“No,” Cyrus says, his fingers threading through my hair. “No, you’re not weak at all. If something costs more than it’s worth, you let it go. If anybody dares make you feel bad for it, then screw them.”

I make a sound that’s part sob, part laugh, and it feels like a page turning. Like stepping out into the summer rain, letting the water run down my face and wash everything away.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

My whole body feels lighter as we join the others in the stands for the night show.

Impression of Liu Sanjie: A Folk Song Story. It’s set entirely outside, the sheer scale of it shocking, unlike anything I’ve been to before. The stage is the Li River itself, the twelve peaks of the mountains behind it forming the natural backdrop. A soft breeze floats through the gathered crowds, people squishing into the front rows of the green-shrouded terraces, some already getting their cameras out.

There’s not much room left, but Cyrus shifts back, giving me more space to stretch out my legs. Which is a very nice, chivalrous thing to do, except I don’t really want any space from him.

“Are you cold?” he asks me.

“Not cold enough to need a jacket,” I say, and lean toward him, my head resting against the crook of his neck. “This is good.”

What I mean is: This is perfect. It feels like the grand finale—the last night of the trip, the last part of the competition. We just have to write an essay describing tonight’s show, and then it’ll all be over.

The night deepens, turning everything into shades of blue. The moonlight shines down over the water like a spotlight, and the mist rolls in over the river, and I’m mesmerized. It’s like the show is the world, or the world is a show; performers float in on rafts, seemingly descend from the sky dressed in silver and silk, the music rising like the hills.

It’s a love story, I soon realize. A girl sings to her lover from across the river, her movements in trained harmony with the dancers around her, her voice floating up to us, clear and sweet and luminous. Then the scene changes to gold, the performers rowing forward with hundreds of fishing lights.

I’m so transfixed that I don’t notice the whispers in the beginning. Not until they pick up over the music, spreading fast. Not until I hear my name.

“… god, what was she …”

“… thought she looked familiar …”