Walking with the crutch takes some getting used to, but once he finds a rhythm to the movement it becomes a rather easier endeavour. Thankfully his companion hasn't gone too far ahead, paused a little further down the track, remembering her main charge to keep an eye on him. Together they move at a comfortable middle pace, slow enough so as not to be pushing him too much but not so slow as to be tedious. Nevertheless, feeling the pressure of the seemingly expectant silence that is already beginning to drag out between them, Connor throws out the first question that comes to him; 'When did they set sail?'

'A week ago, maybe two?' She shrugs. 'They were going to head down the coast to New York, taking some extra supplies to Tallmadge and the other local Assassins.'

'Oh?' He has a bad feeling that those supplies will be more weapon than food.

'Everyone's already preparing for the worst, getting things in place and digging in as best they can before Spring comes.' Her expression noticeably darkens as she speaks, the implications of what the warmer months of the new year will bring already obvious to them both. Glancing sideways at him, something else creeps into her tone. 'Do you think it'll come to that?'

Instinctively he goes a little rigid at the question, this sudden tension causing stiff muscles to lock up and forcing him to halt in his step. Whilst it is an innocent enough speculation, this feels rather like the opening shot of a new bout of interrogation. Besides that it strikes a nerve, this same question something he has been asking himself in darker hours of the night. Because sooner or later there will have to be a fight, the Templar threat will have to be dealt with. Any influence or presence in the colony is something they simply cannot allow. Regardless of what he may or may not feel about Haytham, the fact remains that their ideologies and goals are essentially incompatible. Really it is just a matter of who goes on the offensive first.

Gritting his teeth and getting back into stride, Connor avoids looking at the other novice as he quickly paces past her. He doesn't want to think about this, his quick reply honest but exasperated. 'I do not know.'

'The mission didn't go too well then?' She catches up without too much effort, able to keep pace with him at the best of times as she is.

'Yes. And no.' Sensing that this isn't a good enough answer he elaborates further for the sake of peace. 'More questions were raised than were answered.'

'That's to be expected, you spent a fair amount of time with the man after all. And, transparent as some of those lower level Templar footsoldiers can be, this is a grandmaster you were dealing with. You got the information you were sent for?'

He nods slowly; that, and more.

'Then I'd call that pretty successful.' She smiles, giving him a clap on the back. 'We're still learning, remember.'

On that note their destination comes into view. Pushing his luck, assuming his friend won't feel the need to trip and stop him, Connor puts on a slight burst of speed in order to hobble ahead, aiming for just a few seconds to himself. Situated downhill from the main manor and set amidst a thickish clump of trees, the spot is meant to go unnoticed by any unfriendly eyes. Many important notes pass to and from the coop, with about as much of their mentor's correspondence arriving with the birds as it does by horse or sea. It's a tall, hexagonal structure of durable wood that is both bleached from years of sun and stained from years of pigeon droppings. Raised off the ground, the birds are kept out of reach of predators and prying young novices alike.

A number of the pigeons are already out, hopping about on the bare branches, basking in the sunlight, or pecking hopefully away at the hard ground. Others are doubtlessly tucked away in the warmth of the coop, content to rest in their pigeonholes until their feed arrives. Those nearest as the teenager moves into the little clearing hop away a little, making way, somewhat nervous of his strange gait and stick. They nevertheless recognise him, one of the perched birds flapping over in order to fulfil its commission. Removing the tight roll of paper from the thin leg is tricky enough at the best of times, but when the bucket sets down with a clang the little messenger starts getting rather impatient. Eventually the exchange is completed and another pigeon happily sets about eating its fill of corn.

Together they carefully check the remaining birds for anything else, aware of how vital it is not to miss any messages that could well be of an urgent nature. Only one more note turns up in the small flock, which Dobby gets the pleasure of having to retrieve from a particularly stubborn pigeon. After triple-checking, once certain there isn't anything they've missed, the older novice collects the bucket and holds out a hand for the other roll of paper.

Barely five steps into the walk back however she sighs loudly, a brief warning that puts him quickly on guard. Here comes what he's been waiting for. 'Don't think I don't know something's wrong Connor.'

Knowing full well exactly what she's getting at he decides to try feigning ignorance, in the vague hope of stalling the conversation out until they get inside and he can possibly put a door between them. 'I have disliked being shut in for so long, that is all. It has been suffocating me, day after day of staring at the same four walls.'

'Have you tried staring at the ceiling?' Her face stays entirely straight, tone deadpanning. For a moment it almost seems to have worked, that she's indulging him at the very least, and then the clear look of concern returns as she shakes her head. 'Look, none of us are blind. You've been edgy since Southgate, and now you're worse, almost as if you expect someone to jump out and knife you in the back any second. But I saw how you were in Lexington, with him-'

'I slept on the floor.'

It's out before he thinks, panicking, lying, reacting to an accusation she hasn't even made yet and no doubt condemning himself with it. After all this time, having built this scenario up in his head so much and having thought it over again and again, he's instinctively gone straight on the defensive, and gone much too far. Of the various ways the teenager had pictured this conversation going premature denial hadn't been quite what he'd been expecting to end up coming out with. One inquiry from Dobby and he's exposed himself; suddenly all those days of silence and anticipation make sense, Achilles could probably have cracked him with just a look.

His immediate instinct is to bolt, or at least do the best he can to that effect, but the other novice has already stopped dead in her tracks, latching onto his nearest sleeve and pulling him back. It's probably better to deal with it now, he guesses, to do his best to correct the slip before she can tell their mentor. Tight hold unloosening she moves round, blocking his path and levelling a long, piercing look at him. Able to hold eye-contact at least, Connor braces himself for the inevitable.

'So,' she breathes deeply, 'you didn't spend the entire night awake in order to watch the Templar, on the off chance he might give you the slip or just try and kill you?'

This apparent calmness is disquieting, not least because he has a good feel for the explosive rage that could well be simmering beneath her surface right now. Wary of saying almost anything, overly conscious of making further slips, he opts just to answer the question. 'I... No.'

'Shit.' Quiet but vehement, the word sums up both their current feelings pretty well. She runs a hand over her face, letting the tense moments drag by before making the accusation; 'He's started to win you over, hasn't he?'

Connor objects forcefully. 'He needs to trust me for this to work, and to think that I trust him-'

'But you're trying so hard to convince him that you're beginning to convince yourself.' Cutting him off she accurately fills in the blanks, looking about as happy as he feels. 'I knew it was a bad idea to let you get involved like this. Infiltrating a fort is one thing, but trying to out-manipulate an experienced Templar...'

'It is not like that, I know what I am doing-'

'Really? Then why are you so guilty?' It's practically snarled at him, as she finally puts her finger on the word she's been missing all this time. They both know he doesn't have a good answer to that, or at least suspect it. After a moment though the older novice seems to reconsider things, her expression and tone softening but carrying the same decisiveness as before; 'He's playing games with you.'

'No.' The strength and speed of his denial do not weigh well in his favour. Seeing this he quickly back-pedals, to pull together some sort of reasonable justification for such a reaction. 'He does not know what I am, and there is no reason for him to suspect it.'

Pulling in a deep breath Dobby reaches forward, grabbing his shoulders as if to shake him. 'Listen to me Connor; he's a Templar, a grandmaster to boot. They manipulate people; it's what they do, it's what they've always done. If he's anywhere near the sort of threat the old man and the Brotherhood back in England all think he is then he could well have figured it out already. And even if he hasn't, he is still trying to use you. Think about it; everything he's doing is to further his own cause, the Templar cause. You can't trust him.'

'I know!' He wrenches himself from her grasp, the burst of anger directed as much at himself as it is at her. While he knows he can't, mustn't, trust Haytham at all there is an increasing part of him that truly wants to do just that.

And yet... what she says strikes a nerve, exposing an idea he hasn't even considered before. Haytham wants information, that was the whole reasoning behind the Templar raid on Southgate; freeing the captives in an effort to earn their trust, gaining the right to answers that would otherwise be denied to outsiders. Yes, the man had sought him out specifically, but he was the obvious choice. They had spoken, the initial connected was already forged. When he had shown reluctance to offer all that he knew with regards to the artefact and the location of the temple the grandmaster had been keen to do whatever he could to earn his full trust. Proposing the removal of General Braddock was the obvious course of action, one that could only improve the opinions of the rest of Connor's people as well, something tangible that benefitted all involved. However, there was always another, faster and potentially easier way to establish a deep level of trust between them; the very same tactic that the teenager has ostensibly been using himself.

Nothing breeds trust like intimacy; be it emotional, physical, or, preferably, both.

A sick feeling is growing within him. Of course it was convincing, a grandmaster is going to be experienced with deceiving people. Of course a Templar would go so far in the pursuit of power and those damned remnants of Eden, if there was some extra gratification or pleasure to be gained in the process, then so much the better. Of course the man's aura had changed to a reassuring blue, that sixth sense draws as much on his own personal perceptions as it does on an extra instinct. Everything makes a disturbing amount of sense this way, he was just too caught up in his guilt, his desire and his efforts to be convincing to simply stop and think it through. Even if Haytham doesn't know he's an Assassin everything could easily have been an act, part of his plan and nothing more.

He doesn't want to believe that, any of it. But if his justification for his own actions comes down to the same thing then how can he dismiss the possibility?

'Connor?' He becomes aware of a hand rubbing his back in a reassuring motion, Dobby having drawn closer when his frustration transitioned to dejection. Quietly but urgently she talks; 'It's all right. You're remembering now, that the important thing.'

'It was just confusing, trying to gain his confidence and pretending not to know what he was all the time.' Managing to pick his way delicately around the subject, he explains himself yet still withholds the real sources of his recent confusion and concern. That doesn't stop him saying a little more than strictly wise though. 'He does not seem evil, Dobby. Dangerous, but not evil.'

'Be that as it may, he's still the enemy. You just need to un-confuse yourself a bit more and it'll all be back in perspective.' Giving him one last, solid pat on the shoulder she starts off towards the house, purposefully walking backwards in an effort to dispel the remaining tension in the air. 'Come on, I'm sure your breakfast is already waiting.'

Appreciating the effort Connor pushes his turmoil of thoughts to one side, getting easily back into stride and pursuing his friend up the hill at a pace that wouldn't be deemed especially beneficial. What with her unfair advantage, and having switched to running forwards halfway, she beats him. To add insult to injury she also takes the steps in a single bound. Holding open the door in an exaggerated demonstration of chivalry the woman offers him a sympathetic smile, one last acknowledgement of the rather stressful conversation. Once he's through she dumps the bucket and theatrically shoos him in the direction of the kitchen, pulling out the messages by way of explanation when she turns towards the study instead.

Whilst Abigail is still elsewhere some water and a plate of food has appeared on the table in their absence. Not remotely hungry anymore, he nevertheless gratefully sinks onto the inviting stool that has been placed out for him. Exercise has convinced him that he's in need of some more rest now, in spite of all those days begrudging it. Muscles ache again, as does his heart. Just because he has been developing feelings for Haytham doesn't mean that the man has been doing the same. So his state of relative compromise might ultimately have proven a worse error than he'd feared, it still might. Going to Boston suddenly seems a serious risk again. He is torn.

Returning pretty quickly, his fellow novice smoothly swipes a chunk of his breakfast before settling down opposite him, elbows up on the table. Despite all of Abigail's best efforts the finer points of dining etiquette are still as lost on her as they had been the day she came off the streets of New York. As soon as that first morsel is finished she starts eyeing his plate with renewed interest, grinning when he gives up any pretence of wanting it and pushing it across to her. She is never one to let good food go to waste. Together they sit in a mostly companionable silence, her preoccupied with disposing of the evidence of their transfer and him sipping at the water, consumed by his thoughts. However their ears soon prick up at the sound of heavy footsteps traversing the hallway. The plate is back in front of Connor in a second, whilst his stomach twists with a familiar feeling of anticipation and expectation.

Achilles holds an unfolded letter in one hand, the writing indistinct from this distance, and with the other he beckons, his expression impassive. 'I believe it is time we continued our talk.'