“They’re still here, those children,” says Mom, her voice echoing through the carriageway. “Guests have heard them running in the halls, and some have woken to find their things moved around the room, their coins and clothes stacked like pieces in a game.”

“As we’ll soon see at our next location,” says Dad, “not all the spirits in this city are so playful.”

We retreat back down the carriageway, and Lucas pulls the gate shut behind us. It closes with a scrape, a sigh. I should feel relieved, but I don’t.

As my parents head down the street, I look back at the archway, squinting into the dark.

I lift my camera, peering through the viewfinder, and slide the focus in and out until I can almost, almost, almost see someone standing beyond the gate. Small fingers wrapped around the bars. But there’s another shape looming behind, a pitch-black shadow, darker than the dark. It twitches forward, a sudden, jerking step, and I drop my camera.

I catch it before it hits the ground. But when I lift the lens to my eye again, the frame is empty.

The shadow’s gone.

The lights have gone on in Jackson Square.

Old-fashioned yellow lampposts cast long shadows, and a bright beacon illuminates the large white church off to the side, making it look like a tombstone. The square isn’t empty, but the energy has changed, the daytime performers thinned to a handful of musicians, each playing a weak and wandering tune.

The Veil is usually a rhythmic beat, but here, tonight, it’s like too many instruments playing at once, each one slightly off-time or out of tune.

The Veil reaches for me, but so does Jacob.

I feel his hand close around mine, and look down at our fingers. Mine solid, and his … something else, no longer air or even mist. There’s a faint glow right where our palms meet, and I swear, I can see the color bleeding into his skin where it touches mine: the light, the life, flowing into him.

“Cassidy!” calls Dad.

Jacob drops my hand, and we both turn, searching.

My parents aren’t in the square anymore. They’re standing on the corner with the rest of the crew, in front of a restaurant, and for a second I think it’s time for dinner. But then I see the sign, the restaurant’s name in elegant black script.

Muriel’s.

I recognize the name from the show binder, and my curiosity is louder than my hunger.

The restaurant looks like half the buildings in the Quarter—two stories tall, with iron rails and massive white-framed windows. But I know there’s a reason it’s on the Inspecters’ list. Something waiting beneath the surface.

Mom told me once to think of it like paint in an old house. It gets covered, layer by layer, and you might not know a blue wall used to be red until you chip away at it.