Though the three spinsters never missed the yearly dance, the Misses Peabody and Miss Nash seemed untouched by the music and stood, ready at their positions, to make all manner of commentary as the couples whirled by. The three old women are like geese, I reflected as I watched them over Mr. Lanman’s shoulder, and I thought of the smooth surface of the sea at midnight. The geese broke their circle and floated along the side of the room, their heads bobbing together nervously at the crowd, picking their skirts up as if to avoid being splashed by an unseen wave.

He had asked me to dance, and after our small exchange upon the verandah yesterday, I looked forward to a turn with him, wishing to test him on other interesting topics. And yet, though he remained perfectly correct in his manner, nodding and smiling at me as we chatted through the first movements, there was of a sudden a touch of the suitor about him, as if our conversation and my free opinions had sent a flag up to wave along his horizon. As we swirled, I felt the gentle pressure of his hand at my waist, and it seemed as if that guiding care held all the future in it: the door held open, the easy bow before he left for his work in the city, the silent room in which I sat, composing little messages on thick white notecards, the calls of our children far away at the top of the house. I could see it so clearly, and for an instant the known world beckoned, a sweet comfort in the picture. I glanced up and saw he’d watched me all the while. My foot faltered, catching my hem. He pulled me closer to steady me.

“I must have some air, Mr. Lanman.”

“Certainly, Miss Thomas. The moon is growing full tonight, as well.”

There was a brief panic in my heart in response to his talk of the moon. I gathered my dress about me and glided through the swaying couples, aware again of his hand now at my elbow, steering me toward the open doors that gave straight onto the verandah. I wondered if he expected a certain kind of conversation. Ah God, had he thought my plea for air a sentimental ruse? I was irked at the thought.

Thankfully, we were not alone. Others clustered along the wide verandah that wrapped around the house. We walked toward an untenanted spot where the vista before us stretched far into the harbor. I was not quite prepared for the calm that lay outside the warm festivity, and within the instant, I longed to return.

But he spoke.

“This moon is nearly full. It lacks four days before its apex.”

“How can you tell? It is so difficult for me to know the difference between a waxing and a waning moon.”