Should be.

But I know all too well that the universe doesn’t always work the way it should.

Case in point: I’ve barely taken two steps forward when another waitress at the entrance holds up a hand to stop me. She’s pretty in a mean-looking sort of way, her dark, eyeliner-rimmed eyes narrowing as they take in my appearance.

My gut clenches. Is it so obvious that I don’t belong here?

“Do you have a reservation?” she asks in a clipped monotone voice, like she already knows the answer.

“Uh...yes, yes I do,” I bluff, my mind scrambling for purchase. “My family’s waiting for me upstairs—”

“Upstairs is the VIP lounge,” she interrupts. Her eyes narrow further, and I can almost imagine the conversation she’s going to have with her coworkers the second I’m out of earshot: Did you see that weird little girl trying to get into the restaurant just now? You think she was trying to steal food or something? “I’m going to need evidence of membership.”

“Oh. Sure thing.” I make what I hope is a convincing show of searching my pockets for a card I most certainly don’t have. “Hang on—oh no. I must’ve left it somewhere... Let me just um—go get it...”

I’m rushing back out the door before she can think to call over a manager or security, cursing myself and my luck as I turn to hide behind the same corner as before. It’s not like I should be expected to produce a VIP card out of thin air, but I have a feeling someone like Henry wouldn’t run into the same problem. He could just stride in there with his quiet charm and confidence and perfect hair and they’d let him upstairs without a second thought.

I shake my head. No point making myself feel worse with imaginary scenarios—even though that seems to be what I do best. Tonight’s mission has only just started, and I have to keep it together until my powers kick in.

However long that takes.

I end up standing outside the restaurant for what must be hours. Parents wheeling strollers and expats likely headed to the bars on Lucky Street walk past me, chatting and laughing in a messy blend of languages, oblivious to the panic crawling up my throat.

Come on, I urge my body, the universe, whichever one is listening. Hurry up already.

But another excruciating hour or so passes, with me feeling more idiotic by the second, before finally, finally, a familiar wave of cold washes over me, accompanied by an overwhelming surge of relief. I make myself count to three hundred, giving the cold time to sink in, then dart a glance at the tinted window behind me.

It’s still disorientating and more than a little terrifying to not be able to see my own reflection, but right now I’m just glad the invisibility thing is working.

The restaurant is crowded when I slip inside—this time careful not to bump into anyone—and I have to blink a few times to adjust to the bright, lavish interior. Every surface has been polished until it practically glows, from the giant fish tanks out front to the traditional-style mahogany chairs arranged around the rotating tables.