We sit around the table at Café du Monde, Mom chatting with Jenna and Adan about the footage, Dad deep in conversation with Lucas about the history of the church in the square. Meanwhile, I’m locked in battle with a beignet, determined not to spill sugar on my jeans as I eat, while Jacob sulks because he can’t for the life—or death—of him move the tiny mountain of powdered sugar on top of the fried dough.

“Give me time,” he says, frowning in concentration. “I’ll get it.”

I’m sure he will eventually, but for now, he’s taken a step back on the material front. He’s definitely become more transparent since the bridge.

“Translucent,” he corrects me sulkily. “They’re not the same thing.”

And more sensitive, I add.

The truth is, it’s kind of nice, not having to worry about your best friend becoming a powerful, potentially unstable spirit, at least for today.

We’re on our second order of beignets when Lara shows up, Philippa in tow.

Lucas’s eyes widen. Philippa looks a little surprised, too, but it’s more of a happy surprise, like waking up to pancakes. Or beignets.

“This is my aunt Philly,” says Lara, and I almost laugh.

Lara and Philippa could not possibly be more different. Lara’s prim, straight-backed, and all adult attitude in a kid’s body. Philippa, on the other hand, is like Luna Lovegood in a grown-up’s shell. Cheerful, whimsical, and not entirely there. She’s wearing a tie-dyed blue-and-white dress that looks like a giant version of the evil eye, and a pair of neon-orange sunglasses.

Mom looks between them, a bit skeptical, and I can’t blame her.

They certainly don’t look related. Lara’s glossy black hair and light brown skin versus Philippa’s white-blond wave and skin so pale, she looks more like a ghost than a person.

“Rude,” says Jacob.

“You’re awfully young to be Lara’s aunt,” says Mom.

“I know, right?” says Philippa, as if she’s just as confused.

“We’re really more like cousins twice removed,” explains Lara, shooting the Society psychic a meaningful look.

A look Philippa clearly misses because she says, “We’re not even actually related. I’m just the daughter of someone who married someone …” She waves her hand as if the rest doesn’t matter.

“You two must be close, though,” says Dad. “For Lara to come all this way.”

“We are,” says Lara, but she looks at me when she says it, and I feel this warm energy in my chest, right where the ribbon glows. Because she did come a very long way for a friend.

“Oh, beignets!” says Philippa, and she doesn’t even get the pastry to her mouth before spilling half the sugar down her dress. Not that she seems to care.