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I have no idea how right I am about that.

I understand the importance of Mardi Gras to New Orleans culture, and I also understand how important tourism is to the city, but I take no joy in the holiday. It’s an excuse for humans to behave like animals, and while I’m sure that natives of New Orleans value the spiritual and traditional components of the holiday, the streets are not filled with Catholics considering which sins to confess and which burdens to lay at God’s feet.

They are filled with men and women—most of them in their early twenties—drinking, eating, littering, fighting, and behaving lewdly and, in some cases, even wantonly sexual. Drug use is primarily confined to marijuana, but in the dark shadows of the alleys, I see people swallowing pills and, in a few cases, using needles.

I was a fool to bring the children here. I should have refused regardless of what Josephine said.

Amelia, of course, is having the time of her life. Her eyes take in the sights around her with all the wonder of a child too young to understand that just because someone is smiling and laughing doesn’t mean they’re truly enjoying themselves. Or maybe they are enjoying themselves, and I just can’t understand why.

Gabriel clings to me. I feel another rush of guilt at subjecting him to this. I’ll have to make this up to him. Perhaps this weekend, I’ll take him alone to a nice, quiet walk in a nice quiet park. I’m sure Amelia means well by trying to get him outside, but she’s trying to cheer him up the way she would like to be cheered up.

And I’ll admit it. I’m angry with her. She took advantage of her grandmother’s weakened emotional state and the fact that Josephine is my employer. She manipulated both of us so she could go to a party that all three of her guardians had made clear was not appropriate for her.

She's a child, a young child, whether she likes to admit it or not. This sort of manipulation is common and to be expected. But still, it makes me angry. I am not enjoying myself, Gabriel is not enjoying himself, Amelia shouldn’t be enjoying herself… this is all just so wrong and deplorable and frankly embarrassing. I wonder how many of these people truly reach maturity and look back fondly on the night they exposed themselves to strangers then vomited into a storm drain.

“Look at the street performers!” Amelia cries.

She points toward a street corner where men and women in colorful costumes wearing ornate masks dance and twirl sticks of fire, batons with streamers, and staves with feathers, ribbons, and other decorations attached. A growing crowd gathers around the performers, awed by the display.

I'd much rather the children observed this than people spilling beer all over themselves, so I allow Amelia to lead us closer. Gabriel shows excitement, too, and I decide that perhaps tonight will be salvageable. If I can make this portion of the night more memorable than the less palatable sights, then maybe not all is lost.

And I must admit, the dancers are mesmerizing. Annie and I learned cotillion when we were young, but ballroom dancing is a slow and orderly process, and for children, it's simplified into extremely basic movements. Even then, I was well known for having the proverbial two left feet. Annie did well, but she had little interest in dancing, let alone stilted, slow-moving, and frankly boring ballroom dancing.

Needless to say, the dancers here are far more coordinated than I was. Their bodies gyrate wildly, their limbs moving frenetically. There seems to be no pattern, but at the same time, there is clearly a very precise intricacy to their actions. It is, in its own way, just as impressive as Gabriel's piano playing.

I am lost in the performance before I realize it. The crowd fades away, and the dancers seem to loom closer. They seem to grow taller too, somehow, until they are no longer human but strange, godlike beasts that channel primordial energies and release them in displays of ecstasy and excitement.

But much like the Vie Apres a la Mort , the tone of the performance changes. The ecstasy changes from joyful to taunting, the excitement from gleeful to frantic. The masks leer at me, their smiles communicating both laughter and anguish. My heartbeat quickens, and I try to leave, but my feet are rooted to the spot, and I can only watch as the dancers surround me, laughing, jeering, spinning and roaring. The anguish turns to anger, the smiles to snarls. My lips begin to tremble, and I try desperately to beg for mercy, but there is no quarter to be given. There is no sympathy in these fantastic visages, only derision, only judgment, only hate.

The music fades in an instant. All sound fades, in fact. The dancers continue to dance, but they pull away from me, leaving me alone with only one dancer.

Except she’s not dancing. She’s standing still in front of me, the two of us forming an eye in the middle of this storm.

She is tall and lithe, her skin supple, her form graceful and sensual. Long hair the color of fire shimmers falls over her shoulders, outlining the swell of her breasts. Her face is covered by a mask, but this mask isn’t colorful like the others. It is pale and ghostly, almost translucent. Behind the mask, the performer’s eyes are painted in a pigment that is darker than black, twin holes that swallow all light.

I recognize this image. It has lived in my nightmares ever since I left my teaching position and began my new life as a governess and an unofficial investigator of the mysteries that hide in the shadows of wealthy and dysfunctional families.

My sister steps toward me, and a soft cry escapes my throat. I want to run, to hide, to beg, to die, to do anything but stand there and wait for her, but it doesn’t matter what I want. Annie is in control.

The dancers move until they are no longer distinguishable from one another. Reds, greens, yellows and oranges blend together in a whirlpool of fire around us. The specter approaches until she is inches from my face.

She opens her eyes, and—

“Ma’am. Ma’am!”

I gasp and open my eyes. The performance is over. The street corner is quiet now as the spectators move to more crowded areas to continue their party. The voice calling for my attention belongs to a young man of around twenty-five wearing shorts and body paint designed to make him look like some sort of bird. His mask completes the motif with macaw feathers stuck into a beaked, plastic face.

“Are you all right? Do you need some help?”

I blink. “I… I’m fine.”

“You were screaming.”

“I… I was?”

“Yes. Hold on, let me get you some help.”

He reached for his phone, and reason reasserts itself. I can’t have it reported to Josephine that the children and I were interviewed by police for—

The children!

I look around, and my heart sinks to the floor. They’re not here.

“Oh God,” I whisper. I grab the young man’s arm hard enough to make him wince. “Have you seen two children?” I ask him. “A girl and a boy? They’re twelve years old; their names are Amelia and Gabriel. Have you seen them?”

He shakes his head. “No, ma’am. But I’m calling the police, and they’ll—”

I pull away from him and rush toward the crowd, ignoring his cries behind me.

Oh God. Oh God, Oh God, Oh God.

I should never have brought them here. I should have known better. I did know better. What the hell was I thinking? They’re so young! So many terrible things can happen to them!

My mind fills with images of all of those terrible things, and tears stream from my eyes as I push and jostle through the crowd, screaming their names and begging God not to let me find them dead or hurt.

A voice in my head taunts me. You’re begging God? Tonight? Here?

I ignore that voice. Now is not the time for me to succumb to whatever insanity possessed me during the street performance.

“Amelia!”

People laugh and jeer around me, and in my panic, I feel that they’re laughing and jeering at me. Every face is unfriendly, every voice mocking, and I am so alone. I’m so alone, and I’ve lost my children! I’ve lost the children!”

Finally, I catch a brief glimpse of Amelia’s face near the back of a cluster of college students. She’s on her knees, and she’s crying.

“Amelia!”

I push through the crowd, ignoring cries of anger and frustration from people I shove past. When I see Amelia again, only a few yards in front of me, I expel a huge sigh of relief.

“Amelia!”

I pick her up from the ground and carry her to an alley that is fortunately empty of drug users and amorous partygoers at the moment. I set her down and ask, “Are you hurt? Are you all right?”

She nods, and since I don’t know which question she’s answering, I ask again, “Are you hurt?”

She shakes her head and wipes tears from her eyes. “I’m not hurt. I just got lost.”

"I know," I say as I embrace her. "I know, I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry, Amelia." I push her to arm's length and ask, "Where's Gabriel?"

She sobs and says the words I most fear. “I don’t know. He left me. He said he had to go find the music.”