I dropped my head and tried to ignore the prickling on my arms as I felt the girl’s eyes drilling into me.

Her friend stood beside her now, the two of them forming a wall in front of us. “I don’t know why they even let vendors go to school at all, do you, Sydney?”

And, again, the air shivered in hot waves.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Veronica, they have to go to school. How else are they going to learn to count our change when they work for us? I mean, just look at their hands. They’re already working somewhere, and they probably have no idea how to count or read or even how to write.”

I hated them both for thinking we were ignorant, and my teeth ached from biting back my retorts. But my cheeks burned as I stole a quick glance at Sydney’s perfectly manicured hands. She was right about that part; my nails were short and my skin raw from washing dishes in my parents’ restaurant. I wanted desperately to hide them behind my back, but I couldn’t risk letting her know I’d understood her insults.

Keeping my gaze averted, I tried to sidestep her, but she matched my stride, moving with me and keeping herself in my path. Blood pulsed in my ears.

“Don’t go yet,” she cooed. “We’re just starting B217;startingto have fun. Aren’t you having fun, Veronica?”

There was a wooden pause, and then her friend answered, her voice apathetic. “Not really, Syd. I’m going back inside. They’re not really worth it.”

Sydney waited only a few seconds longer, still blocking our way, before she finally grew bored and left us standing there so she could follow her friend back up the polished marble steps. I didn’t lift my head until I heard the doors of the Academy close behind them.

And then I exhaled loudly.

“Why do they do that?” Brook asked, once we were away from the gleaming school. Her cheeks were red, and her eyes glistened with unshed tears. She reached over, her fingers closing around my hand. “What did we ever do to them?”

Aron seemed just as shaken. “I wonder what it is that they’re saying about us, when they do that.” His voice was ragged, and he shook his head wearily.

I just shrugged. It was all I could do. I could never tell them the truth of what Sydney and her friend had said.

We reached our school, which was far less grand and polished than the Academy. The building was old brick, not the eye-catching kind of brick found on historical buildings with charm, but rather the crumbling kind that looked like it might cave in on itself at any moment. We didn’t have fancy uniforms or even a name, like the Academy; we were merely known as School 33.

But it was hard to complain. It was a school, and we were allowed to attend. And it was still open, despite the fighting going on within our country. These were all things to be grateful for. There were worse things in life than attending a Vendor’s school.

Like attending no school at all.

The morning bell sounded, and everyone in the classroom stood, as did every other student at every other school throughout the country. In unison, we raised our right hands, our elbows bent, our fists raised skyward, and for the only time during school hours, we spoke in Englaise.

It was the Queen’s Pledge:

My breath is my pledge to worship my queen

above all others.

My breath is my pledge to obey the laws of my

country.

My breath is my pledge to respect my superiors.

My breath is my pledge to contribute to the

progress of my class.

My breath is my pledge to report all who would

do harm to my queen and country.

As I breathe, I pledge.

I didn’t often listen to the words of the Pledge. I just spoke them, letting them fall negligently from my lips. After years of repetition, they’d become second nature, almost exactly like breathing.

But today, maybe for the first time ever, I heard them. I noted the words we emphasized: worship, obey, respect, contribute, report. I listed the order of importan Bthe importace in my head: queen, then country, then class. The Pledge was a command as much as it was a promise, yet another way that the queen demanded that we protect her and our way of life.

I looked at the kids around me, my classmates. I saw clothing in shades of grays, blues, browns, and blacks. Working-class colors. Practical colors. The fabrics and textures were sensible—cottons, wools, even canvas—durable and hard to soil. I didn’t even have to look to know that every student in the classroom stood erect, chins high. That was something our parents and teachers instilled in us each and every day, to be proud of who we were.

I wondered why we had been born of the Vendor class. Why we were better than some, yet not as good as others. But I knew the answer: It had nothing to do with us. It was simple fate.

Had we been born to parents of the Serving class, we would not be attending classes today. And had our parents been Counsel folk, we would have climbed the gleaming steps to the Academy.

The instructor cleared his throat and I jumped, realizing that the Pledge was over, and that my fist—and mine alone—was still raised.

My face burned hot beneath the stares of the forty-five merchant-born children who shared this hour with me as I dropped my fist to my side, clenching it tightly as I took my seat. Beside me, I saw Brooklynn grinning.

I glared at her, but she knew it wasn’t a real glare, and it only made her smile grow.

“You heard, didn’t you?” Aron spoke in a low whisper when I joined him in the courtyard for the lunch hour. Other than during the Pledge, Parshon was the only language we were permitted to speak in our school.