Assassin's Creed: Join the Rooks

Seven Bells

Far from the clashes on the border between Whitechapel and the City, Victoria stopped, out of breath. She was drenched in sweat, both from the mad rush and the pain in her thigh that had intensified — it throbbed throughout her upper leg. Leaning forward, hands resting on her knees, she tried to catch her breath. She felt like she was going to cough up her lungs any minute. When she did, she sat up straight. She swept her eyes over the streets. There wasn't a soul about — or maybe one or two drunks hanging around, and probably further afield. The neighbourhood seemed to be asleep. One could even assume that the Blighters had never existed — if only. The fact that there was no one around might have made her more serene if her instincts hadn't continued to be alert. Paranoia could get to her, and that would be normal with the evening she was having.

After looking around for the umpteenth time, with no movement to alert her to another potential danger, she began to walk slowly. From then on, she wandered like a wounded animal, dragging her feet. She didn't know where she was going, but she was already preparing to turn around and run if danger presented itself again.

A few streets further on, she stopped to try and find her bearings. She was feeling weak, and needed a quiet place to rest for a few moments before setting off again... and getting help for her leg. To see where she had ended up, she stopped and looked around. She couldn't see much, there was no light in the courtyard. She realised that she was in a courtyard with a locked gate leading to another main street. She wanted to turn around and go back to the main street she had seen through the gate, but she shrieked, too exhausted to take another step. Too bad, this was where she would rest. She was delighted to learn that she would be in the company of rats when she heard their high-pitched cries as she made her decision. In a controlled fall, she let herself fall to the ground.

Lying on her side, her injured leg on top of the other, she finally let go of the tears she had been holding back since the — umpteenth — bad encounter with the Blighters. Her vision blurred, she turned her head towards the sky. Silently sobbing, she cursed her father for having had such an idea. To flee London when you're at the mercy of that bloody gang, with no way out except death. He'd still be alive and she wouldn't be in this mess if they'd just stayed at home. Yes, on the face of it, it was deliberately stupid. But on the other hand, she thought she understood what her father wanted. Driven by hope, he had wanted to try and have a better life, for himself but above all for her. As she became more aware of her father's unexpected sacrifice, she blamed herself for being so angry with him, for blaming him unfairly.

A violent twinge in her thigh brought her back to reality. She took it as punishment for thinking such evil thoughts about her father's death. She clenched her fingers close to the wound, hoping that the pain would spread throughout her thigh. Unsurprisingly, it didn't work; on the contrary, it got worse. She cried because of the infection that had started. Her tears mixed with the water in the furrows in the muddy ground.

It was only between three and four in the morning that she had left reality for the world of dreams — despite her painful injury. Aware that she was dreaming, the dreams showed her a completely different life, far from the insalubriousness and misery of the working class. She was a young middle-class woman, just like her father and what seemed to be her mother. In this dream, she was playing the piano in a large living room with a pretty floral tapestry. Her parents were listening, sitting on a sofa with their eyes closed, enjoying the lovely melody they were hearing.

A few hours later, as London slowly woke up, a man in his late forties emptied a bucket of dirty water. He had just finished mopping the floor of the pub he managed: the Seven Bells. It was a pub in the north-east* of the City very popular with the upper working and middle classes. Thatcher Jennings, the manager, knew a lot of people here. He lived upstairs with his lovely wife, Mary, who sometimes helped out when customers brought in their food to cook. With the bucket empty, he went back inside the room to continue cleaning before opening to the public. But he sensed something strange, a presence. His instinct was to turn his head in the direction it was telling him. He spotted the young brunette, still asleep and probably dreaming of a better life, holding her leg in a makeshift tourniquet that she had probably made between two sleeps.