Still chuckling, she turned away from me and wandered back into the closet. While I listened to her rummage around in there, I studied the reflection some more.

I really did look alive. Uncannily so.

Yet there were a few telltale signs that I wasn’t quite the picture of health. For starters, I was way too thin. Gaunt, actually, which meant breakfast was probably a good idea after all. Then there was the color of my skin: a uniform, chalky white, improved only by Gabrielle’s blush and the sprinkling of freckles across my nose.

In the mirror, my reflection bit her bottom lip and tugged at the ends of her long waves. She looked confused, worried, and very out of her element.

My reflection kept that wary look even when Gabrielle walked over with another armload of goodies from the closet.

“Here,” she said, handing me a cropped leather jacket and a pair of celebrity-sized sunglasses. “I can’t let you out of this house without accessorizing you. It just goes against my nature.”

With an indulgent sigh, I slipped my arms into the jacket sleeves, shivering a bit when my bare skin hit the cool silk of the lining. Then I put on the glasses and turned back to the mirror to assess Gabrielle’s final touches.

Thus disguised, I really did look like a different person: not an anguished, heartbroken ghost, but just some pretty, living girl in designer jeans.

Gabrielle nodded at my reflection, obviously pleased with her work. Then she slung on a black, three-quarter-length cape and her own pair of sunglasses. With a wide grin—and absolutely no warning—she grabbed my arm and dragged me out of the bedroom.

“We’re going to start easy,” she said, pulling me down the hallway, out another door, and toward a dark flight of stairs. “Since we’re not supposed to be in this building, it’s useful to be invisible when we leave it. Once we get to the café, though, the real work begins.”

By the time we reached the bottom of the curving stairwell, everything had gone pitch-black. So when Gabrielle opened the door to one of the interior courtyards of the Pontalba, the high-priced sunglasses couldn’t keep me from squinting painfully against the sudden flood of daylight. Nor did my stylish coat protect me from the continuous rush of cold air; the sensation sort of made me grateful that the chills Eli always incited were so short-lived.

Shivering, I followed Gabrielle blindly across the uneven ground. I slowed down only when my eyes adjusted and I saw just how crowded the tiny courtyard was. People milled everywhere: sipping coffee at small iron tables, smoking under canvas overhangs, scurrying to pick fresh fruit out of crates and take it inside to the first-floor restaurants.

Not a single person glanced up at Gabrielle or me.

Granted, everyone looked incredibly busy. But considering the fact that most of them appeared to work—not live—in these buildings, you’d think they’d at least notice a pair of young, glamorously dressed girls wandering in their midst. As far as I could tell, though, it was as if we weren’t even there.

“Can they see us?” I hissed, following Gabrielle through an alley that led out of the courtyard.

“Not unless they’re Seers, or we want them to. Basically, we don’t have to work to stay invisible. To make ourselves apparent … now, that’s a different story. That takes intent.”

Her last few words came out muffled, buried beneath the cacophony of the street onto which we stepped.

“Welcome to Decatur,” she yelled over the noise.

A sea of honking cars separated us from the other sidewalk, where people ducked into shops and cafés along their way. To our right, on the corner where Decatur Street met Jackson Square, a troop of artists and street performers were already setting up shop for the day. There, a lone trumpeter warmed up, adding his own notes to the noise of the street.

Although I could have stayed to gawk for a while, Gabrielle pulled me onward, dragging me to a crosswalk and practically throwing me into oncoming traffic.

“If these drivers can’t see us,” I shouted at her as we dashed across the street, “doesn’t that make them more likely to hit us?”

Gabrielle simply flashed me a mischievous grin, leaping with me onto the curb in time to avoid a speeding taxi. Once she’d steadied herself, she brushed the road dust from her leggings and then twitched her head toward a huge outdoor café, where patrons crowded under a green-and-white striped awning.

“Time for you to experience the deliciousness that is Café du Monde.”

“It’s awfully … full,” I noted uneasily.

Gabrielle nodded. “Spot-on. It’s the perfect place for you to learn to go visible: if you want breakfast, you’ll have to earn it.”

Maybe because I’d seen her covered in blood, maybe because she’d totally altered my afterlife, but nearly everything Gabrielle said still made me suspicious. I followed her to the café warily, staying a few paces behind her in case of … who knows what.

Gabrielle didn’t seem to notice or care. She weaved deftly through the busy sidewalk, bypassing the long line to get inside the café and signaling to me from underneath the awning.

“Look—immediate seating,” she called out, pointing to the little table that a waitress had just cleared. As far as I could tell, it was the only open table in the entire café.

“Um, aren’t we supposed to wait in line?” I asked, still hovering outside the waist-high gate that separated the café from the rest of Decatur. Gabrielle laughed and plopped into one of the metal chairs.

“We’re still invisible, Amelia. Now get in here before we lose out to those tourists.” She pointed meaningfully to a nearby middle-aged couple who fumbled bags and bumped other patrons in their eager beeline toward the table. Feeling apprehensive and more than a little guilty, I slipped through the opening in the gate and edged my way through the restaurant.

When the tourists beat me to the table, I thought we’d surely lost our spot. But before they could even pull out their chairs, I saw Gabrielle do … something.

For a split second her appearance wavered like an image on a staticky old television set. When the effect ended, she leaned casually back in the chair, smiling broadly up at the couple.

“May I help you?” she asked them with arch politeness.

Both tourists blinked back in surprise at what must have been the sudden appearance of this gorgeous young girl.

“You weren’t … where did you …?” the man sputtered, obviously confused. But his wife recovered more quickly. She placed a restraining hand on his arm and then smiled apologetically at Gabrielle.

“So sorry, ma’am,” she said. “We didn’t realize this was your table. We’ll just wait for another one. Right, honey?”

When her husband started to object, she spun him around forcefully and dragged him back to the line. As they passed, I heard her mutter, “Don’t embarrass me, Charlie. She’s famous. Don’t you remember her from that one movie we saw last summer? You know, the one with all the car chases?”

As the couple rejoined the line outside Café du Monde, I heard Charlie’s faint, befuddled “No.” I watched them fade into the crowd and then turned a disapproving frown on Gabrielle.

“Well,” I said, sinking into the chair next to her and taking off my sunglasses. “You’ll be happy to know they think you’re some superfamous actress with carte blanche to steal any table she wants.”

“Excellent,” she crowed, clearly unrepentant. “If I’m playing the part, then I’m glad I can actually pull it off.”

Realizing that we had much more important matters to discuss than Gabrielle’s audacity, I leaned forward.

“So … how did you do that? Make them see you, I mean?”

“Glad you asked,” she said, waving to a pretty Asian waitress who was taking orders a few tables over. “Here’s your chance to try it yourself.”