Long after they’d disappeared down one of the side streets I could still hear the heavy, metallic jostling of the armor and the resounding clunks of the horse’s shoes on the pavement. Harry did not act as though he had seen them, or at least he wasn’t paying any attention.

Rather than jump to ghostly conclusions, I tried to be nonchalant. It might have been my hyperactive imagination, after all. Or—another thought crossed my mind. “Hey, Harry, do people run around in costume here, like in New Orleans or in those, um, historic places?” I asked. “Like they do at Jamestown,” I added, since that was the only one I could think of off the top of my addled head.

My companion nodded. “Oh yes. All the time. Much of the old city is a state park. There are many living history exhibits—they do historical reenactments and the like. You can even take guided ghost’ tours now. It’s ridiculous.”

“Oh,” I sighed, relieved. Then it wasn’t just me. I hoped.

Along a rooftop a woman in long, full skirts was pacing back and forth, holding a lantern. Even as far away as we were I saw the light casting warped shadows across her face, illuminating her in orange streaks and bursts. One of her hands was clenching the lantern’s ring and the other was holding a shawl snug across her shoulders. Although she was moving back and forth, wearing a path on the roof like a tiger in a cage, her eyes never left the east.

“Harry?” I said, pointing a finger up at the lonely woman as if to ask about her.

He glanced out the window. “What? Oh, the roof. Yes, a lot of the older houses have long balconies like that. It’s called a widow’s walk. Sailor’s wives would wait up there at night, watching for the ships to come in from the ocean. There’s more than one tragic tale of husbands and lovers who never returned.”

“I can imagine.” But I preferred not to.

I wanted to ask if he’d seen the woman in the shawl or the armored conquistador, but I stopped myself short. He said it was normal to see people dressed up. He said this was a state park and it happened all the time, so that’s what I was going to believe was going on. But after midnight? On deserted streets? There was no one to watch and appreciate the historicity of it all. Were these people paid, or were they fanatical reenactors? In Tennessee they call some of the Civil War buffs stitch counters because they insist so particularly upon attention to detail. Surely this was more of the same. Yes, surely.

I held my tongue. If Harry had seen them too, then all was well. If he had not, then I was seeing ghosts again, which was rarely an indication that good things were to follow.