An October evening in San Francisco’s affluent district carried on the chill air the mingled scents of freshly-cut grass and the cloying perfume of expensive blossoms… Yet within the confines of the Giovanni manor, affairs of a different nature were unfolding. Its elder, as if residing in a world of her own devising, was preparing a bowl of treats for the children. These were confections of the finest quality, decadent and full-sized—no miniature imitations or unwelcome fruits masquerading as sweets. She was clad in the elaborate guise of Mother Goose, a choice met with silent, uneasy glances from the household staff. The costume was a testament to macabre artistry, intricate and impeccably crafted by her own pale hands.

Having filled the bowl to the brim, she moved with purpose towards the iron-wrought fence, a silent invitation so that the little ones might see the bounty offered without the daunting trek to the main doors. There she sat, enthroned in her wheelchair, the heavy bowl resting upon her lap. A low, tuneless hum escaped her lips, a secret melody for her alone, as she waited in the deepening twilight for the children to come.