A static of electricity.
A blaze of color.
Tensing, I brace myself against Samson’s chest as jewels spin around us, colored lights erupting and sparking. When my eyes can’t take it anymore, I squeeze them shut and wait for the world to stop quivering with magic.
“I can’t believe that worked,” he whispers, so close.
“Neither can I.” I swallow, shaking, and lower the blade.
Samson’s hand slips from mine, up my arm, to my shoulder. “Are you okay, Lemonade?”
I soak in the support; it makes my heart shiver. Softly, I say, “Yeah,” then I dare to open my eyes and look into the blade.
Dark…hair.
Nothing like Citrus’s brilliant gold locks, which I’ve more than gotten used to over these past two seasons.
Hollow eyes, endlessly searching, endlessly wanting.
Samantha is thin, pale, empty, a pool of memories and pain I wasn’t expecting to stomach right now.
Looking in a mirror at who I once was is nothing short of looking at a corpse. And it sends a tremor down my spine when I remember that Verity’s Edge doesn’t show you thepast.
It shows you thetruth.
Inside, am I still this husk of a person?
My stomach knots. Trepidation takes hold.
I’d reject the very idea if it weren’t staring me in the face.
Samson’s grip on my shoulder tightens, and I wonder if he can see Samantha, too. Lifting my attention, however, I find a teenager with Samson’s own eyes gazing mournfully above my reflection. The unmistakable blue is as breathtaking as the irrevocable sadness pooling in it.
He’s just a boy. Young. Wounded. Hopeless. Alone. Already a patchwork of scars, with the reddened flesh of healing tattoos covering his arms.
My heart cracks.
A tear skates down the boy’s cheek, and I look up at Samson’s face.
His eyes startle toward me, damp, and I raise my shaking free hand to dry the trail. “Are you okay?” I ask, voice breaking.
He nods once, glancing toward the blade. “Who…” His brows knit. “Is that what you used to look like, in your old world?”
A twinge of panic twists my heart. I swallow. “Y-yes.”
“I guess I never thought that you looked any different.”
Pressure builds in my chest, unspoken words congealing.I didn’t just look different. I was different. An entirely different person. With an entirely different name. Devoid of hope. Devoid of joy. Constantly craving something I could never figure out. Constantly—
“She’s beautiful.”
My heart thuds. “What?”
Samson’s eyes meet mine, and he says, “You…are beautiful.”
I flinch, find Samantha, expect my reflection to be something different, someone whole. But nothing has changed, save a thread of surprise in those hollow, hollow eyes. “No. She’s… I was… I didn’t take care of myself. I had no one. Iwasno one. No one wanted me.”
Samson’s arms close around my body, holding me safe in the warmth they offer. So gently, he says, “I would have.”
