If You Could See the Sun (60)

“Really.”

“Qiqi!” the woman suddenly calls her child, who’s busy tucking her doll into bed, her little face puckered in concentration. “Qiqi, guess what? This is a real model. Isn’t she pretty?”

“Model’s daughter,” Chanel corrects, but she looks a little pleased at all the attention, the evident awe awash over the woman’s face.

And I’m happy for her too. Of course I am. But as the train lurches into motion and the woman sits down beside Chanel as if they’re old friends and starts gushing about her mother’s latest appearance on Happy Camp, I get that feeling extras must have on large movie sets: like my presence might count for something, but it doesn’t really make that much of a difference.

Watching them out of the corner of my eye, I make a silent vow to myself that one day, strangers like that will notice me as well. I will not stay in the corners, feeling sad and silly and small, my pride eating away at itself.

No, I will do something great, and they will all know my name.

But until then, I decide to put my time to better use than listening to Chanel’s incredibly detailed skincare advice. Retreating to the very end of my bunk bed, I take out the printed, annotated map of the Autumn Dragon Hotel from my bag and force myself to study it.

I’ve already spent the previous two days memorizing every possible route to the twentieth floor—where Andrew She’s men will be waiting—and marking out the busiest spots, the corridors and corners where there’ll likely be the least number of security cameras. And still, I retrace the routes over and over again with my fingertips, try to visualize how the night will go in my head, prepare for the worst-case scenarios—where to stop, where to flee, where to hide.

The world around me starts to fade, as it always does when I enter this zone of intense concentration; in fact, if I forget about the whole illegal aspect of the mission, it’s almost like studying for an exam.

At some point, the air conditioner kicks on at full blast, and I shiver in the sudden, unforgiving cold, hugging the blankets tight around my body with numb fingers. But the cold only grows, the temperature dropping by what feels like ten degrees per second, and as my teeth start chattering violently, I remember, dimly, that it’s late autumn. There’s no reason for the train’s air conditioning system to be on at all...

I recognize the exact moment I turn invisible.

I recognize it, because the little girl, Qiqi, happens to be looking in my direction, and her eyes go rounder than her doll’s. She brings a small hand to her opened mouth, then frantically pats her mother’s shoulder.

“Mama! Mama!” she cries. “Nikan! Kuaikan ya!”

Look.

But of course, there’s nothing for her mother to see. I’ve stuffed the map deep into my pocket and leaped out of bed, erasing all evidence that I might still be in the compartment.

Qiqi’s mother makes a small noise of exasperation. “Look at what? I told you not to interrupt me when I’m having a conversation, Qiqi.”

“Ta—ta shizong le!” Qiqi insists, pointing at the spot I was in just now.

She disappeared.

“Yes, I know, the other girl left the room,” Qiqi’s mother says impatiently, then shoots Chanel an apologetic look. “Sorry, my daughter likes to talk a lot when she’s bored. Says all sorts of nonsense.”

Qiqi’s face scrunches up, her frustration rivaling her mother’s. “Mama, ta zhende... Qiqi meiyou hushuo...”

I can still hear her arguing with her mother as I creep out of the compartment, into the crowded corridor.

Passengers are pacing back and forth, grabbing packets of instant noodles and chocolate pie from the train vendors or filling up their water kettles. After a woman trips over my foot and nearly spills boiling water all over me, it becomes quite apparent that I can’t just hang around here until my invisibility turns off again.

Without consciously making a decision about where to go next, I end up outside Henry’s compartment.

To save the teachers time and energy, our train compartments and hotel roommates have been arranged based on our dorms, which means Henry is in there, alone.

The thought scares me a little.

But when another passenger barges right into me from behind, swearing and yanking at my hair with excruciating force as they try to regain their balance, my nerves quickly still. I slide the door wide open and step in.

I was wrong, in a way—Henry is the only Airington student here, but he isn’t alone alone. There are two businessmen snoring on the upper bunks, one using their suit as a blanket, the other half propped up against the wall, his head lolling back and forth every time the train jolts.

Beneath them, Henry is sitting upright, hands folded in his lap, gaze fixed on the opposite wall. It’s strange seeing him like this: out of his school uniform and in a plain white V-necked shirt instead, his dark hair falling over his brows in soft, unbrushed waves.

He looks really, infuriatingly good.

He also looks...tense.

As I draw closer, I notice the uneven rhythm in his breathing, the muscle straining in his arms, as if ready for combat or to jump out of the train at a moment’s notice.

Then he turns toward me, some emotion I can’t quite decipher flickering in his eyes. “Alice?”

He says my name like a question.

“You can see me?” I ask in surprise.