Philippa and Lara pull up two more chairs and gather round, and even though it’s a motley group—two paranormal investigators, a two-person camera crew, two members of the Society, two in-betweeners, and a ghost—for a little while, we’re just a group of people, sharing pastry and stories.

At some point, Lara and I exchange a look. The grown-ups are going over show notes and postproduction, and I grab her hand and get up.

“We’re going to take a walk,” I say, pulling her into the sun, Jacob on our heels.

“Don’t go far,” warns Mom.

“We’ll stay in the square,” I say.

The sun is scorching and bright as we make our way, hopping between puddles of shade.

“I wish I didn’t have to go back,” Lara says softly. “One upside: Philippa took me by the Society this morning, and they finally agreed to make me a member.”

“That’s amazing!” I say.

“Well, honorary member, until I turn sixteen. But I’ll work on that. As I explained to Renée, death doesn’t discriminate between young and old, so why should they? So what if I’m twelve?”

“You’re not exactly a normal twelve-year-old,” says Jacob, and I’m not sure if he meant it as a compliment, but Lara smiles.

“Why, thank you.” Her smile flickers and fades. “There’s a lot they don’t know, a lot I plan to help them learn, about us, and about that … place yesterday.” She shivers a little. “I felt so helpless.”

“But you weren’t,” I say. “You fought with us, on the bridge. You distracted the Emissary.”

“After you saved me,” she says. “If you hadn’t been there, in the hospital, I’m not sure I would have …”

I squeeze her hand. “But you did.”

Lara sighs heavily. “Being an in-betweener used to be so straightforward. And don’t get me wrong, I do love a challenge, but sometimes I miss the simple satisfaction of hunting ghosts. No offense, Jacob,” she adds.

“None taken,” he says, scuffing his shoe.

The Veil ripples around us, carrying a wave of smoke and jazz, and I know the perfect parting gift for Lara Chowdhury.

“Hey,” I say. “Do you want to catch a serial killer?”

Lara’s dark eyebrows rise. And then she smiles. “Why not?”

*  *  *

“Well, that’s better,” says Jacob when we step through the Veil.

He looks down at himself, clearly relieved that he’s a bit more solid on this side of the curtain.

Around us, Jackson Square is a tangle of fire and sunshine, shouting and song. And the more time I spend in New Orleans, the more I realize it fits, this strange, chaotic melody.

Speaking of melodies, I listen, picking up the strain of music. I follow it around carriages and through crowds to the jazz band playing in the corner of the square.