Now that you’re rich, do you want to upgrade any of your other tools?
Low, low price of five million coins.
Austin
I blink at the words, look at the bag, reread that whole part about howoneruby cost one thousand five hundred coins, and clear my throat. Carefully, I loose the pouch string, peek inside, and yank it closed.
Gold.
A bagful of gold.
It…it’s probably just the light, right? The dimness is making a bunch ofcopper, one gold, and a few silver look like a mound of, um,mostlygold.
I peek inside again, let a stray sunbeam trickle into the bag.
“What’s wrong?” Samson asks.
My breath catches. Slowly, I tilt my attention up to his face. If I am perfectly honest, I forgot he was here.
Is this the risk of wealth?
You forget the massive, well-shouldered people who knew you in poverty?
Whohelpedyou out of poverty. Who were right there beside you, as you accumulated your riches.
I shove the bag toward him. “This is yours!” I stiffen, remember I want to marry him, need to buy a circlet for that, and yank the bag back. “W-well,mostof it is yours. I might need, like, a few.”
“Citrus,” Samson begins, very slowly, “is that money?”
“Yep. Lots of money. For you. As thanks for literally everything.” I gasp. “Think of the sweets at Chrysa’s you could send me to buy!”
“I really don’t need any money.”
“But you could get a horse! Your ducks! The possibilities are endless!”
His hand lands atop my head, a sweet, patient smile softening his lips as he rustles my hair. “Sweetheart, I knew how much everything we were picking up in the mines was worth. The reason behind my duck and horse scarcity is not financial.”
“Is it a mental block? Does therapy exist here?” I shove the money bag his way again. “You can now afford therapy.”
“I could previously.”
“Really?” How loaded is this man?
“Therapy is mental health care. Why would I have to pay for health care?”
My mouth opens; I shut it. Samson already knows enough horrors about my world. I do not need to add the pitiful reality that many still don’t believe mental health is athing. Because you can’tseethe injury, blah, blah, blah.
I mean, heck, doctors weren’t washing their hands just over a hundred years before women got the right to vote, and—funner fact still—that happened barely a hundred years ago…
Unfortunately, my silence is incriminating enough, and Samson says, “Your old world had you pay for health care?”
“Let’s not talk about my old world. Ever again.”
Samson’s lips purse. “That doesn’t work for me.” His fingers slip free of my hair. “I like learning new things about you…Samantha.”
A shiver goes careening up my chest.
Never in all my life has anyone saidthat namewith affection. It does things to my inner child, probably. But how would I know for sure? After all, it’s not like I knew I could afford therapy before now.
