Cyrus stares at me for another beat, clearly trying to figure out where I’m going with this. I make myself stare back, cleanse my face of any panic, as if my palms aren’t sticking to my skirt with sweat right now. Don’t say anything, I will silently, drawing upon any mind-control powers that might be lurking dormant within me. Don’t ask about the modeling. Just accept that I love drawing clouds.

“Remind me, what kind of clouds did you like drawing again?” Cyrus asks me, resting his chin on one hand.

This is so not the follow-up I was braced for, and I don’t know whether to feel relieved or to start searching for the closest emergency exit on the train. Despite the utter nonchalance of his tone, there’s a dangerous glint in his eyes.

I clear my throat. “Well, you know. High clouds, low clouds, medium clouds, semi-medium clouds, storm clouds …” Dammit, I’m running out of clouds. “I’m not picky.”

“That’s a real niche interest you’ve got there,” Oliver comments good-naturedly, and for some reason, my relief at him buying my ridiculous lie is chased away by guilt. It’d be nice if I didn’t have to choose between being myself and being liked.

“But she’s really good at them,” Cyrus jumps in, turning to smile at me. Abruptly, I remember that phrase my mom always says, one that never made sense until now: Don’t be afraid of a crying owl; it’s the laughing owl you should fear. I can handle Cyrus with his regular poker face and general air of suffering, but I have no idea what to do when Cyrus is smiling at me like that. “Leah, you have to show them your cloud drawings.”

I freeze. “Oh, I mean—I didn’t bring any with me. They’re in my special cloud sketchbook—”

“You can draw them right here,” Cyrus says, smiling still, his features positively angelic, concealing his diabolical schemes. It’s middle school all over again. He just wants to see me make a complete fool of myself and laugh at my expense. “It’s not like we’ll be getting off this train anytime soon.”

“But I don’t have my art supplies,” I counter, smiling back through clenched teeth. Never mind the dormant mind-control powers. I’d give anything for the power to kill with just my eyes.

“You can use this,” Cyrus says at once, reaching into his bag and pulling out a black ballpoint pen with our last hotel’s brand name on it. “And you can draw on my hand. I’d be honored.”

I want to refuse, but Oliver’s watching me with keen interest, like a child waiting to see a fireworks show for the first time.