – by some standards – relatively idyllic. Evenings spent with Jacob in golden lit fields, each trying to best the other. Hours spent in the library reading with her father, desperate for his approval. The Crawley Brotherhood, whose house on the outskirts of town had been the scene of so many of her early triumphs and disasters. When she had left it had not been because any of those things had soured – only that she knew there was a greater calling for her in London, a duty to the people there that required her to set aside her home for the greater good.

It was the years since that abrupt departure which had changed her view of Crawley. Now she saw clearly the damage her mother's death had done to her father and recognised the way his favouritism had neglected Jacob, while his well-meant advice in the name of self-protection had nearly led her to deny her feelings and cut herself off from the man who had proved one of her greatest sources of strength. Her father had not been a bad man, but he was no longer the pedestalled hero of her childhood. Similarly, now she had experience running two chapters of the Brotherhood, she recognised the flaws of the Crawley council. Isolationist and scared, its Assassins still refused to work effectively with Jacob in London, and it pained her to think of what could have been achieved – and how many might have lived freely – if they only had more support. Fighting off the rising tide of fear, she reached the crest of the hill and came to a stop, looking over the fields beyond.

There it was. Standing squat at the end of the road, on the way out of town and tucked behind a high hedge. Their house. Speeding up unconsciously, Evie fairly flew down the hill, reaching its solid wooden front door and unceremoniously dropping her luggage as she rummaged through her pockets for the key. Pulling it out finally from an inside pouch, she braced herself and stepped towards it. The key stuck briefly in the lock and she held her breath, hoping that rust hadn't eaten its way through the mechanism; hoping wildly that this was the right house and she hadn't made a mistake; that the house would let her in and not mulishly leave her hanging on the doorstep. After a second the key twisted free and the door creaked open, the small puff of dust emerging from the hinges echoing her sigh of relief.

It looked, disconcertingly, much the same. Someone had evidently been to visit in the years since they'd left as the furniture had been covered with dust cloths and the curtains drawn – almost like the house was protecting itself, waiting in a chrysalis for her return. Moving through the rooms as though in a dream, Evie spotted scattered footprints in the dust and a few marks on the sills, and almost instinctively reached back to pull her hood down. Crouching, she followed the trail of footprints through to the kitchen – where, to her surprise, a covered basket sat on the table with a note lying next to it. Scanning the room she could see no one, and the basket was making no suspicious ticking sounds – and so, straightening up, she reached over to read it.

Dear Evie,

I thought you may need supplies while you're here in Crawley. You must have lost something of your edge if you thought that your appearance at the station would attract no attention, but rest assured I will do my best to keep the news to myself. I imagine that if you wanted any assistance, you would have called ahead. If you wish to make a call, I am where I have always been.

George.

Of course. She had known, really, that there was no way she could tramp through the streets and not make her presence known. It was a rare tactical error not to have just hired a carriage, and she cursed her pig-headedness. Whatever this was, it was obviously affecting her more than she'd realised. At least she had only been spotted by George. Maybe, she thought as she removed the cloth and began snacking, she would call on him after all.

As the sun set that evening, Evie pulled her cloak around herself and made her way out the back door, checking to make sure there were no scouts waiting for her as she left. The coast appeared to be clear, but nevertheless she felt a shiver run down her spine as she made her way through deserted streets. She only let out a sigh when she stood, still obscured, in front of a familiar back door and for a second she paused. How best to enter? It would be polite to knock on the front door, like a proper guest. It was only instinct that had led her here instead – she and Jacob had made it a habit as children never to enter through George's front door, simply to irritate him. There was a window, just above the back entrance, which had an easily breakable closure. They had made great use of this until the day Jacob drunkenly slipped and tore his way through the curtains on the other side. From that day on the pair had been relegated to door entrances only, a rule they begrudgingly followed at least half the time. Glancing up briefly to see if the window was still there, she frowned in consternation. It was definitely there – and it was definitely open. Not wide open, but the candlelight behind clearly showed a gap between pane and sill that looked suspiciously like an invitation. George had certainly never left that window open before. His habits may have changed in the intervening years – but if he knew she was here and suspected she would visit, he would never have left it open without expecting her to try and make her way through it. With one foot already braced in the flower bed to throw herself up, Evie paused. It could be a trap. There might be an ambush waiting in the room, there might be a tripwire in the window, there might be a broken floor beyond. But it was George. Her father's best friend, her mentor as a child, a guest at her wedding. He would not want to harm her: only if she broke the creed and became a threat would he ever have betrayed her. This was – surely – what it appeared to be. An invitation.

The reason for the invitation became clear as soon as she was perched on the window sill. Voices were coming through the floor from the room below, and as she stalked her way through the house to the hallway she began to make out phrases.

"We must find out why she is here! She has never returned before, we must know what has changed now!"

Pausing, Evie perched herself firmly on the banister and strained to listen, picking out George's voice calmly responding.

"I trust her John, and if she has returned without good warning, she must not want us to know she's here. We should respect the wishes of a fellow assassin and let her move around in peace."

"Arriving the way she did is hardly subtle."

She thought she heard a faint chuckle coming in response.

"No, but nevertheless she has not informed us of her arrival. Give her time to do what she must."

A new voice interjected, one that Evie did not recognise.

"It might be something to do with her husband. I don't trust Henry Green anyway, there's something about him I've never liked. She's probably no better than him now."

Evie seethed, desperate to throttle the throat that uttered those words Even through the floor though, she could hear George's voice turn icy as he bit out his reply.

"Henry Green is one of the best men I know and you have no reason to distrust him, aside from your own prejudices which I suggest you examine closely as an assassin entrusted with the protection of the innocent. I vote that we leave Evie be."

The offending voice mumbled something in reply, but Evie failed to catch the words. The first voice spoke again, thankfully louder, but their words disheartened her further.

"While I agree on her trustworthiness – and that of her husband is not in question – we cannot let her wander wherever she wants to. We will give her three days to complete whatever mission she has, and then we will talk to her."

Lost in panic, Evie barely registered the sounds of chairs scraping and drinks being drained as the meeting came to an end. A few minutes passed before she became aware of a shadowy presence by her elbow, and in a second her blade was released and ready at their throat.

"Steady Evie, steady." George, already pushing her blade aside as he stepped into the light. "I'm glad you got my messages."

"I'm glad I didn't walk straight into the house. I imagine they would not have been happy to see me."

"I think you may be correct there. You would have been straight on the next train, in all likelihood. They are not fans of you and Jacob, the Crawley council."

She huffed and swung herself down to the ground, making her way down the stairs and into the kitchen.

"They should come and see us in London. Then they might change their minds."

George placed a plate of stew and mug of beer in front of her, smiling to himself.

"They should, and I would like to watch their faces when they see Jacob ordering his gang and leading his recruits like the master assassin he is. But they would have to go further afield to see you, would they not?"

To avoid answering she tucked into her stew, and they continued in silence for a few minutes more before George drained his own mug and sat back.

"I will stay true to my word Evie, and not ask why you're here – and here alone at that. I will only ask if there is anything I can do to help?"

She considered the question, thoughtfully tearing a piece of bread in half. A question struck her suddenly, and it burned on her tongue as she spoke, strange to her own ears.

"What was my mother like?"

George paused, and gave her a strange look. That was evidently not the question he had been expecting. True to his word though, he thoughtfully pondered it as he speared a piece of meat.

"She stuck true to the creed and was a fierce fighter – you should have seen her and Ethan in battle. I used to joke that they could have run a circus act they were so in sync, and none of their targets ever made it out alive. She was careful though, more like you than Jacob in style, and sometimes she almost seemed invisible she was so well hidden. But it wasn't her fighting skills that made her friends, it was her heart. Your mother was a good person, Evie. Stubborn as a mule and a temper like touch paper, don't get me wrong, but she would have gone to the ends of the earth to protect the people she loved. Even those she didn't know – I once watched her chase a thief for two miles across London because he'd stolen a maid's purse, and when she caught up with him she took the wallet and let him go. I asked why she didn't take him into the police or knock him out, and she told me we shouldn't punish people for their desperation. She was one of the best assassins I've ever known."

"It destroyed my father when she died." Evie said simply.

He nodded slowly.

"It did, and I don't think he ever fully recovered. I asked him to come home, time and time again, but he couldn't face Crawley. Then when he did come home he wouldn't move – just holed himself up in that house and trained you two. I think part of the reason he taught you not to rely on anyone else was so what happened to your mother would never happen to you."

At this Evie blanched, and George panicked for a second. This was all very unusual. He'd never seen her so pale before, and she seemed oddly distant. Even failing to spot him on the stairs – that was not the Evie he knew. Something was wrong with her.

"Why did you ask?" he said softly, sliding another hunk of bread over.

"I don't know." She replied, picking at the remains of her stew. "I just knew I had to come back, knew I had to find out more about her. I've never known anything, no one would tell me, and I just – had to know."

He nodded, beginning to harbour a suspicion.

"There was something she told me, while she was expecting you, that I think you might need to know."

Evie lifted her head suddenly, her face filling with dread. He shook his head quickly, desperate to dispel whatever fears had come into her head.

"Nothing bad, I promise. She asked me to make sure that Ethan gave you a box. Was very set on making sure I remembered – which I'm afraid I did not. Did he?"

"Not that I recall. Books, swords, blades – but no box. Did she say anything more about it?"

"No. Just that it was meant for you. Stealth was always her forte – I imagine it will be hiding somewhere in the house. Try the library."

And so it was, that at an ungodly hour that morning, Evie was slowly removing books from their places on the shelves to check for any hidden messages, any hidden catches, any letters painted on the shelves that might reveal this mysterious box to her. She felt almost feral with tiredness and began to falter. Reaching for another book, she resolved to take a break and try again in the morning. She had two days, after all, to turn the room inside out and shake every book for loose paper – twice if needs be. Fate, however, was on her side, and as she gently skimmed the pages of A General History of Pirates, a small piece of paper fell to the floor. Evie held her breath, staring at it. In all probability it was a random note or bookmark – 'buy apples' or 'remember the 24th' or something trite. Still, her heart beat a rapid rhythm in her chest as she reached down to pick it up.

Second along from the window, knock four times.

That was all. She turned the note over, held it up to the lamp, scanned it with her eagle vision – and nothing. That was all. The exhaustion finally hit as she curled up in a ball on the armchair, sobbing her heart out. She'd been through so much, and she was no closer. No sodding closer. As desperation filled her she screamed, collapsing into the leather chair and taking her head in her hands. Research was meant to be her skill, her forte – and she'd failed. She was meant to be strong, resilient, willing to dedicate her life to the creed – and yet she was in turmoil, terrified, lashing out at those around her. Nothing was as it should be and she felt absolutely alone. Growing up in that house, her father had drummed into her the values of self-reliance, independence, inscrutability. These things had been her way of measuring her worth for so many years, and now they were fluttering from her fingers as she desperately tried to cling on. She was an Assassin. An Assassin. How could she be anything else?

Evie slept fitfully that night, her back aching in its place on the armchair as the candle burned out in its holder and the sun rose, sure and certain, through the window. Waking up to a room bathed in sunlight, Evie felt awful. Her back was agony, she was starving, and the persistent nausea had returned. Resettling herself into a marginally more comfortable position, she stared out of the window at the rolling hills beyond feeling miserable.

Then, suddenly, the words that had driven her to distraction the night before hit again. The window – could that be this window? And second along – that one was less obvious. The floorboards, maybe – but they weren't evenly stacked and she couldn't quite count out where the second along would be. Maybe the bookcases. Standing and stretching, she felt a little silly walking over to the bookcase and gently prodding it. There was no indication, after all, of where to knock. She tried the sides, the back – clearing a space between volumes of Principal Navigations first – and even reached up to the top. Finally, feeling her knees creak, she knocked on the ground. And there it was. A slight click, like a latch sliding into place, and then the piece of wood she had just knocked on came loose. Lifting it up, she held her breath. The space was dark and dusty, filled with spiders' webs and bits of detritus – but in the middle of it there sat a small, squat wooden box.

It was intricately though crudely carved, with flowers on the sides and the Assassin's crest on top. She picked it up slowly, feeling as though the box were a caged animal sitting silent and squat, lying in wait for her. On the back of her neck, the hairs pricked and rose, and a shiver ran down her spine. Taking a deep breath, Evie tilted it slowly from side to side to test its contents. It was lighter than she'd supposed, and as she shook it she heard only a gentle rustling. It evidently contained nothing of any significant weight, and she felt slightly reassured. Satisfied that there was no trap in the box (although no less concerned about its contents), Evie placed the box on a table and sat back down in the chair to face it.

As soon as the lid was flipped over, Evie jumped a mile in the air as a tinny tune filled the room. Her heart raced as she looked around wildly for an intruder, but quickly realised that the music was playing from the box itself. Peering closer, she recognised the simple mechanism triggered by a wire attached to the lid, which pulled a key when opened and pausing, she listened to the tune. It echoed in her memory, and she stood silently racking her brain for a moment to place it before suddenly the solution came to her: it was the same melody that had unlocked the vault in the Kenway mansion. Strange coincidence, she thought. The melody obviously had great significance for Kenway since he had used it to protect his most valuable possessions, and someone must have felt similarly to have wired it into the very wood of this box. Typical of men to place the most valuable things under the protection of nothing more than a melody and trust in their cleverness.

A second later she chastised herself. Edward Kenway was, after all, a special case of arrogance. Henry would never have been so careless, and Jacob would never have been so thoughtful. Shaking her head to clear the men now anxiously crowding her head, she reached into the box and began emptying its contents to spread them across the table. There were a few manuscripts, some yellowing and crumbling at the edges with ink light brown with age, and some that looked remarkably fresh – as though deposited yesterday. There were other trinkets – some pressed flowers and sketches of what looked to be palm trees, as well as a few coins and a glass locket that looked to be filled with plaited hair. Sliding her hands across its base to make sure the box was clear, she felt a small, cold lump where she expected to feel smooth wood. Frowning, Evie felt again – and this time something depressed under her hand. It was a small metal catch, hidden in a corner of the base, and as it clicked into place the base slid away to reveal the box's final secret.

Reaching in again, she first pulled out an Assassin ring, made of battered silver and bent slightly out of shape. There was inscription around the inside of the band, glinting in the light, and she held the ring towards the lamp to decode it. "Always with you." She read, turning the ring around again in her hands in the hopes of spotting something else – but alas, that was all. Turning back to the box, she reached in and pulled out the second treasure: a piece of red cloth. It was battered and torn at the edges, but the moth eaten holes had been neatly darned over to keep it in one piece. It was obviously well loved, but try as she might she could see no indication of its purpose, or why someone would have kept it so carefully for so long. It was familiar, a thread tugging at the corner of her mind, but as she racked her brains she came no closer to finding its end. Sighing, she set it down and turned to the manuscripts, picking up the oldest first. Something told her she should leave the freshest for last.

It was a short and simple letter, written in a deliberate though unsteady hand. The paper was barely readable, stained all over with sea water and fluttering madly even in the light breeze of her breath. Peering, she focused closely and held it as close to the lamp light as she dared.

Written this day, the 23rd April 1721.

A guard has lent me this paper and quill, and I have only a few minutes of light left before the candle burns out and I can write no more. I know you are desperate to see the world, but I do not think we will know each other for very long in this life. Your father was a man who loved fiercely and fought strongly, and that neither he nor I will be there to meet you pains me greatly. Know that you are loved. Fight for what is good and right and live an honest life. Hold your creed close to your heart, for it is all I can give you. Know that I will always be with you, wherever you go.

I implore you, whoever you may be, to look after this child for my sake. Her name is Anne Read. I leave all I have to her.

Signed, Mary Read

Evie sank into a chair, breathless. The Mary Read. Her idol growing up, the fearless female pirate of the Caribbean, the Assassin who followed her creed even to the end – this must have been written by her. Suddenly, the threat tugging at her memory snapped and she knew where she had seen the scrap of fabric before: that had been in the Kenway mansion as well. There had been a painting layered among the maps and letters hidden in the vault: a young man hanging off the mast of a ship and looking off to sea, his dark hair bound up in a scarlet bandana. She remembered thinking how peaceful it looked, how at odds with what she knew of Kenway's life. Looking back to the cloth now she pieced the two together. That was no man in the portrait – that was Mary Read. And this was no scrappy piece of fabric, but her bandana, kept and treasured by someone for decades. Frantically she turned back to the pile of papers, scrabbling through them and scanning their contents as she slowly pieced more of the story together. Anne Read – the Anne Read – had signed the next entry, detailing what she could of her childhood on Great Inagua, rescued by Ah Tabai from Kingston after her mother's death, wrapped only in the red bandana her mother had worn. She sailed to England and married a good man – an Assassin – and kept her mother's creed close to her heart. When she had a daughter she passed down the box, and her daughter added her own story to it. As Evie followed the women down the decades she began to recognise names from long forgotten family stories, and as she picked up the final, freshest bundle and saw the name 'Cecily Frye' written clearly on the front she felt only a sense of comfort. Finally, her mother. Fingers trembling, she untied the scarlet ribbon enclosing the papers and sat back to read.

My daughter,

I am sorry. I am so deeply sorry, for if you are reading this I have not been there to see you grow up. I rather suspect that there may be two of you –though the doctor insists otherwise – and if this is the case I am even more aggrieved. Everything I say goes for both of you, if this suspicion proves true. I can barely imagine the pain you must have suffered, and my heart aches for you. You are so loved. So, so loved. I hope that you know this. I hope you hold the creed close to your heart. I hope that you are happy. This box – as I am sure you have realised – contains all the stories of the women in our family since the final words of your great, great, great grandmother, Mary Read. Her daughter began it, sealing the final precious remnants of her mother at the bottom where they would be safe. That is their ring, worn by all the women of our family, and I have left it here for you to wear. Had I lived, I would have removed this letter and passed both down to you when you turned 18, as my mother did for me. Since I have not, I have asked your father to give it to you instead. From his reaction, I fear he may not have done so. He insists I will not die but you and I, my daughter, know better. If this was the case, and he has forgotten his promise, I am heartily sorry for the distress it must have caused you and ask that you forgive him. I am glad you have found it now. You come from a line of strong women, unafraid to follow the creed and work in the service of humanity even at the greatest cost. I know already that you will be the best of them and the best of your parents. Though I am gone, know that I have been and will be with you wherever you go. You will never be alone.

Love, always.

Cecily Frye.

Evie found that she was weeping, as a deep sense of calm washed over her. Her mother's words, her final words stared her in the face, and for the first time she truly sensed the person her mother had been – strong, kind hearted and brave. She could barely imagine writing this letter herself, what she would say, how she could reach into lost future years and make her pre-emptive mark on them. Clutching the letter to her chest, she reached down and slid the ring next to her wedding band. Surprisingly enough, it fit perfectly, with the slight dent to the circle only keeping it tighter in place. Finally, after years of wanting and waiting, she had found her mother's final gift.

Jacob and Henry were sitting at Jacob's dining table, awkwardly eating lunch. Henry, true to his word, had appeared right on the dot of eight on Saturday morning, having raced his way across the ocean. Jacob didn't particularly know what to say when he had arrived – just taken his bags and awkwardly explained that Evie had had to visit their old house on a matter of what he assumed was urgent business. Henry, who had heard many stories of Evie's childhood, doubted that there could be any urgent business in Crawley, but from Jacob's demeanour he knew better than to ask questions. He had more of an idea of the reasons behind Evie's state of mind than her twin did, but he would leave the apparently undisclosed news for her to break. The two men had progressed in this awkward silence for a morning or so, broken by Jacob giving Henry a tour of the house and showing him the room specially dedicated to weapons, and had paused for lunch (to silent but profound relief on both sides). As Henry reached the end of his soup and desperately ran through potential conversation topics in his mind, he caught a noise from the front door. Looking up sharply, he saw that Jacob had heard something too, and the two men simultaneously set their spoons down as the dining room door swung open to reveal Evie.

Henry leapt up, and in a moment had gathered her in his arms and spun her round before kissing her, Jacob making his customary grimace in the corner – though tempered by a vague relief hiding in the corners of his eyes.

"Have you found what you were searching for?" Henry said softly, audible only to Evie.

"I have." She replied, smiling contentedly.

Hearing a cough, the pair turned around to face Jacob.

"I'm glad that everything's settled between you – a sad sister is a dangerous sister – but could someone please tell me what's going on?"

Evie smiled at her twin, linking her fingers with Henry's and squeezing his hand in silent reassurance.

"You're going to be an uncle, Jacob."

Her brother's eyes boggled, and his jaw swung open. For what felt like a minute he sat at the table, staring at the two of them in utter disbelief. Slowly his face re-settled into its standard mode of nonchalance as he casually leant back in the chair and scoffed.

"Well, I knew that. Not a master Assassin for nothing."

"Jacob."

"What?"

"JACOB."

His cool finally broke as he beamed and leapt up, hugging his sister in turn before hopping back quickly, sacred of hugging too hard – prompting a characteristic eye roll from Evie.

"All right, I'll admit I had no idea. Congratulations to the both of you, I'm very happy for you. And don't worry, your child may be supremely talented in every area of research and upsettingly brainy, but I'll make sure they know how to fight. So…is that why you've been so strange? Why you had to come back here?"

Evie nodded slowly, considering.

"Yes, I think it was. But I feel better now. I've something to show you as well."

Jacob groaned, reaching for a piece of bread and stuffing it into his face.

"It's not research, is it?"

It was Evie's turn to scoff, squeezing Henry's hand again as she took her place at the table.

"Of a sort. You'll like this though."

The three of them took their places at the table and smiled at each other, happy that everything was as it should be. Feeling a sense of calm that had deserted her since she first missed a course, Evie looked at her finger and twisted the new silver ring round to face upwards. There was plenty coming that would scare her, but she knew now that she would not have to face it alone.