Page 508 of Reign

I remove the cap.

My thumb rests over the atomizer before I press it once.

A fine mist settles over the inside of my wrist.

I lift it to my nose.

Mamma.

Her vanity in the morning light.

Her wrists brushing past my face while she fixed my hair.

My cheek pressed against the front of her dress as she held me.

Her pillow when I climbed into her bed.

Soft mornings. Warm arms. Her skin beneath my mouth when I kissed her cheek.

Mamma.

A sob tears out of me.

I curl around my wrist as though I can hold the scent inside my body.

Tears spill too quickly, sliding over my cheeks.

“It smells like her.”

The words barely exist.

Luciano’s hand closes around mine when the bottle begins to slip. He steadies it without taking it from me.

“It smells exactly like her.”

My fingers shake too hard to replace the cap. Luciano holds the bottle still while I press it into place, and then I lower it carefully into the open box beside us.

I lay back down and Luciano follows.

The projected ripples above us shimmer.

At first, I think it’s only my tears changing the light.

Then Mamma appears among them.

The photograph emerges gradually, woven quietly into the projected water. She’s standing in a garden, her head turned toward whoever held the camera. She looks younger than I remember her. Her dress in still movement around her knees, and she’s laughing.

Her laugh looks like mine.

No.

Mine looks like hers.

I can practically hear her laugh. I’ve heard that laugh leave my own mouth my entire life without realizing it belonged to her first.

Another sob catches before it can leave me.

The photograph fades.