A shape crashes into me. I stumble back into the grass, and the man drops the bucket he was hauling. It topples onto the ground, spilling something black and viscous. I know instantly that this is his place in the Veil. The other ghosts are just set pieces, puppets, but this man’s eyes, as they fall on me, are haunted.

I scramble to my feet, already holding up the mirror pendant, ready to send him on—

But there’s no necklace wrapped around my wrist, no mirror hanging in the air.

I look down, scouring the ground where I fell, and see the necklace shining in the grass, where it must have slipped off. But before I can reach it, the ghost grabs me by the collar and pushes me back against a tree. I try to twist free, but even though he’s a ghost and I’m not, the Veil levels the playing field.

“Jacob!” I shout. The man’s grip tightens as he spews at me in French, the words a mystery but the tone clear and cruel. And then he trails off, his eyes dropping to the camera at my chest.

No, not the camera, I realize with horror. The thread. The blue-white glow of my life. He grabs for it, and I squirm, desperate to get away from the reaching fingers—

“Hey!” shouts a familiar voice, and the ghost looks sideways just as Jacob swings the bucket at his head.

The man staggers, black tar dripping down his face, and I gasp, dropping to the ground. The instant I’m free, I lunge for the fallen necklace as the ghost takes one half-blinded step toward me. I grab the necklace and scramble up, holding the pendant out in front of me like a shield.

The ghost comes to a halt, his attention caught on the little round surface of the mirror.

A mirror, explained Lara, to reflect the truth. To show the spirit what they are.

The mirror traps the ghost, but the words, the spell, the incantation send them on. I didn’t know there were words until a week ago, didn’t know about the power of mirrors, or lifelines. But as I stand here now, facing the specter, my mind goes blank.

I can’t remember the words.

Panic rushes through me as I grasp for them, find nothing.

And then Jacob leans in and whispers in my ear.

“Watch and listen,” he prompts.

And just like that, I remember.

I swallow, finding my voice.

“Watch and listen,” I order the ghost. “See and know. This is what you are.”

The whole Veil ripples around us, and the ghost thins until I can see through him, see the dark thread coiled inside his chest. Lightless, lifeless.

I reach out and take hold of his thread, the last thing binding him here, to this world. It feels cold and dry under my fingers, like dead leaves in the fall. As I pull the cord from his chest, it crumbles in my palm. Vanishes in a plume of smoke.

And then, so does the ghost.

He dissolves, ash and then air. There and then gone.

Jacob shudders a little in discomfort, but for me, it’s like coming up for air. In those seconds, right after the ghost moves on, I feel … right.

What you feel, said Lara, is called a purpose.

The palace continues to burn, and I sway on my feet, dizzy, the effect of the Veil catching up with me.

A warning that I’ve stayed too long.

“Come on.” Jacob takes my hand and pulls me back through the Veil. I shiver as the curtain brushes my skin. For an instant, the cold floods my lungs again, the water pulling me down—and then we’re back on solid ground. The park is bright and loud, filled with carnival lights and tourists and evening warmth. Jacob is faded again, vaguely see-through, and I’m solid, the bright coil of my life hidden safely beneath flesh and bone.

“Thanks,” I say, shaking off the chill.

“We’re a team,” says Jacob, holding up his hand. “Ghost five.”

He makes a smacking sound as I bring my palm against his. But this time, I swear I feel a faint pressure, like steam, before my hand goes through. I look at Jacob’s face, wondering if he feels it, too, but he’s already turning away.

“There you are!” says Mom, holding out the last bite of crêpe as I return to the table. “I had to shield this from your father. Nearly lost a finger.”

“Sorry,” I say, “the line was long.”

(I don’t like lying to my parents, but I tried telling them the truth, after the whole incident in the graveyard, and they didn’t believe me. So maybe that makes this lie a little smaller.)

“Yeah,” says Jacob, “keep telling yourself that.”

Dad rises, brushing off his hands. “Well, darling family,” he says, wrapping an arm around my shoulders. “We better head back.”

The darkness is heavy now, and the Veil is still pressing against me, calling me back. But as we make our way through the Tuileries, I’m careful to stick to the path, and stay in the light.

The next morning, our local guide is waiting for us in the hotel’s salon (the dining room).

She’s tall and slim, in a green blouse and a cream-colored skirt. She has high cheekbones in a heart-shaped face and dark hair pulled up in a complicated bun. She’s younger than I expected, maybe in her twenties.

“You must be Madame Deschamp,” says Mom, holding out her hand.

“Please,” says the woman in a silky voice, “call me Pauline.”

Her French accent makes everything sound musical. It’s funny—I used to think the same thing about Scottish accents. But now I realize the accents are like two kinds of music, as different as a ballad and a lullaby.

Dad says something in French, and Mom laughs, and suddenly I feel left out, like they’ve told a joke I don’t get.

“You speak well,” says Pauline, and Dad blushes.

“I studied in college,” he says, “but I’m afraid I’m rusty.”

“Pauline,” says Mom, “this is our daughter, Cassidy.”

Jacob sticks his hands in his pockets and mumbles, “Don’t bother introducing me.”

“Enchantée,” says Pauline, turning toward me. Her gaze is steady, searching. “Parlez-vous fran?ais?”

It’s my turn to blush now. “No, sorry. Just English.”

I did take Italian in school last year, but I was really, really bad at it, and I don’t think being able to ask where the library is in another language will help me here. The only French I’ve managed to pick up is s’il vous pla?t, which means please, and merci, which means thank you.

A server drifts over, and Pauline exchanges a few words in rapid French before urging us to sit. “We’re so grateful to have you as our guide,” says Dad.

“Yes,” Pauline says slowly, “it should be … interesting.” She smooths her blouse as if brushing away crumbs.

“Tell me,” says Mom, “do you believe in ghosts?”

Pauline’s expression goes stiff.

“No,” she says, the word quick and crisp, like slamming a door on something you don’t want to see. “I’m sorry. That was rude. I will explain: I am an emissary, here on behalf of the French Ministry of Culture. I spend most of my time with dignitaries and documentarians. This is not an ordinary assignment for me, but I am Parisian. I have lived here all my life. I will take you where you wish to go. I will help in any way I can. But I cannot say that I believe.”

“That’s fine,” says Dad. “I’m here for the history. My wife is the believer.”

Pauline looks at me.

“And you, Cassidy?” she asks. “Do you believe?”

Jacob arches a brow in my direction. “Yes, do tell me,” he says. “What is your stance on ghosts?”

I smile, and nod at Pauline. “It’s hard to believe in ghosts, until you see one, and then it’s hard not to.”

A small crinkle appears, right between Pauline’s perfect eyebrows. “Perhaps.”

The server returns with three of the smallest cups I’ve ever seen (seriously, they look like they’re from the tea party set I had when I was five) full of dark coffee.

“And for the mademoiselle,” he says, handing me a mug of hot chocolate dusted with cocoa.

He also sets down a basketful of pastries. I recognize the crescent shape of a croissant, but the spiral and the rectangle are a mystery. I reach for the rectangle and bite into it, only to discover that the center is filled with chocolate.

Paris has just gone up a notch in my book.

“Pain au chocolat,” explains Mom as I take another bite. Between the hot cocoa, which is rich and thick, and the pastry, I can feel my pupils dilating. Back home, I’m not even allowed to eat sugar cereal.

Jacob sighs. “I miss sugar.”

More for me. Buttery flakes rain down on the table as I take another bite.

Pauline’s gaze flicks up toward the salon entrance and her expression warms. “Ah, the crew has arrived. Anton!” she says, rising to her feet. “Annette.”

They turn out to be a pair of siblings. They have the same brown hair, pointed chins, and gray-blue eyes. But otherwise, they look like shadows at different times of day—Anton is as tall and thin as a skeleton, while Annette is short and square.

Pauline kisses each of them twice, once on each cheek, then turns to my parents.

“If you are ready, we should leave. We will start with the Catacombs.”

“Yes,” says Mom, brushing sugar from her lap. “The ghosts of Paris await.”

“What’s a catacomb?” I ask as we step outside.

“It’s a kind of graveyard,” says Dad.

“Like Greyfriars?” I ask, thinking of the hilly cemetery nestled in the heart of Edinburgh.