The Pledge (The Pledge 1)

Only when he finally addressed them in the universal language of Englaise did their eyes li CtheEARS stand, theft to meet his. “I have many fine fabrics,” he boasted in an effort to draw their attention, and hopefully their wallets. “Silks and wools of the finest quality.” And beneath his breath, but still loud enough to be heard, “And remnants and dirty scrap pieces as well.”

I glanced across the swell of tired faces crowding the market at this hour and saw Aron looking back at me. I narrowed my eyes to a glare, a wicked smile touching the corners of my lips. Your father’s an ass, I mouthed.

Even though he couldn’t hear what I said, he understood my meaning and grinned back at me, shocks of sand-colored hair standing up all over his head. I know, he mouthed back, a deep dimple digging its way through his left cheek. His warm golden eyes sparkled.

My mother poked her elbow into my ribs. “I saw that, young lady. Watch your language.”

I sighed, turning away from Aron. “Don’t worry, I always watch my language.”

“You know what I mean. I don’t want to hear that kind of talk from you, especially in front of your sister. You’re better than that.”

I stalked inside, taking shelter from the glare of the morning sun. My little sister sat at one of the empty tables, her legs swinging back and forth as she bobbed her head and pretended to feed the threadbare doll perched on the table in front of her.

“First of all, she didn’t hear it,” I protested. “No one did. And, apparently, I’m not better than that.” I raised my eyebrows as my mom went back to wiping down the tables. “Besides, he is an ass.”

“Charlaina Hart!” My mom’s voice—and her words—shifted to the throaty mutterings of Parshon, just as they always did when she lost her patience with me. She reached out and snapped me on the leg with her towel. “She’s four; she’s not hard of hearing!” She threw a glance toward my sister, whose silver-blond hair gleamed in the sunlight pouring in through the windows.

My little sister never even looked up; she was accustomed to my mouth.

“Maybe when Angelina’s old enough for school, she’ll learn better manners than you have.”

I bristled against my mother’s words. I hated when she said things like that; we both knew Angelina wouldn’t be going to school. Unless she found her voice soon, she wouldn’t be permitted to attend.

But instead of arguing, I shrugged stiffly. “Like you said, she’s only four,” I answered in Englaise.

“Just get out of here before you’re late. And don’t forget: we need you to work after school, so don’t go home.” She said this as if it were unusual. I worked every day after school. “Oh, and make sure Aron walks with you; there are a lot of new people in the city, and I’d feel better if the two of you stayed together.”

I stuffed my schoolbooks into my worn satchel before dropping down in front of Angelina as she silently played with her dolly. I kissed her on her cheek, secretly slipping a piece of candy into her already sticky palm. “Don’t tell Mommy, B#821 Mommy,&8221; I whispered close to her ear, wisps of her hair tickling my nose, “or I won’t be able to sneak you any more. Okay?”

My sister nodded at me, her blue eyes clear and wide and trusting, but she didn’t say anything. She never said anything.

My mother stopped me before I could go. “Charlaina, you have your Passport, don’t you?” It was an unnecessary question, but one she asked daily, every time I left her sight.

I tugged at the leather strap around my neck, revealing the ID card tucked within my shirt. The plastic coating was as warm and familiar to me as my own skin.

Then I winked at Angelina, reminding her one last time that we had a secret to keep, before I hurried out the door and into the congested streets.

I raised my hand above my head, waving to Aron as I passed his father’s shop, signaling that he should meet me in our usual spot: the plaza on the other side of the marketplace.

I pressed my way through the bodies, remembering a time—before the threat of a new revolution—when the streets were not so crowded, when the marketplace was simply a place for commerce, filled with the smells of smoked meats and leather and soaps and oils. Those smells were still here, but now they were mingled with the scent of unwashed bodies and desperation, as the market became a refuge for the country’s unwanted, those poor souls of the Serving class who’d been forced from their homes when trade lines had been cut off by the rebel forces. When those they served could no longer afford to keep them.

They flocked to our city for the promise of food and water and medical care.

Yet we could scarcely house them.

The monotone voice coming from the loudspeakers above our heads was so familiar I might not have noticed it if the timing weren’t so uncanny: “ALL UNREGISTERED IMMIGRANTS MUST REPORT TO CAPITOL HALL.”

I clutched the strap of my bag and kept my head low as I pushed ahead.

When I finally emerged from the stream of bodies, I saw Aron already standing in front of the fountain in the plaza, waiting for me. For him it was always a race.

“Whatever,” I muttered, unable to keep the grin from my lips as I handed him my book bag. “I refuse to say it.”

He took my heavy load without complaint, beaming back at me. “Fine, Charlie, I’ll say it: I win.” Then he reached into his own bag, which was slung across his shoulder. Behind us, the water from the fountain trickled musically. “Here,” he said, handing me a fold of soft black fabric. “I brought you something. It’s silk.”