The Pledge (8 page)

I’d heard Claude when he spoke last night, and there was something wrong with it. . . .

Why had I never heard his language before? How was that possible? With the threat of the revolution drawing interest from outside countries—countries hoping to prey on the fact that our defenses were weak, hoping to take advantage of a queen in peril—Ludania’s borders had been closed off, and all foreign visitors had been forced to leave. No more tourist Passports were being issued.

Yet I had heard all the regional variations of Termani, Parshon, and Englaise; I knew all their intonations, their cadences, their rhythms. Or so I’d believed. Until now.

Now I’d heard something new.

But why was I so certain that I was never meant to hear this language in the first place?

I couldn’t help wondering who Claude and his friend were. Spies? Revolutionaries speaking in code? Something worse?

Those questions, and the strange sounds of this new language, had haunted me far into the night, chasing me into sleep and making me restless.

Other things had kept me awake too, and occupied my thoughts, things I had no business thinking about. Dark gray eyes, soft lips, a brash smile.

I tried to tell myself it was foolish to entertain such notions, but every time I forced him out, he found his way back in again.

The next morning I was relieved when I saw Brooklynn waiting in our usual spot in the plaza before school. I nearly smiled, until I realized that she was pretending not to notice me. Aron wasn’t there yet; it was only the two of us. I approached warily, uncertain how to deal with last night.

“Hi,” I offered apprehensively, wishing I had something better to start off with.

Brook kept her arms crossed over her chest, her book bag lying crookedly at her feet. Yet even with her defiant stance, I knew she must be wavering. Why else would she have come?

She turned her cheek, still refusing to acknowledge my presence.

“Fine,” I said with a sigh, realizing I would have to make the first move and hating the bitter taste of apology on my tongue. “Brooklynn, I’m sorry. I know you liked that—that
Claude
guy.” I purposely said his name like “Cloud,” hoping to crack her cast-iron shell. But I got nothing as she continued to glare skyward. “I can’t explain it, I just can’t,” I tried. “There was something . . . strange about them. Something I didn’t trust.” It was as clear as I could be, but at least her foot was tapping now. She was listening to me, and that was a start. “You know I wouldn’t have asked you to leave if I wasn’t worried. . . .” I paused, trying to think what more I could possibly say.

Brooklynn turned to me then, a concerned frown taking the place of her unrelenting glower. She thought for a moment, and when she finally spoke, I wished we could go back in time. The silent treatment was easier than the truth. “It wasn’t about the guy, Charlie. It was about you. Something happened last night, and not just at the club, at the restaurant, too. You’re the one who’s acting
strange
. . . .” Her voice dropped to a discreet whisper as she closed the gap between us, standing so close now that no one could possibly overhear. “You’re the one who’s going around breaking the law. And don’t fool yourself, I saw what you did at school yesterday, when you
gave that boy a cookie. It’s dangerous. The deadly sort of dangerous.” Her mouth became a firm line as she nearly pressed her cheek to mine then, her voice almost inaudible. “I’m your friend, Charlie. If there’s something you want to tell me, I’ll listen. I’ll keep your secrets. But you need to be more careful. For the sake of everyone around you.”

My eyes were wide and my mouth had gone dry as I jumped back, startled by her words and her tone. Brook was seldom serious. Worrying to this degree was practically unheard of. I stared back at her, unblinking. She was right, of course, I
was
the one who’d been causing trouble. Not her. Not Claude.

I nearly jumped when the loudspeaker blared above us: “ALL SUSPICIOUS ACTIVITY MUST BE REPORTED TO YOUR NEAREST PATROL STATION.”

I was so tempted to tell her everything.

But it was Aron that I heard above all else, shattering the moment. “No fair cheating, you know? I never even saw you leave. This doesn’t count.” He grinned, all crooked and goofy. But his brows creased when he looked at the two of us, standing as still as the statues of the queen that filled the city. “Everything okay . . . ?”

I sucked in an unsteady breath as I shot a questioning look at Brooklynn.
Are we okay?
I asked with that look.

Brook, her eyes still on mine, bumped me with her shoulder, a playful nudge. “We’re fine,” she said, more to me than to Aron. And as she started walking, she glanced over her shoulder to him. “Get my bag, will ya, Midget?”

I grinned when I saw Aron standing at the bottom of the steps after school, waiting for me. Aron, who was always reassuring and safe, and the moment I saw him I felt myself relaxing.

I couldn’t recall a time when it hadn’t been that way. Aron was bright and steady and clear, like finding a beacon in the darkness.

At times it was still difficult reconciling the man’s body that had grown around the boy I’d once known, but there were subtle remnants of my childhood friend—the way his hair was permanently mussed, and the small patch of freckles on his nose that was vanishing a little more with each passing year. Automatically, he reached for my bag.

“Brooklynn wanted me to tell you she had to leave early. Her dad needs her at home today.”

I frowned despite Aron’s uncomplicated smile and tried to recall just when his voice had deepened. Was it possible that it had happened without my notice?

“She could have walked with us,” I responded, but there was no real conviction in my words. Even though she was no longer upset with me, Brooklynn never wanted company on the days when her father called her home.

Her father rarely paid her any attention, but when he did it was because the house required cleaning or the kitchen was in need of restocking. I knew she felt unimportant to be noticed so infrequently, and for strictly utilitarian purposes.

I’d begun to hate him because she didn’t seem capable of it.

“Hey, Aron, your dad talks a lot. . . .” It wasn’t a question. Mr. Grayson was the kind of man who craved gossip in the way
others needed air. He would be dangerous if he weren’t such a fool, but his mind was as frivolous as his tongue was loose.

Aron just nodded. He didn’t take offense at the insinuation . . . he knew, of course. Then he cast a curious grin in my direction. “What are you after?”

I shrugged, worrying that I was overstepping. I proceeded cautiously. “What does he say about Brooklynn? About her father?”

The grin disappeared. “What do you mean?”

My shoulders lifted again. “You know what I mean. Does your father ever talk about them? Does he say if they’re doing okay? Is Mr. Maier working enough? Can he support the two of them? Is Brook . . .” I had a difficult time asking this last part, even though I’d wondered it a thousand times. “Is there any danger that she’ll be taken away from him?” Brooklynn was nearly seventeen, only a few weeks younger than me, and in just over a year would be of age to make her own decisions. But until then she was at risk of being claimed as a ward of the queen. Which meant being sent to a work camp, something Brooklynn would rather die than face, as it meant losing her Vendor’s status and slipping down in standing. All orphans became members of the Serving class.

Aron stopped walking, his face serious now, his eyes uncommonly sad. “I’ve heard things,” he said regretfully. “The customers in my father’s shop talk about Brook sometimes, but it’s not about her well-being. They say she’s too wild, that her father has given up on her, that he gives her too much freedom. Some say he should keep her under lock and key, others just talk about how sad it is that her mother isn’t there
to keep her under control.” He shook his head. “I haven’t heard anyone say that her father can’t support her, but I worry when her name comes up. I’m afraid that someday I’ll hear their complaints become something worse”—he looked up at me, capturing my eyes with his—“something dangerous.”

We both knew what he was talking about, and my breath lodged in my throat as I reached for his arm. I wanted to tell him that it was impossible, that no one could possibly suspect Brooklynn of being a traitor, that no one would dare accuse her of collaborating with the rebels. But I knew I was wrong.

Not because I thought Brooklynn was a revolutionary, but because I knew it was entirely possible that someone might voice their opinions out loud. Sometimes—more often than I cared to admit—the rewards of turning in a neighbor were enough to shift loyalties. And someone like Brook, a girl with no mother, and no father to speak of, made for an easy target.

“You’ll warn me if you hear that kind of talk?” I asked, not sure exactly what I’d do with the information but knowing that I couldn’t just let her be taken away. Not the way Cheyenne Goodwin had been.

“You know I will,” Aron assured me, and I knew he meant it. He slipped his hand around mine as we walked, reminding me that he was still my friend. That I could still count on him.

I leaned my head against his shoulder, once again comforted by his presence.

“How many times do I have to tell you? It was an accident. I didn’t realize she’d switched to Termani.” I was tired of
explaining myself, but it didn’t matter how many times I’d repeated those words, my father still wasn’t satisfied.

He was too worried.

He paced the room, and even though he’d had an entire day to calm down since the incident at the restaurant the night before, his shoulders were still heavy with the burden of what I’d done. Of what I’d let slip.

“Charlaina, please, those aren’t the kinds of mistakes you can afford. All I’m saying is that you must be careful. Always careful.”
His skin was flushed as he pressed his calloused palm against my cheek. Stress creased his forehead and wrinkled his brow.
“I worry about you. I worry about all of us.”

“I know,” I answered, stubbornly refusing to indulge my parents’ love of Parshon. I much preferred to speak Englaise. All the time, Englaise. That way there was no room for misunderstandings, no room for errors. I wished that everyone felt as I did.

He sat down on the sofa in the small central living space of our house. It was cozy, and filled with years of memories. I knew every nook, every stone, every plank of wood, and every darkened crevice by heart.

This was the house I was born in, the house in which I’d been raised, and yet suddenly I felt unworthy of its refuge for betraying my father’s trust. I understood—maybe more than anyone—just what he’d sacrificed to keep us safe.

I still remembered that night, when I was only Angelina’s age. The night the man had banged on our door, demanding to speak to my father and refusing to go away without answers.

My father had pushed me into my bedroom, warning me
to wait there until he told me it was safe. Or until my mother came home. And I’d tried to obey, tried to remain hidden beneath the bed—just as he’d insisted—but I’d been so afraid.

That night was still so vivid in my memory: the cold stone floor beneath my bare feet as I’d crept out from my hiding place, the doll I’d clutched against my chest, the words exploding from the other side of the heavy door.

“I heard what she did, Joseph. That man spoke to her in Termani, and she answered him. She understood what he said. She’s an abomination!”
It wasn’t my father’s voice I’d heard raised in alarm and traced with outrage.

“You heard nothing. She’s a child. She was only playing.”

“She wasn’t, and you put us all at risk by keeping her here!”

I’d held my breath, leaning my forehead against the rough-hewn wood, the only barrier that separated me from my father.

And then my father’s voice, angry and firm.
“You need to leave my home. You’ve no business here.”

The silence that followed was too long, and so heavy with meaning that even then I knew enough to be terrified of the hollow space. I’d stepped back, shivering in the still black air.