Shadows dance in liquid pools of light spilled by candles, dozens of them, burning steadily into this midsummer night. Ancient skulls stare down at us with hollow-eyed serenity. And though we're hundreds of miles from Bayou St. John and the nearest body of water is the East River bordering Manhattan, the air is as thickly ghosted as an Anne Rice novel.

A haze of frankincense wraps smoky tendrils around the wrought-iron balcony, then drifts its lazy canopy across the high-ceilinged living r...