Howlers Mardi Gras — Michelle Miller

New Orleans pulsed with humid laughter and flickering can dlelight, its breath carried on jasmine-sweet breezes that wound between moss-draped oaks and chipped balconies. In the crumbling grandeur of the old house on Ursuline Street, Mikal and Helen's sanctuary was overflowing—not just with warm bodies, but with the tangled heat of memory and magic.