Chapter 33
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Sam and Sam.
“Where are you sneaking off to, Samantha?”
A shiver runs all the way up my spine as Samson’s voice trickles into my ear. His arm, circled around my waist, reels me in against his chest, keeping me solidly against him and too far from the front door.
“It’s early. Before eight, even,” he notes.
I release the doorknob. “I thought you were outside, milking the cows.”
“I was.” He kisses my temple. “Now I’m not. Where are you heading, Samantha?”
Flushing, I regret having revealed that particular moniker shortly after we made Verity’s Edge together. My nerves as we left the mine that day resulted in a bout of my incurable oversharing. So now Samson knows things he never ever should have. “Please stop using my government name.”
“Why? I like it. Samson, Samantha. We’re both Sammys.” He’s grinning big when I scowl back at him. “It’s my favorite thing.”
I jut my lip. “I hadn’t noticed.”
“Can I come with you wherever you’re going?”
“I’m just checking my mail.” Because it is Monday. The Monday two weeks after the Sunday where Austin should have sold all my shiny mine things.
Am I bad at this mail thing? Yes. I need a post-it note on my door or something. Assuming I won’t forget to read the post-it note every day in about a week. And I will.
Stupid mail. Stupid brain.
Samson’s hand slips from around my waist to clasp mine. Threading our fingers, he reaches for the doorknob himself. “Are you expecting mail from someone?”
“Noo,” I mumble. I’ve been expecting mail from someone, and then I simply forgot about that fact.
“So, yes?”
To be quite certain, I worked hard around Samson’s and my mine exploring days in order to write letters of apology to everyone for things I missed because of my third chronic condition (apart from my astigmatism and my oversharing) which is: Incapable of Checking My Mail-itis.
Those first few days when I did remember to check, kind letters from the townies came in, expressing how they are more than used to having a recluse in town.
Perhaps the mild unnerve of having messed up every letter script sent me into a haha, nope, this doesn’t exist anymore mental space.
My generic vegetable requests and recipe cards were the last word-for-word game familiarity I had to hold on to.
Now, the formal language is gone, replaced with If you see this in a few seasons and Should I just stop by to make these requests? Guess I’ll know in a year!
I’m glad everyone thinks my shortcomings are funny.
But it’s harrowing to be thread into the narrative like this.
I’m not the player anymore. Now—here—I am me.
And I feel that every time I catch Citrus’s reflection in Verity’s Edge.
I am Citrus.
From now until forever, this is who I am.
As Samson and I walk over to my farm, I stare at our swinging arms. It’s an animation that was never in the game, and I wonder if I’ll ever get used to the knowledge that I don’t just live in this reality now. I also shape it. My actions define the code that surrounds me.
Harrowing might not be a strong enough word.
“Crops are looking good,” Samson says as my lush field comes into view. There is a boulder that must have turned up overnight in the middle of it, but he ignores that. “Looks like you have a lot to harvest today.”
A lot is an understatement. I wonder if Kaolin will let me work out a deal with her so I don’t have to go to Mimet for the surplus, either.
There is, after all, no way Gem Ridge needs a thousand cucumbers.
Not even if I figure out how a pickle station with the reality mod works.
“I’m glad farming is more fun in real life than it was in the game.
Weeding is annoying, though. Did not have weeding in the game at all, really. Just invasive grass.”
“Invasive grass,” Samson echoes.
“Don’t make fun of me.”
“I would never.” He lets my hand go so I can open my mailbox.
Letters galore.
And a pouch.
An entire, heavy pouch.
Samson’s brows rise when coins sing against one another as I lift it, making dull music.
The letter nearest it appears to be from Austin.
Citrus,
I let Pyro take a look before selling the rest to Mimet. He bought the ruby for a gold and five silvers. If that’s not enough, he asks that you let him know.
Anyway.
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 how one ruby 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 of copper, one gold, and a few silver look like a mound of, um, mostly gold.
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?
Who helped you 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, most of 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 a thing. Because you can’t see the 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 said that name with 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.
When Samson starts back toward home, I follow, mindlessly. He casts a look over one big, beautiful shoulder, then offers his hand. “Come on. Let’s put your mail away, get the puppies and some breakfast, then I’ll help you with the harvest…and any necessary weeding.”
My heart swells when his hand closes around mine again. “Are you sure we need breakfast? I never have breakfast.”
“You’re never up this early.”
“I was excited at the prospect of wealth.” Just as soon as I recalled its existence and all that. “It’s like when you order something online, and sit by the door the second you get home from work, waiting for your fancy new thing to come, you know?”
“Nope. I don’t know. Not even a little bit. You’re speaking your language again.”
Oops. Fair enough. “One day, I’ll regale you with tales of the insurmountable power of the internet, and then I’ll hope that no one here creates anything like it in my lifetime.”
Samson chuckles. “I’ll make sure your tales never get back to Slate.”
Truly a good plan.
Feeling the weight of my ability to afford a circlet balance against the warmth of Samson’s hand in mine, I decide…it’s time to start the ball rolling on another very, very good plan.