Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It was the faintest of sounds, the barest whisper of a bootheel against the outer wall of her room, but it instantly roused the Assassin from her sleep. She opened her eyes, her hand tightening instinctively on the handle of the small blade she kept tucked under her pillow.

She waited. There was a moment of silence, but it was a silence that was full of intent – the silence of someone waiting to make sure that they were unobserved. Then there came the faint scrape of her bedroom window being eased upwards.

The Assassin lay perfectly still, her muscles tensed, listening as the intruder slipped through the open window and moved stealthily across the floor.

If this was a Templar attack, she was impressed; their hired killers weren’t normally so careful.

Then her would-be murderer stumbled on a bit of uneven floor, smacked their shin on the trunk at the end of her bed and doubled over with a curse.

The Assassin rolled her eyes. She knew that voice.

“Graceful as ever, Jacob, darling.”

“Yes, thank you.”

Yes, that was Jacob Frye. The only other person capable of imbuing just three syllables with that much sarcasm was his twin sister, Evie, and she wasn’t in the habit of climbing in through the Assassin’s window.

She tucked her dagger away and reached for the lamp on the table beside her bed instead. In the soft light of the flickering flame, she studied her erstwhile lover curiously as he straightened up.

“I wasn’t expecting you tonight. You’re lucky I didn’t attack you as soon as I heard you opening the window.”

He pulled his hood back and sat down on the end of her bed, reaching back to rub stiffly at one shoulder. He looked tired, and she was surprised by how much her heart ached to see it.

“I know, I’m sorry. The job I was on took longer than expected and Ned took the train for a jaunt without asking me, the little weasel. So I was hoping…well…”

She raised her eyebrows, “Yes?”

“Could I stay here the rest of the night? Just to sleep.”

The Assassin paused, taken by surprise. That was an unusual request.

She and Jacob had first started having sex with each other about a year ago, after one particularly successful mission. Even high on adrenaline and triumph, there’d been no mistaking the particular glint in Jacob’s eye when he’d asked her if she’d like to join him on the train for a celebratory drink. She, of course, was too proud to admit even to herself that she’d been wanting to bed him for months, so it was with a certain air of diffidence that she’d accepted his invitation – but she did accept.

It had been an enjoyable night to say the least, and after that it became something that they just did sometimes, alongside their shared work as members of the London Brotherhood. Together, the two of them eliminated Templars and undermined their business interests, worked to educate and otherwise liberate the people of London – and occasionally, when they needed to blow off steam or simply when they wanted to, they fucked each other.

(Well. Maybe ‘occasionally’ wasn’t the right descriptor anymore. Maybe these days ‘regularly’ would be more appropriate.)

It worked well. They worked well – as Assassins and as lovers, in the carnal sense at least.

One thing they didn’t do, had never done, in fact, was fall asleep together after sex. She couldn’t say exactly why, since they’d never actually spoken about it, but it was just the way it was: after each encounter one of them would always depart immediately, regardless of whether it was just after midnight or minutes until dawn. And if either of them felt a twinge of regret to see the other go, neither had ever said anything.

But now here he was, in defiance of the unspoken rules they’d set out for themselves, asking to share her bed for the night.

“I can go elsewhere if you’d rather not,” he said, and despite the sudden nerves that had sprung up in her stomach, she couldn’t help smiling to herself – she’d never heard the indomitable Jacob Frye so awkward before, “I’m sure Clara knows somewhere I could-”

“Don’t be an idiot, Frye,” she interrupted, “anywhere Clara sends you will cost you, either in coin or the time it’d take you to get rid of the lice. You can stay here.” And before she could give herself the time to doubt her decision, she tossed back the covers on the empty side of the bed.

Jacob’s relief was palpable, and she noticed again the fatigue in his eyes and the curve of his spine, “Thank you.”

She lay back down, pretending not to watch him as he stood up to undress. It was a long process, peeling back the many layers that protected him, and though she’d seen him completely naked multiple times, somehow this felt far more intimate, more vulnerable.

He set his gauntlet carefully on the floor within easy reach should he need it, and then with nothing else left to do, he climbed into the bed next to her.

The Assassin held her breath, staring determinedly at the ceiling as the mattress creaked and dipped underneath his weight. He kept a respectful distance between them, evidently as aware as she was that this was unfamiliar ground for them – but even without touching him she could feel the warmth coming off his bare chest, flooding her bed with heat.

“Thank you,” he mumbled again as he rolled onto his side to press his face into the pillow, and it was both a shock and a pleasure to hear his voice coming from so close beside her.

“You’re welcome.” The response was born out of instinct more than anything, but she regretted it almost instantly – there was a strange tenor to her voice, something wavering and unsure. She hated feeling uncertain, appearing uncertain even more so. She hoped that Jacob hadn’t heard it.

Her face felt hot. Was she…blushing? Hastily, she extinguished the lamp, not wanting him to see – but somehow, that only made things worse. Though the darkness hid her uncharacteristic embarrassment from him, it also seemed to make her more aware than ever of his presence: she couldn’t help noticing the rise and fall of his breathing, the rustle of the blankets when he moved, the warm, familiar scent of his body.

All of a sudden, she wanted desperately to touch him. The desire wasn’t sexual, but she almost wished it were – at least that she could understand. But this…it was like every tender thought she’d ever had about Jacob was coming back to haunt her all at once: every time she’d ever idly wished to brush his hair out of his eyes or press a kiss to his cheek, or even just hold his hand.

She squeezed her eyes shut and turned away from him, tucking her hands firmly under her pillow.

This is why we don’t do this…

Jacob fell asleep quickly, but that wasn’t very surprising. She knew from several of their missions together that he was one of those people who could sleep anywhere, no matter the circumstance. Normally, she would have said the same was true of her, but not tonight it seemed. Tonight she was tormented by restless thoughts of the man beside her, wondering what this might mean for them, if it meant anything at all. Would their relationship change now? Did she want it to?

She didn’t remember falling asleep, but she knew that she must have, if only because the next thing she remembered was waking to find herself curled up against Jacob’s side, her face pressed into his neck. It was dark still, but the faint piping of birds outside her window suggested that dawn wasn’t far off.

Groggy and confused, she stared at her own hand where it lay, splayed casually over the tattoo of the falcon on his chest. He was holding her to him even in his sleep, one arm tucked around her shoulders, his hand half-tangled in her hair. It felt...good. Comfortable.

Then he shifted a little, bumping her chin with his shoulder, and she froze at once, desperately willing him not to wake up - because if he did, they’d probably have to discuss the fact that they had somehow, in the course of the night, managed to wrap themselves around each other like a couple of overtired puppies, and that was a conversation she would really rather avoid for the time being.

Unfortunately, for all that he fell asleep easily, Jacob was, like most Assassins, a light sleeper.

Disturbed by her sudden stiffness, he began to stir next to her, the pattern of his breathing changing subtly as he woke. Cursing herself, she forced her body to relax, feigning sleep: she may have missed her chance to sneak away before he woke, but she could at least offer him the same opportunity if he wanted it.

She was careful not to focus too hard on what he was doing – if she did, he would spot her attentiveness in an instant and know she was awake – but even in her artful half-doze, she couldn’t miss the rustle as he turned his head on the pillow to look at her, or the faint sigh that ghosted across her face.

What kind of sigh was that? A sigh of regret? Longing? Happiness? She couldn’t tell without looking at him and it made her want to grind her teeth in frustration. This was ridiculous, she was acting like a child. She should just open her eyes and-

Jacob’s hand closed over hers where it rested above his heart. Her breath seemed to catch like a burr in her throat and it was all she could do to keep her body soft, her expression relaxed. In an unexpected storm of agony, she waited, suddenly afraid that he really would just slide her hand off his chest and slip from her bed, leaving her alone once more.

But he didn’t; if anything, she thought she felt his hand tighten around hers in a soft momentary squeeze, cradling her palm close to him like it was something precious, something he didn't want to let go of. Gradually, after what felt like a lifetime, she felt his heartbeat steady, heard his breathing even out, and knew he was asleep once more.

The Assassin let out a little sigh of her own and opened her eyes to look at his sleeping face. It was strange to see him so unguarded and vulnerable, but it was...nice too. She found herself thinking that she wouldn’t mind doing this, letting him stay over, again - if the situation ever arose, of course.

You could always just ask him to stay, you know.

Abruptly embarrassed, she brushed the thought aside. She wasn’t looking for more than what she and Jacob already had, didn’t want to ruin something that suited them both perfectly well. But all the same... With another soft sigh, she nestled a little closer to him, grateful for the unjudging darkness of her room. They still had an hour or so until dawn, after all. It would be a shame to waste it.

Chapter Text

Well. Shit.

Grace Edwards dragged the back of her trembling hand across her mouth, the air rasping in her throat as she tried to get her breath back. It was a beautiful sunny day in Paris, but she’d barely had time to notice as she tumbled out of bed and made a mad dash for the steel waste paper basket in the corner of her room, nausea twisting her stomach into knots. She’d only just made it before she threw up, her whole body shuddering with it, wincing as the hot bile burned the back of her throat.

There was no denying it now. The inexplicable tiredness, her monthly bleeding failing to show up as expected, and now this: heaving her guts up first thing in the morning for no good reason.

She was pregnant, and she knew exactly who the father was.

Her stomach lurched and she groaned, making a grab for the bucket as she vomited again.

“Grace, did you hear me, dear? There’s a letter for you from London-”

She half-turned towards the door, but before she could tell her mother not to come in, it was already swinging open. If she could have gotten away with it, she might have rolled her eyes.

Helene Yared was a strong, no-nonsense sort of woman. A firm believer in the idea that women should be as self-sufficient as possible, she had brought her daughter to Paris when she was only a child so that she could begin her training with the French Brotherhood, and defended her stridently in the face of any opposition ever since. Grace was far from ungrateful – she knew she was lucky to have a mother who loved her so fiercely, and who would always fight for her when she needed her to. She just wished sometimes that she would put a little more stock in things like knocking on doors and waiting to be invited in.

Finding her daughter hunched miserably over her waste paper bin, Helene immediately knelt and put the back of her hand to Grace’s forehead, feeling for fever like she had when Grace was a child. She held her breath and watched her mother’s face. Maybe it was just a common illness after all, something doing the rounds of the city at the moment.

“Normal,” her mother said, and Grace didn’t know how she was supposed to feel. Disappointed? Relieved? Anxious? “What did you eat yesterday, do you remember?”

Grace took a shaky breath. There was no point pretending – and if she couldn’t tell her mother her suspicions, who could she tell?

“I think I’m pregnant.”

Helene’s eyebrows lifted, her lips parting a little in surprise. Then tenderly, without judgement, she reached out to touch Grace’s face, cradling her cheeks between her cool hands. The touch was soothing against Grace’s clammy skin, and before she knew it, she was hiding her face in her mother’s chest while Helene stroked her hair, which at this early hour of the morning, still fell loose and dark over her shoulders.

After a long quiet moment, her mother asked, simply, “The Frye boy?”

Grace nodded, feeling a little like an embarrassed teenager despite the gentle way the question was voiced. She’d mentioned Jacob in her letters to her mother, and though she’d never put a name to their relationship, it must have been plain enough what they were to each other for Helene to identify the father of her child so quickly.

“But we were careful,” she said. She was trying to work out how it could have happened, when it might have happened…but she supposed that a part of her was also trying to reassure her mother, not wanting her to think that she’d been reckless or irresponsible, “I’m sure we always-” Grace cut herself off, hesitating.

There had been that one night, hadn’t there, about a month and a half ago? She and Jacob had gotten very drunk, then fumbled their way back to the train, which that night had been closer than the room she rented in Finsbury, where they usually stayed. She couldn’t remember the whole night clearly, but she knew they’d had sex, that she’d woken up in Jacob’s arms the next morning naked and happy. Could it have been then…?

Helene waved a hand, indicating in her typically matter of fact way that this wasn’t what interested her. “It happens. What matters now is to be sure. How many periods have you missed?”

“Just one. It was already late when I left London, but with things so busy there, and then travelling, I just assumed… I thought it would start once I’d been here a few days, but it hasn’t.”

“I see. Well, I will write to some friends – we need to find a midwife who can examine you. Until then, you should rest, love, and try not to worry. You don't have to decide what you want to do just yet.”

“Alright,” Grace agreed as her mother helped her to her feet and guided her back to her bed. Her stomach had settled, more or less, but now there was a different kind of queasiness gnawing at her.

She might not have to decide just yet, no, but that didn’t change the fact that a decision would have to be made. And despite her mother’s reassurance, she couldn’t stop the helpless spiral of her thoughts.

Keeping the child would mean an end to her work, obviously, for a year at least – even longer than that, if she decided to raise it herself. Where would she stay? Here in Paris? Or should she return to London? If the latter, she’d need to find somewhere new to live: the couple who ran the nice boarding house in Finsbury where she lived had been hesitant enough about renting the flat to a young woman living alone. As soon as they found out she was pregnant out of wedlock, they’d undoubtedly evict her – and it wasn’t exactly something she could keep secret. It had been hard enough sneaking Jacob in through the window every night.

There was another path she could take, of course. Safe abortions weren’t easy to procure, but she was lucky; as an Assassin, she had access to resources that most young, unmarried pregnant women did not. The Brotherhood didn’t share the fundamentalist view of many religions that abortion was an immoral action, and with their connections at her disposal, it was impossible she wouldn’t be able to find someone to help her. All being well, she could pretend that this had never happened, go back to living her life as it had been, and no one would be any the wiser.

Do I want to be a mother?

It was a question to which she didn’t have a firm answer yet, but at least the fact that she was here in France meant she had time to think about it, as well as her mother to help her. If she’d found out she was pregnant while she was still in London, she would have been in a much more difficult position. For one thing, there would have been no hiding it from Jacob – not unless she suddenly stopped seeing him altogether…

The idea sent a melancholy pang through her chest.

“I can see you thinking, ma petite,” Helene said wryly.

”It’s hard not to.”

With a worried, tender smile, her mother leaned down and pressed a kiss to her forehead, “I know. Lie here a while, and I’ll have Marie bring you some water.” She turned to leave, then paused, and held something out to Grace, “Your letter.”

Grace frowned. After a moment, she vaguely remembered her mother saying something about a letter from London before she first came in. Shakily, she took it, her heart doing a strange flip when she recognised Jacob’s messy handwriting. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw her mother slip out of the room, but the attendant sounds, the rustle of her mother’s skirts, the creak of the door, seemed to come from very far away.

Gracie,

I think this might be the first letter I’ve ever written. You’ll have to tell me if I’ve done it right or not.

How is France? Things are miserable here at the moment – Evie won’t stop bossing everyone around and on top of that is sulking because she wishes she could have gone to France. I told her I wished she had too and she nearly pushed me off the roof of St Paul’s. Greenie had to intervene, take her off for a quiet afternoon of reading poetry or clucking over flowers or whatever it is they do for fun.

We’re still trying to figure out who was supposed to be receiving that shipment of gunpowder that we seized near Lambeth. The Templar you captured at the docks has turned out to be much tougher than he looked and is yet to give up any of his little friends despite the best efforts of HM’s secret service. Perhaps I should send Evie over to lend them a hand: a couple of hours listening to her go on and on about the history of the Parisian Brotherhood – her latest pet research project – would soon have him spilling his guts.

There was a break in the flow of text, and then, as if Jacob had set the letter aside and come back to it:

I don’t know what else to write apart from this: I miss you. I know I complained a lot about your bed being creaky, but it was sheer bloody luxury compared to my bunk on the train. It’s narrow and cramped and too short for me, but honestly, I think the worst of its failings is that you aren’t there.

Come home soon.

All my love,

Jacob

Grace closed her eyes, only a little surprised to find that there was a faint lump in her throat and an ache in her chest – wild emotions were another sign of pregnancy, weren’t they?

The tone of the letter was certainly unconventional, but she didn’t care: it sounded like Jacob, and though she’d barely been gone more than a couple of weeks, hearing his voice so clearly made her realise how much she missed him, too. She wondered how long it had taken him to write it, whether he had set it down in a single day or taken several over it, starting and restarting, crumpling up one draft before beginning another. Either way, the final version, the one she held in her hand, had a raw sincerity to it that tugged at her heart.

She looked at the final lines again.

‘All my love…’

It was still new and strangely thrilling to see him profess his love for her. Their relationship had been born out of friendship and casual sex and camaraderie, and for a long time, that’s all she thought it would be. It wasn’t until that night that he’d come to her asking for a place to sleep that she’d even realised how lost she was.

(She clearly remembered the sheepish look they’d given each other as they woke in each other’s arms the next morning, the ache of watching him leave...and the burst of joy when he appeared again at her window a few nights later, wondering if she wouldn’t mind if he slept there again.)

As it happened, she didn’t mind, and it wasn’t long before the only way she could fall asleep was tucked up against him, his heartbeat warm and steady at her back. And as time went by and they only grew closer, it was more comforting than she would have imagined to know that no matter how demanding and bitter their work, Jacob would be there, a source of comfort and relief.

It seemed that he felt the same way: he’d been unusually subdued as they rose and dressed together on her last day in London.

“Are you looking forward to going home?” He’d asked, his breath brushing the back of her neck as he stood behind her, tightening the laces of her corset.

She thought about it, “Yes and no. It will be nice to see my mother and my friends, and useful to consult with the Parisian Council about our next steps here…” He grunted and she smiled, touched and amused by his bad mood, “But I’m sure it’ll be very dull compared to London.”

It had been the right thing to say. Evidently pleased, he bent down and laid a lingering kiss against the nape of her neck, “Good.”

Of course, when she’d told him that Paris would be dull, she hadn’t anticipated that she would discover she was pregnant with his child…

“Miss Grace, may I come in?”

She looked up to find Marie, their maid, hovering at the half-open door with a pitcher of water and a glass. She was a stout young woman, only a few years older than Grace, who had been dismissed from her last job as a lady’s maid for speaking out of turn. It was one of the main reasons that Grace’s mother had decided to take her on.

“Yes, of course.”

“Madame mentioned that you were feeling unwell.” She tutted as she rearranged the books on Grace’s nightstand so she could set the water down, then turned to look at her, her hands on her hips, “You certainly look it.”

Grace couldn’t stop a snort of laughter, “Thank you very much.”

Marie patted her hand in a way that was brisk but no less loving for it, “No offence meant, miss. A little rest and I’m sure you’ll be right as rain.”

“I’m sure,” Grace echoed, half-heartedly, “Marie? Can I ask you something?”

“If you’re quick about it,” she said, “I’ve still a lot to do downstairs this morning.”

“Do you like being a mother? Does it make you happy?”

Marie huffed, her eyebrows shooting up, “What a question. Why do you ask?”

Grace shrugged, “It’s just something I’ve been…thinking about recently.”

Perhaps seeing the pensive look in Grace’s eyes, Marie frowned, seeming to give the question serious thought. “Being honest, miss, at times it’s maddening. No matter what you do, children are always getting into trouble. They’re never where they should be, they run you ragged just trying to keep them clean and fed and healthy – and I’ve only got two, which is far fewer than most.”

She paused, and a small, almost grudging smile touched her mouth, “But sometimes the little one will make me presents of flowers or whatever other pretty thing she’s found – and my boy likes to read to me from what he’s learned in school that day. So yes, even though there are days when they drive me distracted, they make me happy.” She tilted her head on one side, looking at Grace, “I can picture you as a mother, you know. I think you’d be good at it.”

Grace sucked in a sharp breath of surprise, “You do?”

Marie smiled, “I do. You’ve got the grit for it.”

That made her laugh, warmth radiating through her chest, “Thank you, Marie. And sorry for keeping you.”

She clucked her tongue, “No trouble, Miss Grace. Rest now. If you think you can stomach it, I’ll bring you something to eat in an hour or two.”

“That would be lovely.”

As Marie left the room (she bent to pick up the ruined bin as she went, not discretely, like a good maid would, but with a muttered curse and a sigh that made Grace wince guiltily and smile at the same time), Grace laid a hand over her stomach. It was as flat and smooth as it always had been beneath her nightgown, betraying no outward sign of the changes already taking place within her. But to her surprise, it seemed that she felt a little flutter of tentative excitement all the same.

Chapter Text

Jacob stomped his way back to the train, cursing under his breath.

He had hoped that going to one of Robert’s fight clubs and beating a few strangers into a pulp would help relieve some of the tension that had been plaguing him since Grace left London, but it hadn’t. Now he was just in a bad mood and his muscles were sore.

Why hadn’t he heard anything from her? That was what he didn’t understand. It was nearly two months now since she’d left, a month and a half since he’d sent his letter, and still, nothing. Perhaps she was too busy to write, or his letter had gone astray – that had to be it. She wouldn’t just ignore him for all this time. Would she?

Historically speaking, Jacob didn't really have a great track record with romantic relationships. There had been a thing with another initiate when he was about sixteen or so, a boy from some rich family in Hampshire, intoxicating and confusing in equal measure - but passion had turned to disinterest pretty quickly once they finished their training and stopped spending quite so much time practicing hand to hand combat together. He'd kissed that girl back in Crawley - a decision he immediately regretted when he realised the strength of her feelings for him far outweighed his for her. And of course, there had been the few weeks he had spent with Maxwell Roth, utterly infatuated by the man's chaotic, bloody charm.

Not one of his proudest moments.

Grace was different though, and had been from the start. They'd been friends before they were lovers, and though it had taken him an embarrasingly long time to figure it out, he knew now how important that was when it came to building something that would last. She was his best friend; the only person who could possibly know him better was Evie.

So why hasn't she written?

Nigel passed him as he made his way up the train, whistling as he took stock of him – Jacob had taken a pretty good punch to the eye in the second round and no doubt there was already a bruise blooming there.

“Everything alright, boss?”

He tried for a smile but from the slightly alarmed look he got in return, it wasn’t a particularly successful attempt, “Never better, Nige.”

“Alright – if you’re sure?”

It was an innocent enough response, but for some reason it made Jacob’s skin prickle with irritation. He opened his mouth, ready to snap, until he took a closer look at his friend’s face and saw a trace of concern there. Abruptly, he felt deeply ashamed of himself. Why was it that his first instinct when he was hurt or angry was always to lash out? Evie wasn’t like that – neither was Grace. If they could keep a handle on their emotions and act like rational beings even when they were uncomfortable or unhappy, then he could too.

“I’m sure.” Taking a deep breath, he gave Nigel as amicable a clap on the shoulder as he could manage, “Thanks for asking. I’m turning in – shout if you need anything.”

Nigel nodded and gave him a cheerful smile that went a little way to soothing Jacob’s bad temper, “Course.”

Jacob watched him go, then pushed through the last door between him and the front car with a sigh.

“Oh, there you are.”

He straightened up, surprised. Evie was sitting in her usual armchair, a book open on her lap – but as soon as he came in, she closed it, setting it to one side. At this late hour he would have expected she would already be over at Henry’s shop, but here she was, obviously waiting for him.

“Am I in trouble?” He asked, wary.

“No more so than usual,” she replied, amused.

He snorted.

“That black eye’s going to be beautiful tomorrow. Did you lose any money?”

He shot her a withering look as he passed her, tugging off his coat, “Of course not. Bloody bastard caught me off balance, that’s all.”

“Jacob, is everything alright?”

There it was again – the concern. He could admit that he’d been more bad-tempered than usual recently, but he hardly thought that warranted the serious look that Evie was currently giving him.

“Why do people keep asking me that? I’m fine-”

“No, you’re not. It’s Grace, isn’t it.”

Damn it.

That was the problem with having a twin sister. She always knew…everything.

“Don’t give me that look. Nigel told me you’ve been drinking far more than usual since Grace went away, and you’ve been at Topping’s three times in the last week, not including this evening.”

He hunched his shoulders, feeling another flash of hot resentment towards Nigel for selling him out.

“So?”

Evie gave him an exasperated look, “So, that’s not normal behaviour for you, Jacob; it hasn’t been for a while. What is it? Did something happen between the two of you?”

“I don’t know,” he said, the words bursting out of him not in anger, but something closer to despair. Embarrassed, he collapsed onto the sofa, throwing an arm up to hide his face, “I sent her a letter just after she left, but she hasn’t replied and I don’t know why.”

It took Evie a moment to reply, and he knew he’d surprised her, “You hate writing letters.”

“Evie.”

“Sorry,” she said, though it sounded like she was trying not to smile, “well, how were things before she left? Were you having any problems?”

He shook his head moodily. If anything, Grace’s last night in London had been more tender than usual, every kiss, touch, and soft, nonsensical whisper that had passed between them rendered bittersweet and precious by her looming departure. Or at least, that was how it had seemed to Jacob – and nothing that Grace had said or done had given him any cause to believe she felt differently.

“We were fine. Better than fine, we…” He trailed off, unsure how to finish – but Evie’s sympathetic silence was almost unbearable and he hurried to fill it. “But now she’s ignoring me.”

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic,” she said, not unkindly, “I’m sure she’s not ignoring you. She’s probably just busy. Or maybe it never reached her.”

He sighed. Though he’d been telling himself as much for weeks, it did sound much more reassuring coming from Evie’s mouth. Not that he would ever tell her that, of course.

A sudden idea struck him, and he glanced over at Evie, eyes narrowed in suspicion, “You haven’t heard from her, have you?”

She made a dismissive noise, “No, Jacob, of course I haven’t. I would have mentioned it by now if I had.”

He nodded, redirecting his gaze to the ceiling. His head ached with weary frustration, “Sorry. I know you would.”

“Jacob.” Evie leaned forward in her chair to poke him in the ribs. He jerked away irritably, throwing out an arm to wave her away, only to blink in surprise when she caught his hand and held it. They didn’t hold hands much these days, definitely not as often as they had when they were younger, but it was nice all the same. “Listen. Anyone who’s seen the two of you together knows how much you care for each other. I hardly think that Grace will have forgotten you.”

“I know.” He could hear his own uncertainty and hated it.

She rolled her eyes fondly, “If you’re worried, little brother, you can always write again.”

Yes, he’d thought about doing that too. He probably would write a second letter if he didn’t hear anything soon – but what if he did and still got nothing? What if it only confirmed that Grace no longer wanted him?

Pushing the nagging fear aside, Jacob propped himself up on his elbow to glare at Evie, “Little brother? For the last time, you are four minutes older than me.”

“And yet,” she said, her mouth twitching in amusement as she got to her feet. “Just promise me you won’t go back to Topping’s for a couple of days?”

“Yes, mother.”

Evie sighed, “Fine. But don’t blame me if you take another hit to the face and end up with a fractured eye socket.”

“Alright, alright.” She pulled the door open, and he felt another little tug of guilt, “Evie?”

“Yes, Jacob?”

“Thank you, for the advice, and the concern. I…appreciate it.”

Evie paused at the door and turned back to look at him, one eyebrow raised, “You really did get hit hard, didn’t you?”

With an irritated grunt, he grabbed a book off the end table and chucked it at her. She caught it neatly, grinning again. “Oh, just sod off back to Henry’s and leave me alone.”

“Sleep well.”

He didn’t. In fact, Jacob’s sleep that night was disturbed, full of strange dreams in which he wandered, lost, through unfamiliar streets, vaguely aware he was supposed to be looking for something, but unable to remember what it was. He woke confused and dissatisfied, with a slight headache and as Evie had predicted, a vicious black eye.

“Good grief. What have you done to yourself now?” Agnes, as usual, was up early.

Jacob resisted the urge to wince – Agnes’s voice was almost invariably loud – and ducked his head to peck her on the cheek, “I'm afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

She snorted, “Oh, aye. I’m sure you don’t.” He shot her a grin and she shook her head, radiating disapproval, “Ah, get away. And don’t come back without those tools your friend Aleck promised me. He sent a note the other day to say they were ready.”

“Yes, boss.”

Her orders issued, Agnes gave him an apple and sent him packing, dumping him off the train at Whitechapel and leaving him to make his own way to Aleck’s, keeping his head down to avoid attracting too much attention to his black eye. Lost in his thoughts – trying to remember what it was he’d been looking for in his dream – he didn’t notice he was passing the antiques shop until he heard a familiar voice calling his name.

“Jacob!” He looked up to see Henry Green’s head poking out of an upstairs window, a friendly smile on his handsome face, “Good morning!”

He paused, raising an eyebrow at his soon-to-be brother-in-law, “Do I know you?”

Henry rolled his eyes – disappointingly, he was no longer phased by Jacob’s mischief, “Come in for a moment, I’ve got a letter for you.”

Jacob’s stomach leapt, though he quickly quelled the hope bubbling up inside him – it wouldn’t be the first time he’d gotten excited only to find that it was just a note from George or another member of the council in Crawley. But when Henry handed him the letter two minutes later, the postmark clearly indicated it had come from Paris.

“Jacob? Are you alright?”

This time he barely heard the question. His heart pounding in his chest, he tore the letter open there and then, leaning against the shop counter to read it.

Darling,

Forgive me for not writing sooner; much has happened since I’ve arrived, and it has been difficult to find the time. I have some important information I need to share with you, but it’s not something I can put into a letter – please, if you can, join me in Paris as soon as possible, and I’ll explain further.

My mother knows that I have asked you to come and says that you are most welcome to stay with us.

Please hurry, Jacob, I need you here.

All my love,

Grace

P.S. Your letter was beautifully written, and I miss you too.

Stunned, Jacob folded the letter away, slipping it into the inner pocket of his coat – only to take it out again a moment later and smooth it out so he could reread it, as if somehow this time, it might yield more of an explanation.

Two months of silence and then a letter asking him to travel to Paris immediately? If he didn’t know for a fact that this was definitely Grace’s handwriting, he would suspect foul play, a trick to lure him out of London for some reason.

‘I need you here.’

He felt his heart squeeze, struck simultaneously by a warm wave of affection and, much sharper and more painful, a jolt of icy concern. Grace was in her home city, surrounded by friends and family, under the protection of the Parisian Brotherhood, which was well-established and powerful – and all of that aside, she was a formidable Assassin in her own right. Something very serious must be going on if she was writing to him for assistance too. Was she safe?

“Jacob?”

“No time, Greenie. Do you know where Evie is today?”

“Yes, I believe she’s at the Kenway Mansion, doing some research-”

“Right.”

Not bothering to fold the letter neatly this time, he simply shoved it into his pocket and headed out onto the street. He wanted to speak with Evie first, show her the letter, ask her what she thought of it – but regardless of what she had to say, he’d already decided his course of action.

He was going to Paris.