Free The Young Elites by Marie Lu

could swear I was reliving it:
    I am eight years old, and Violetta is six. We run out to greet our father, who has just returned from a monthlong trip to Estenzia. He picks up Violetta, laughs, and spins her in a circle. She squeals in delight as I stand by. Later that afternoon, I challenge Violetta to a race through the trees behind our home. I pick a route that is full of rocks and crevices, knowing full well that she has just recovered from a fever and is still weak. When Violetta trips over a root, skinning her knees, I smile and don’t stop to help her. I keep running, running, running until the wind and I become one. I don’t need my father to spin me in a circle. I can already fly. Later that night, I study the scarred, eyeless side of my face, the strings of my silver hair. Then I pick up my hairbrush and smash the mirror into a thousand pieces.
    The memory fades away. The bright glow pulses inside the diamond for a moment before fading away. I take a shuddering breath, lost in a haze of wonder and guilt at the memory.
    What was
that
?
    Raffaele’s eyes widen, then narrow. He looks down at the diamond. I glance at it too, half expecting it to glow with some color—but instead I see nothing. Maybe I’m too far away to tell. He looks at me. “Fortuna, goddess of Prosperity. Diamond shows your alignment to power and ambition, the fire inside you. Adelina, can you hold your arms out to either side?”
    I hesitate, but when Raffaele gives me an encouraging smile, I do as he says—I hold out my arms so that they are parallel to the floor. Raffaele moves the diamond aside and replaces it with the veritium, now bathed in light. He studies me for a bit, then reaches out and pretends to pull at something invisible in the air. I feel an odd, pushing sensation, like someone is trying to shove me aside, searching for my secrets. I instinctively push back. The veritium flashes and lets off a brilliant blue glow.
    The memory that comes to me this time:
    I am twelve. Violetta and I sit together in our library, where I read to her from a book cataloging flowers. I can still remember those illuminated pages, the parchment crinkling like skeleton leaves.
Roses are so beautiful,
Violetta sighs in her innocent way, admiring the book’s images.
Like you.
I stay silent. A while later, when she goes off to play at the harpsichord with Father, I venture out to the garden to look at our rosebushes. I study one of the roses carefully, and then look at my crooked ring finger that my father broke years earlier. On a strange impulse, I reach out and close my hand tightly around the rose’s stem. A dozen thorns slash into the flesh of my palm. Still, I clench my jaw and tighten my grip as hard as I can.
You’re right, Violetta.
Finally I release the stem, staring in wonder at the blood that blooms on my hand. Scarlet stains the thorns.
Pain enhances beauty,
I remember thinking.
    The scene fades. Nothing else happens. Raffaele tells me to turn back around, and when I do, I notice the veritium is glowing a faint blue. At the same time, it gives off a tremulous note of music that reminds me of a broken flute.
    “Sapientus, god of Wisdom,” Raffaele says. “You align with veritium for the truth in oneself, knowledge and curiosity.”
    He moves on to the roseite without another word. For this one, he beckons me over to him and tells me to hum in front of it. When I do, a faint tingling runs down my throat, numbing it. The stone glows red for a long moment, then fades in a shower of glitter. The memory that accompanies it:
    I am fifteen. Father has arranged for several suitors to come to our home and take a look at both Violetta and me. Violetta stays demure and sweet the whole time, her tiny mouth puckered into a rosy smile.
I hate it when they look at me too,
she always tells me.
But you have to try, Adelina.
I catch her in front of her mirror, pulling her neckline down so that it shows more of her curves, smiling at the way her hair falls