The Pledge (The Pledge 1)

As my fingers closed around the smooth material, I gasped. It was like nothing I’d ever felt before. Silk, I repeated in my head. I knew the word but had never actually touched the fabric before. I squeezed it in my hand, rubbing it with my fingertips, admiring the way it was almost sheer and the way the sun reflected back from it. Then I turned to Aron, my voice barely a whisper. “It’s too much.” I tried to give it back to him.

He shoved my hand away, scoffing, “Please. My dad was going to throw it in the scrap bin. You’re sm B bin217;re sall enough; you can use the pieces to make a new dress or something.”

I glanced down at my scuffed black boots and the dull gray cotton dress I wore, plain and loose-fitting like a sack. I tried to imagine what this fabric would feel like pressed against my skin: like water, I thought, cool and slippery.

When Brooklynn arrived, she dropped her bag at Aron’s feet. As usual, she didn’t say “Good morning” or “Would you please?” but Aron reached for her bag anyway.

Unlike his father, there wasn’t an unkind bone in Aron’s body. Or maybe “stupid” was the word I sought to describe the elder Grayson. Or rude. Or lazy. It didn’t matter; any of those unflattering traits that his father possessed had apparently bypassed his son.

“What? You didn’t bring me anything?” She jutted her full lower lip in a pout, and her dark eyes flashed enviously as she eyed the silk in my hands.

“Sorry, Brook, my dad would notice if I snagged too much at once. Maybe next time.”

“Yeah, right, Midget. You say that now, but next time it’ll be for Charlie too.”

I smiled at Brook’s nickname for Aron. He was taller than Brooklynn now, taller than both of us, yet she still insisted on calling him Midget.

I slipped the delicate fabric into my bag with great care, wondering what, exactly, I would make from it, already anxious to put needle and thread to it.

Brook led the way as we moved around the perimeter of the plaza, where the crowds were already gathering. As always, we took the long way, avoiding the central square. I’d like to think that it was Brook’s or even Aron’s idea—or that either of them was as disturbed by the things that happened in the square as I was—but I doubted that was true. I knew it bothered me more.

From somewhere overhead, another message crackled: “ALL SUSPICIOUS ACTIVITY MUST BE REPORTED TO YOUR NEAREST PATROL STATION.”

“Passports,” Aron announced solemnly as we approached a new checkpoint at the base of the giant archway that led to the city streets. He reached beneath his shirt, just as Brook and I did, pulling out our IDs.

There were more and more of the checkpoints lately, with new ones appearing overnight. This one was no different from most: four armed soldiers, two for each line—one for the men and one for the women and children. After the photo on each Passport was visually matched to the person wearing it, the identification card was scanned through a portable electronic device.

The checkpoints didn’t matter, really; they weren’t meant for us. We weren’t the revolutionaries they sought to keep from moving freely about the city. To Brook and Aron and me, they were simply another security measure, one of the consequences of the war brewing within the borders of our own country.

And if you asked Brooklynn, the checkpoints were a bonus, new opportunities to practice her flirting techniques.

Brook and I stood in our line, remaining silent as we awaited our turn. While our Passports were being scanned into the system and we waited to be cleared, I stood back and watched as Brook batted her t Bas Bted her hick black lashes at the young soldier holding her card.

He glanced down at the scanner, and then back to her again, and the corner of his mouth rose subtly, almost unnoticeably. Brook stepped closer than she needed to when the light on the portable computer flashed green, clearing her.

“Thank you,” she purred as she held his gaze, her voice low and husky. She slipped the Passport down the front of her shirt, making sure he watched it fall.

The IDs weren’t anything new to us. They’d been issued for as far back as anyone could remember. But it was only in the last few years that we’d been forced to start wearing them in order to be “tracked,” so that the queen and her officials knew where we were at all times. Just another reminder that the revolutionaries were tightening their stranglehold on the crown.

I’d once seen someone taken into custody at one of the checkpoints, a woman who had tried to slip through using another person’s Passport. She’d passed the visual inspection, but when the card was scanned, the little light on the machine flashed red instead of green. The Passport had been reported stolen.

The queen had no tolerance for crime. Theft was treated just as severely as treason or murder would be: All were punishable by death.

“Charlie!” Aron’s voice dragged me out of my own thoughts. I hurried after them, not wanting to be late for school, as I tucked my Passport back inside the front of my dress and ran to catch up. As I reached them, a loud cheer went up behind us—coming from the crowded square we’d just left behind.

None of us flinched or even faltered in our steps. Not one of us so much as blinked to acknowledge that we’d even heard the sound, not when we were so near the guards at the checkpoint who were always watching.

I thought briefly of the woman I’d seen that day, the one with the stolen Passport, and I wondered what it had been like for her, standing on the gallows in the square surrounded by a crowd of onlookers. People who jeered at her for the crime she’d committed. I wondered if her family had come to watch, if they’d seen the trapdoor drop open beneath her feet. If they’d closed their eyes when the rope had snapped her neck, if they’d wept while her feet swayed lifelessly beneath her.