The Pledge (The Pledge 1)

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 Banceulder tohim. “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 Bk sot’ 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.