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.
“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 chi
ld. 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.
Then I remembered the other man speaking again, quietly, almost whisper-soft. “What she’s done is illegal. Either you turn her in, or I will.”
There was no pause when my father answered. “I can’t let you do that.”
I’d gripped my doll so tight as I stole backward, taking slow and steady steps without watching where I was going.
I slid as soundlessly as I could beneath the bed again, just like my daddy had instructed, curling myself tightly into a ball as tears slipped down my cheeks. I covered my ears as I tried to block out first the sounds, and then the crackling silence, that came from just outside my bedroom as I closed my eyes.
I cowered there in the darkness, terrified that the sounds that rattled the closed door would somehow find their way over to my side. But they never did, and the hush that followed stretched endlessly. When I grew weary, I lay my head down on the cold floor and waited.
Finally I heard the door’s creak, and my heart seized within the cavity of my chest. I was fully awake in the space of a breath. My eyes went wide, trying to absorb enough light from the darkness around me to see whose feet were shuffling toward my bed. The scraping sound of heavy boots against stone made my skin shiver.
I leaned up on my elbows, staring out. My throat felt choked by the thick lump that had formed there.
And then the weight of the mattress above me shifted heavily, and I heard a heavy sigh.
“You can come Bem"> can com out now.”
At the sound of my father’s voice, I scurried forward, scooting along on my stomach as quickly as I could. Before I was even out from beneath the bed, he was reaching for me, drawing me up. I crawled onto his warm lap, curling my knees and feet underneath me as I wrapped my scrawny arms around his waist. I breathed in the smell of him.
He held me for a long time before speaking again, probably because there were so many things we shouldn’t be saying, so many things that should remain unstated. But finally his voice rumbled up from his chest against my ear.
He spoke in Englaise now, the softer syllables of the language making his words seem less harsh than before, when he’d been speaking to the man in the other room. “You can’t do that anymore. You must be cautious.” Then he switched back to the more guttural tone of our native tongue as he lifted me from his lap and dropped me onto my soft pillows. “Now get some rest, lamb. I need to clean up before your mother gets home.”
He tucked the blankets around me and leaned down, gently pressing his lips against my forehead. My heavy eyelids closed, and I remember feeling safe and secure, knowing that my father had protected me, just as he would always protect me . . .
. . . as I tried to forget about the blood that covered his shirt.
I sighed as I looked at my father now, knowing that all he’d ever wanted was to keep us safe, me and Angelina. So why was it so difficult for me to admit that I’d made a mistake? “You’re right, Daddy,” I finally said. “I’ll be more careful. I promise.”
He smiled up at me. It was a puny attempt, but I appreciated the effort. “I know you will, lamb.” He reached out and took my hand, squeezing my fingers in a fierce grip.
The front door burst open then, and Angelina came bounding inside, small and energetic, her blond hair tangled and wild, making her look like a tiny whirlwind. My mother trailed in behind her.
“Are you ready for bed?” I asked my sister, swinging her into my arms and using her as an excuse to escape the lingering feeling that I’d disappointed my father.
Angelina nodded, looking anything but sleepy.
I shrugged at my parents over my shoulder as I carried the wiggly little girl into the bedroom we shared and settled her down on the only bed. I left her to undress as I went to fetch a wet rag so I could wipe away some of the filth she’d managed to accumulate throughout the course of the day.
“You’re a mess,” I accused as I scrubbed away the grime from her alabaster skin. She flashed me a toothy, four-year-old grin. “Muffin’s a mess too,” I complained, looking at the grubby doll she carried everywhere she went, the worn-out, hand-me-down rabbit I’d given her.
The years hadn’t been good to Muffin. His fur was worn so thin it was transparent in spots, making him look mangy. Stains made his original soft white appear brown and blotchy, sickly even.
Angelina clutched the tattered bunny, refusing to even allow the washrag near him.
By the time I finished cleaning my little sister and chang B my and chaning her into her nightgown, Angelina was leaning heavily against my side, barely able to hold up her own head.
“Come on, sleepy girl,” I whispered, slipping her small body beneath the blankets and nestling the dirty little rabbit beside her on the pillow. Angelina never slept without Muffin.
I climbed into bed beside her, leaving on the bedside lamp and pulling out the fabric Aron had given me. I’d already cut it into pieces, fashioning a pattern of my own creation, and pinned them all together. I plucked a sewing needle from the spool of thread I’d left sitting on my bedside table and set to work, noting, once more, the feel of the silken fabric between my fingers, and wondering what it would feel like to wear something so scandalously fine.
Angelina’s feet moved over to my side of the bed, across the cool sheets, and found their way beneath my legs as she sought my warmth.
It was Angelina’s way of saying good night.
It was the only way she could.
V
It hadn’t been difficult to talk Brooklynn into going to the club again, and I really hadn’t expected it to be. Brook was predictable if nothing else.
“So? Who is he?” she’d asked in a conspiratorial whisper, leaning close and hooking her arm through mine. She winked at Angelina, who was sitting cross-legged on the bed, watching Brook with rapt admiration. “I didn’t see you with anyone the other night, but you’ve never wanted to go to the clubs twice in one week.”
She wasn’t wrong; I hadn’t stopped thinking about those stormy gray eyes since that night at Prey. And that was two days ago, longer than any boy had ever occupied my thoughts.
I wasn’t sure what it was about Max. He frightened me almost as much as he intrigued me. Still, as much as I worried about the possibility of running into his friends, I was desperate to see him again.
“It isn’t like that,” I’d tried to explain, but Brooklynn refused to listen.
“Really, Charlie? I don’t believe you for a second, especially if you’re planning to wear that.” She narrowed her eyes suspiciously as she appraised me.
I almost smiled. Even though I’d designed the dress myself, it felt like too much. Or not enough, really. I wasn’t like Brooklynn. I wasn’t accustomed to feeling so exposed; one shoulder was bare, and the other was covered only by a thin strip of the dark silk. The fabric felt sheer as it hugged my body in ways that my loose cotton dresses never would.
“Whatever. If you don’t want to tell me . . .” Her words trailed off in a pout that I imagined worked on every boy she’d ever used it on. “Has she told you anything?” she asked my little sister.
Angelina shook her head, setting her chin on her hands as she leaned forward expectantly, her blue eyes wide.
“Seriously, Brook, it’s nothing. He’s just someone . . . unusual. I only want to talk to him again. It’s not what you think.”
But in the end, my motivations hadn’t mattered; Brooklynn would’ve gone regardless of my reasons. So later that night, when I found myself back at
the red steel door, I was relieved to find that Prey was still open, that it was still a club. Yet I was even less comfortable than I had been the first time we’d gone.
But some things never changed: different bouncer, same routine.
Brooklynn, as usual, seemed to enjoy the skin inspection, while I felt defiled and revolted by it. More so, because so much of my skin was bared.
As always, the man at the door let us pass in exchange for dosing us with a hallucinogen-laced hand stamp. Even before we could tuck our Passports away, my skin smoldered where the ink was working its way beneath my flesh. I barely glanced at the mark; I was too busy searching, scanning the club for something—someone—else, but I knew there would soon be a welt.
With the same ease that we’d gotten by the bouncer, we made it past the blue-haired bartender, too, and this time she even gave Brook change, although not before claiming a hefty tip for herself.
The club itself was busier tonight, and I glanced up to the stages where, instead of beads, the dancing girls were adorned only in bright feathery plumes. They were stunning to watch, like exotic birds of purple and blue and green.
I was aware of Brook pulling me through the crowds, her attention captured by the lures of the music, the men, and the drug seeping its way in through her hand.
My eyes darted about, searching . . . searching.