waving not drowning
Mari reached the shallow end wall and executed a well-practiced flip turn, transitioning from the forward crawl to a lap of backstroke. She’d always preferred swimming to running, and Alamūt’s pool was exceptionally well tended.
The pool was on the lowest subterranean level under the training grounds, carved out of the living rock of the mountain itself, and resurfaced with thousands of tiny mosaic tiles. The ceiling of the natatorium was covered in protective wards against drowning and earthquake damage, the wards set in tiles of softened sea colors, which were overlaid with lap-line markers and direction lines which glowed irradiated blue. It was fifty meters long and fifteen lanes across, ranging in depth from two meters at the shallow end to six meters at the other. The water was usually kept around 25°C, although it was sometimes allowed to drop to 19°C, if colder water was needed for a training exercise. She found swimming less enjoyable on those days.
Today, however, the water was on the warmer side and there were only a few other swimmers – as usual in the winter months, swimming was a much more sought after activity in the summer and her rank wasn’t high enough to ensure that she was always able to get a lane. She loved the feeling of water rushing over her skin, the subdued white noise of it sloshing against the sides of the pool as people swam, amplified and echoing off of the walls of the natatorium, and the way the rest of the world seemed to fall away until there was nothing beyond her body moving through the water. The natatorium also happened to be a good place to go when she wanted to avoid her family.
Ezio swam quite well, having mastered the butterfly, a new swimming stroke with a high degree of difficulty which required good technique as well as strong muscles. Naturally, Ezio was more inclined to swim when the pool was in higher demand, to ensure he had the largest possible audience to admire his physical prowess; as a Master he was guaranteed to get a lane. Usually, however, he preferred to cross train and pump iron; her brother liked to be big, with heavy, clearly defined musculature. He also liked to be admired as he trained, to flirt and show off his body. Swimming offered less opportunity for those collateral benefits.
Kadija also swam, at least once or twice a week, long grueling sessions sometimes lasting hours. Mari suspected she also swam for the solitude, but her attention was so in demand that she rarely found time for the long, deep trek to the pool. She knew Kadija habitually secreted away in the middle of the night to swim, and that sometimes Altaïr came along and sat on the edge of the pool to watch his sister swim lap after lap. Her cousins were weird like that.
Altaïr hated swimming. He swam exactly once every ten days, for precisely forty-five minutes – the absolute minimum amount of time he could spend on a training activity required of Masters – and he was always in a noticeably caustic mood on those days. She suspected that, without the requirement that he maintain the level of proficiency expected of a Master, he would never bother to swim at all. Altaïr’s aversion to the activity was another reason she swam as often as she did, especially when she wanted to avoid him.
She was halfway through her lap when she felt the pins-and-needles prickling up her right arm of Altaïr silently announcing his presence. A few heartbeats later her blades tremored with his summons and she almost faltered mid-stroke. Mannaggia! What does he want now? He was waiting at the end of her lane, uncanny amber eyes hooded and there was the slight stiffness to his stance that usually indicated that he was girding himself to do something he considered unpleasant. It was an unflatteringly familiar posture during their interactions. She hooked one arm up on the edge of the pool and wiped the water from her face with the other.
“You wanted to speak with me?” she blurted out before she could stop herself. She had meant to say something friendlier, or at least slightly more respectful – not that she thought it mattered to Altaïr one way or another, but it would somewhat mollify Kadija to hear she was making an effort.
“It has come to my attention that one of the Italian brotherhood, Agostino Messana, recently failed to return from a contract. I believe you and he were once acquainted?”
She blinked. “Yes, we were onceacquainted,” she replied, repeating his awkward choice of words scornfully and resisting the urge to correct his pronunciation of Dino’s name.
She’d had a terrible crush on Dino for ages before they started seeing each other when she came of age. They’d only gone out a scant half dozen times before Ezio found out and put a stop to it, in the loudest, most embarrassing way possible. She’d been too bitter over how easily Dino had given her up for them to remain friends afterwards. It was a relief when her mother bullied through her transfer to Alamūt; watching Dino go through new girlfriends while she continued to be gossip fodder and scrupulously avoided by every male Assassin at the Motherhouse was a constant, irritating ache. She studied the light reflecting off the surface of the water and reminded herself to unclench her teeth. That was years ago. You hardly knew him.
“Thank you, for letting me know,” she added, after reminding herself that he was probably trying to be kind and softening her tone. “It would have been an unpleasant surprise to learn his fate while visiting my mother.” She chanced a look up at him and found that he was studying her with an almost uncomfortable level of intensity.
“We have all been lessened by his loss,” he replied coolly, tone perfectly even.
She swallowed convulsively, resenting her cousin’s studied cool politeness. Doesn’t he ever feel anything, or is emotion just an alien concept to him? She took a deep breath and reminded herself that it wasn’t fair of her to lash out at Altaïr, especially when he had just gone out of his way to be thoughtful.
“Come to dinner tonight, in my chambers,” he abruptly commanded. “I’ve already summoned Hiram, and there will be others there as well.”
She reminded herself that calling Hiro by his given name was an improvement over constantly referring to him as that Disciple.
“His friends call him Hiro,” she replied carefully. “You should try it.”
“He and I are not friends.”
She wanted to scream.
“Please, continue with your training,” he finally said into the sprawling silence that had settled between them. “I will expect you at seven.”
She jerked a nod and prepared to push off from the wall, not trusting herself to not blurt out something rude. Altaïr strolled away without a second glance at the water. She shifted position against the wall, launched herself into a furious forward crawl, and decided to lengthen her swimming time; the evening would go more smoothly if she was too physically exhausted to fight with Altaïr.
She scowled at the floor as she slouched down the hall towards Altaïr’s chambers. She’d looked everywhere for Hiro after she’d finished swimming, with the thought that they’d both find the evening more tolerable if they arrived together, but he was nowhere to be found. It smacked of Kadija’s underhanded machinations. Divide and neutralize, she noted wryly as she knocked on Altaïr’s door. The arid cold air was wreaking havoc with her hair and all the wool she was wearing to keep from freezing probably wasn’t helping. She gritted her teeth and tried to smooth her hair.
“Maria,” Altaïr greeted her as he opened the door and motioned her inside. “Enter and be welcome, cousin.” He was dressed in white – a long kurta worn over a pair of tight cigarette pants that would have been scandalous on their own. His hair, thicker and darker than hers, was parted on the side and hung in heavy layers swept back from his face. She’d seen him grow his hair out, from time to time, until it became a full, majestic mane of curls that brushed his shoulders. She resented the fact that even then he had had great hair, which fell in sleek soft ringlets, instead of frizzing out at the slightest change in humidity, like hers did. He was also wearing the stylized Assassin crest of Alamūt, cast in gold, on a chain around his neck, the charm visible due to the deep open neck of his kurta, and a heavy gold band on his thumb, which was odd; Altaïr rarely, if ever, wore any form of jewelry.
So it’s ‘cousin’ tonight, is it? She pasted a bright brittle smile on her face. “Thousand thanks, Effendi.”
Altaïr’s lips quirked into what passed for his smile in response. “You have previously met Konstantin, Irika and Tārā,” he said, indicating his other students with a shallow sweep of his hand as he closed the door behind her and took her coat. His cat, she noticed, was nowhere to been seen. “And, of course, you are acquainted with Hiram-”
One of the Russians snorted at Altaïr’s understated description of her relationship to Hiro; she couldn’t tell which one. Tārā, seated next to the tea service, paused in the act of preparing a fresh pot of tea to glance at them questioningly before turning her attention back to her task. Now she plays hostess for him as well? How interesting.
“-but I do not believe you have been introduced to Soldier Kato Nobu, recently transferred to Alamūt for training from the Hiroshima Motherhouse,” Altaïr continued smoothly, motioning the young man forward. “Nobu, it is my honor to present my student, Disciple Maria Auditore.”
They exchanged bows; she made sure hers was slightly deeper. She could feel everyone watching her – Hiro with relief, Nobu with interest, the Russians and Tārā silently judging, and heaviest of all, Altaïr, with his enigmatic half-smile.
“It is an honor to meet you, Assassin,” Nobu murmured, studying her with opaque dark eyes.
“The honor is all mine, I’m sure,” she replied, meeting his eyes and holding the gaze.
“Tea, Mari?” Tārā offered, extending a carefully prepared cup and saucer.
“Yes, thank you.”
She broke eye contact to accept the tea from Tārā. Kostya made a low-voiced comment in Russian and Irika chuckled dryly in response. Hiro, she noticed, had stiffened at Kostya’s words. They were all casually dressed, in slightly different styles of shirts and trousers, and Irika was wearing a fashionable dress and bright cherry-red lipstick; she was glad she had taken the time to carefully select her outfit instead of just throwing on whatever happened to be on top of her clean clothes pile. Altaïr had drifted over to the window and was studying the darkened gardens below. She excused herself with a polite murmur and approached him cautiously. She could see him watching her reflection in the windowpane as she sidled up beside him.
“Where’s your cat?” she asked, more for lack of anything else to say than actual interest in the creature’s whereabouts.
“He went out.”
Three whole words. He’s positively chatty this evening. She just barely managed to swallow down her consternated sigh. Irika and Kostya were murmuring together in Russian, and she could hear Hiro attempting to draw Tārā and Nobu into conversation. She wondered what Altaïr’s intention had been in inviting Hiro that evening. It’s not because he likes him or has a sudden interest in getting to know him better.
“Will Kadija be joining us for dinner?”
“No.”
She sawed her teeth across her bottom lip. Maybe he’s not feeling so chatty after all.
“D’you have time to talk, later tonight?”
“Regarding?”
“Family business,” she said, choosing her next words with care. There had always been an unspoken understanding in her mother’s family that any family business was to be regarded as an intensely private matter – never to be discussed outside the family – and always afforded immediate attention. “Regarding our upcoming visit with my mother, in Italy.”
He actually turned from the window to look directly at her. Being the focus of the full intensity of his attention was, as always, unnerving. They’d never been all that close when she was growing up, mostly because she’d so rarely actually spent time with him, and she’d hesitate to describe their relationship as close even now, despite the fact that they’d certainly become closer. It was a distinction the majority of her friends didn’t quite comprehend. Altaïr, however, understood the distinction perfectly, despite the fact that he still seemed to struggle with understanding her; to be fair, the struggle was entirely mutual.
“Has there been some development of which I should be aware?” he asked, tone so meticulously stripped of emotion it sounded positively frosty. It was a subtlety she wasn’t certain she would have noticed only six months ago.
Maybe I finally am getting to know him better.
“No, no developments – not that I’m aware of, at least – it’s just, it’s going to be a difficult visit. For all of us, in different ways. And I wanted to talk with you about it beforehand so we can both be somewhat more prepared,” she explained awkwardly. I want to make sure you don’t put me on the spot about Hiro and also warn you about Uncle Mario, but she knew better than to say it like that.
“I see.” He leveled a look that practically scoured the flesh from her bones, followed by another enigmatic half-smile. “Of course, Maria-joon. Whatever you require.”
That feels…ominous.
She noticed the elf standing in front of them before her mind had registered the sound of its arrival. It bowed to Altaïr, rocked its torso forward in an extremely abbreviated bow towards her, and then nervously signed its inquiry: Serve meal now?
“Yes,” Altaïr murmured, sparing his guests a distracted glance. “Please do.” It appeared as though he was about to say something else before he decided against it at the last moment. She wondered what it was he had decided against saying.
The elf must have noticed as well, because it hovered uncertainly for a moment before tugging the hem of Altaïr’s kurta to draw his attention and signing something else. She understood the signs for feed and room, but the others were unfamiliar to her, which was odd because she usually understood most of what the elves signed.
“Yes,” he said, expression softening for the barest fraction of a moment. “Thank you.”
The elf nodded emphatically and then vanished.
She could feel the other Assassins watching them. Not for the first time, she desperately wished she could speak Farsi, or that Altaïr spoke Italian.
“What did it ask you?” she asked, automatically falling in step beside him as he moved to rejoin his other guests.
“Nothing concerning you, habibti,” he replied.
She jolted in surprise at the feeling of his hand settling at the small of her back. It was a universally understood gesture of possession and ownership, as well as an unsettlingly intimate one. She reminded herself that with Altaïr there was no sexual innuendo to his touch, that while his body language was aggressively predatory, his intentions were solely intimidation and display of situational power. Hiro’s shoulders had gone tension tight with concern and no small amount of jealousy, but he knew better than to say or do anything to challenge Altaïr directly. Noticing Hiro’s poorly concealed reaction, Altaïr moved closer to her, angling his shoulders towards her protectively, his expression hard and merciless.
So this is why you invited Hiro, she thought with a flash of irritation. Brute intimidation, really Altaïr.
Nobu, adept enough to divine the meaning of his fellow Assassins’ body language with a skimming glance, looked uncertain and wary. Her cheeks involuntarily warmed at the naked speculation in his eyes as he studied her and she instinctively leaned towards Altaïr, who shifted his stance to avoid the physical contact; she’d learned years ago that leaning closer almost always got him to back off.
“Dinner is served, Effendi,” Tārā said, rather unnecessarily, as place settings appeared on the table, followed shortly by baskets of warm bread wrapped in roughly woven cloth.
“Thank you, Tārā,” Altaïr replied with chilling politeness. “Please, take your places and be welcomed at my table.” He caught Mari’s chin and brushed his lips against her forehead before nudging her towards her seat and assuming his place at the head of the table. He’s laying it on a bit thick. She wondered what, exactly, his intention for the evening was.
Although their places were not marked, they all moved smoothly and soundlessly to claim the appropriate seats according to Assassin custom. Altaïr, the highest ranked as well as the host, sat at the head of the table. Irika and Kostya, both fifth tier Veterans and soon to be elevated to Masters themselves, sat on either side of Altaïr; Irika at his left hand and Kostya at his right. Nobu and Tārā sat beside Irika and Kostya. As the lowest ranked, she and Hiro were relegated to the end of the table, furthest from Altaïr; she suspected that Hiro found it a relief to have two people physically between himself and her disapproving cousin. Mari kept her eyes lowered as she took her place to avoid facing the looks she was getting from Hiro, seated across from her, and Nobu, who was sitting beside her, only looking up to study the strange fare that appeared on the table.
“In honor of Konstantin’s imminent return to Moscow, and the elevation to Master that undoubtedly awaits him there, I have given the selection of tonight’s meal over to him and Irika,” Altaïr informed them.
Although seemingly understated, the statement was effusive approval from Altaïr, and Kostya’s expression momentarily warmed in recognition of that fact. Altaïr drew his blade and tapped it against his glass to fill it, the clink of metal against glass almost unnaturally loud; the rest of the table immediately followed suit.
“A toast,” Altaïr continued, raising his glass. “Ever may your blade strike true and the shadows shield you. Long may you lend your strength to the Order and your bitter times be always brief. Until the day breaks and the darkness fades; safety and peace be upon you.”
Altaïr’s toast reminded her of the one she remembered Malik making when Ezio became a Master. She’d remembered Malik’s toast because it was so similar to the blessing her mother recited over her and Ezio every time they had to leave again after a visit.
A family relic, she wondered. Left over from when there were still three living sisters?
“Safety and peace,” the rest of the table reflexively intoned before raising their glasses to their lips. Altaïr motioned to the Veterans seated on either side of him to begin serving the meal. Unlike most Masters, who started service with themselves in strict observation of rank, Altaïr habitually served himself last when he privately dined with students. His reasons for doing so were, as always, unclear, but at least it gave his guests a head start on eating; the training aspect of training dinners typically began when the Master had finished their meal.
“What is this?” Tārā asked, casting an openly doubtful look at the chunky purplish red soup Kostya was ladling into her bowl.
“Borscht,” Kostya replied heartily. “It only has a little meat-”
“She can’t eat that,” Irika swiftly interrupted him, partially rising to swap her empty bowl for Tārā’s. “Have the dumplings, Tārā. I ordered those especially with you in mind. There are white cheese with potato and mushroom with cabbage.” She indicated one side of the platter and then the other before serving Tārā some of each. “Try both. Then you’ll know which you like better.”
Kostya, still staring at Tārā incredulously, looked like he was about to say something he might regret.
“I’d like some borscht,” Hiro said abruptly, leaning across Tārā to hand Kostya his bowl. “I’m so glad you ordered the kind made with beetroots. I had white borscht once, and it was horrible.”
“Still probably better than shchi,” Irika joked, crinkling her nose at the disapproving look Kostya shot at her.
Mari glanced up the table towards Altaïr. She’d always hated beets, and beetroot soup sounded positively horrifying. He met her gaze and then flicked his eyes towards the soup; his meaning was clear. She forced herself to smile and handed her bowl over to Kostya to be filled. Her stomach curdled at the smell as she reclaimed her now full dish. Nobu hesitated a scant moment before handing his own dish over.
“I don’t think I’ve ever had borscht before,” Nobu commented, cautiously prodding his food with the edge of his spoon. “What are the ingredients to this dish?”
“Lucky you,” she muttered under her breath and shoveled a spoonful of soup into her mouth. She didn’t bother chewing; that would only prolong the experience.
“Meat or bone stock, beetroots – obviously – and usually cabbage, carrots, onions, potatoes and tomatoes,” Irika replied, spooning a dollop of sour cream over her soup and passing the dish to Nobu. “It’s particularly good with sour cream on top; try some.”
“What sort or meat or bones?” Altaïr asked softly, placing a staying hand over his dish when Kostya reached for it to serve him.
“Beef, pork, often a combination of the two,” Kostya replied easily, although his brow clouded when he noticed Altaïr’s hesitation. “Is something the matter, Effendi?”
“Nothing is the matter.” Altaïr’s gaze flitted from the tureen of borscht to the platter of pierogi. “The dumplings are made with no meat? No lard or fat?”
“No meat,” Irika confirmed. “No lard or fat either. I gave very specific instructions, Effendi.”
She immediately understood why Altaïr was asking. Although her cousins were hardly devout in other respects, both Altaïr and Kadija more or less adhered to Islamic dietary laws. Her mother followed them as well, for the most part, with the notable exception that she drank alcohol. She bit back her jealousy at not having a legitimate excuse to decline the borscht.
“All this fuss,” Kostya exclaimed with a laugh. “It’s just food, Effendi. We all must eat to survive.”
“And I shall eat dumplings,” Altaïr replied, handing his dish to Irika. “Perhaps I will have an opportunity to try a halal borscht if I am invited to Moscow.”
“Of course. Of course I will order halal borscht be prepared if you are able to attend my elevation, Effendi,” Kostya said, suddenly serious. “Your attendance would be a great honor to my family.”
“Your elevation is justly earned and long overdue.” Altaïr swept his eyes over the guests seated around his table. She shivered at the way they lingered on Hiro a moment longer than the others.
Leave him alone, she thought forcefully. Altaïr’s attention turned to her and another enigmatic smile touched his lips.
“Come, let us enjoy this fine meal,” he said. “Noosh-e jan.”
“He has nice manners, your young man. Your mother will like that,” Altaïr commented, once again standing at the window surveying the darkened Garden below. Dinner had dragged on interminably and her head ached from nerves and exhaustion by the time his other guests had taken their leave. Hiro and Tārā had been the last to go, lingering until Altaïr finally lost patience and dismissed them both curtly.
“He also has a very kind heart,” she replied. “You’d see that if you bothered to get to know him at all.”
“Then he should probably be warned away from you.”
“Probably,” she tiredly agreed; it was easier than arguing or trying to explain herself – again – and she really didn’t feel up to fighting with him. “Everybody knows I’m not a very nice person, but for some reason he doesn’t believe them.”
“He is either very stupid or very wise.” Altaïr turned from the window to face her. “You have your whole life ahead of you, habibti. So much unrealized potential. Do not throw it all away. If you find yourself in difficulty, do not keep his child. Come to me, and I will see it taken care of.”
She blinked and tried to steady her breathing, quiet the blood roaring in her ears. I will see it taken care of echoed hollowly in her head. Where would we all be if someone had made your mother an offer like that? Where would we be if she had taken it?
“By taken care of,” she said, careful of the brittleness she could hear in her own voice. “You mean what, exactly? To deworm me like a family pet?”
“Maria,” he sighed. “I only want what’s best for you-”
“No. No, you want what you’ve decided is best for me,” she snapped. “And those aren’t necessarily the same thing.”
“He seems kinder than your father was, but the result would be the same. Do you want your mother’s life, Maria?”
Her throat momentarily spasmed closed. He’s not wrong. Damn him. She gulped a deep breath and then another. Forced to marry, impregnated, and then to stay at home with the children while he trains and hunts, with nothing to do but worry about what will happen if he dies. My life would become a prison. She wondered how her mother had been able to stand it.
“Please don’t make me give him up,” she whispered. “My relationship with Hiro is the only thing in my life that is wholly mine. Please, please, Altaïr-”
There was a flash of something in his eyes, of recognition and rawness and oceans of pain. And then it was gone, Altaïr’s expression was once again a perfectly empty mask, and she almost wondered if it had ever been there at all.
“Your relationship has never been wholly yours, habibti,” he said softly. Her heart lurched against her ribcage when he reached over and traced the brand on her ring finger with a careful fingertip. Altaïr usually shied away from every attempt at skin to skin physical contact. “Doubly so, as Hiram has taken the exact same vows. One cannot serve two masters, Maria. Eventually you both will be forced to choose, between love and duty, and you have to know that is no real choice at all.”
“Because the choice will always be duty,” she whispered. Her nose had started running but she refused to cry. Not now, not over this, and not in front of him. “Has always choosing your duty made you happy, Altaïr?”
“It is not a mamlūk’s place to wish for happiness.”
He’d used that word before in reference to himself, in the deep bitter cold of winter, shortly after he had returned with Irika from Turkey. It means ‘property’ or ‘owned slave,’ Seamus had told her with a questioning quirk of his brow. Where did you come across it, some orientalist romance novel? She’d shrugged off Seamus’ question without an answer; it didn’t feel right, exposing Altaïr to her friend’s speculations like that.
She reached over and touched a careful fingertip to the Ferrymen’s ring he wore over his brand. He went perfectly still, but did not recoil; she was surprised he allowed the contact.
“I have neither written nor said anything to your mother about your beau,” he told her, tone once more cool and collected, distant and disinterested. She was struck, again, by how impressive that really was. “But I will not lie for you if Aunt Maria asks me directly.”
She nodded, reflecting that this was another distinction her friends didn’t quite comprehend. She wondered what it said about her that she understood it so well.
“Lucia tells me Uncle Mario’s drinking has gotten worse,” she said, abruptly shifting topics.
“That is most unfortunate. Your uncle is a great Assassin, when he so chooses.”
She hesitated, searching for any double meaning or hidden venom to his words, and found none. From his tone, Altaïr could have been commenting on the weather.
“I’m surprised you have something kind to say about him,” she said cautiously. “He and his family have not always treated you fairly.” To put it mildly.
Her grandmother objected to Altaïr’s presence because of his unknown father and the unwed status of his mother, while her father and uncle’s objections were solely down to their dislike of his mother. She had hardly met her aunt Aaliyah, but she knew that she had frightened other Assassins, even hardened fidā'ī who killed as easily as breathing had been unnerved by her; many still were. She also knew Altaïr was very much like his mother – so everyone always said – he moved like her, spoke like her, looked like her; except for his eyes. Nobody had eyes like Altaïr’s. Which is probably why everyone finds them so unsettling.
“I have not said anything about Grandmaster Mario out of kindness, and any past treatment of me, by him or his family, is irrelevant,” he replied. “I spoke only the truth; it is indeed most unfortunate for the Order when any one of her members performs below our full potential.”
She shook her head with a disbelieving huff. “You must have ice in your veins. How can you just dismiss past mistreatment as irrelevant?”
“The past can only hurt us if we let it,” he lectured, gaze distractedly sweeping across his chambers. “When has clinging to the pain of distant injuries ever been to your benefit?”
Never. She shrugged sharply and avoided his eyes.
“Just… will you help me keep Mother from provoking him?” she mumbled. “It’d be nice for Ezio if he didn’t have to spend the entire visit keeping Mother and Uncle Mario from each other’s throats.”
“I imagine that would make a nicer visit for us all, habibti.” He drifted over to the dresser and removed the necklace from around his neck, carefully coiling the delicate chain before putting it away, followed by the ring he’d worn on his thumb. He pulled his kurta off next, stripping the garment up and over his head in one fluid motion.
“Is there anything further we need to discuss?” he asked, pausing on his way to the bathroom to level a long, speculative look at her. The jagged, waxy scar on the side of his ribcage gleamed as it caught the lamplight.
So many old scars. Some of them she knew the stories behind, others she did not. Ezio also had plenty of scars, Kadija as well. Reminders of contracts where things went wrong, where they had been shot or stabbed or lit on fire, but had lived to tell the tale. Even her mother and Lucia had contract scars. She was suddenly self-conscious of her own nearly pristine skin, marked only by a few mementos of everyday childhood accidents, aware of how assiduously they had all worked to protect her. So much unrealized potential, Altaïr had said. Her throat felt tight.
“Nothing that can’t keep.”
He cocked his head and studied her for another long moment; the golden hue to his eyes briefly intensified when he used the Order’s second sight.
“In that case, I’ll bid you goodnight,” he said softly. “Safety and peace be upon you.”
“Safety and peace,” she replied with a slight bow before backing towards the door. She heard the shower start as she shrugged her coat on.
His cat was waiting in the hallway when she opened the door.