Lucas looks different beside this woman. Younger. Not ferocious. And not quite as massive, although you could still land a plane on his shoulders. He wears navy trousers and a bright white shirt that looks brand-new or else rarely worn. He seems sort of incarcerated in it. I imagine the Wise Woman handing it to him, not saying a word and not taking no for an answer.

“We were just talking about you,” Iris tells him. “Wondering how the car is getting on.”

Lucas nods. “It should be ready by mid-morning tomorrow.”

“Right,” is all she says.

Lucas introduces us to his wife—Isabelle—with no small degree of pride. She smiles and shakes our hands before extending her arm around Lucas’s waist again.

“Where are you guys going, all fancy?” Iris asks them.

“The Moon Dance,” Isabelle says, which sounds even funnier with her slow, serious voice. She points to the moon—full and low—as if it’s a venue.

“Where’s this Moon Dance?” says Iris, like that’s a normal thing to say. Especially in this village, where, apart from the tick and tock of the church clock, time seems to stand still.

Lucas and Isabelle exchange a smile. “Follow us,” Lucas says. And we do.

They walk up the street towards the church at the end, but then they turn into a side street, narrow and cobbled, mostly residential, past three houses, then down a set of brick steps that end outside a sturdy wooden door with a brass knocker, which Lucas raps curiously—three slow knocks followed by two short ones, a pause, then one more knock.

“I already love this place,” Iris whispers.

We wait in a line behind Lucas, still as statues. Even Dad, when he speaks, whispers.

“Where’s my taxi?” he says.

“It’s in the garage,” I tell him, pointing at Lucas. “Getting fixed.”

Dad looks at Lucas and nods with satisfaction. “He looks like he knows what he’s doing.”

The door is flung open by a man in a top hat and tails with a miniature poodle asleep in the crook of his arm. He gestures us inside and we are engulfed by the sound of music.

Jazz I think. I hear piano. Double bass too.

The place—it seems to be a wine cellar—is packed with people, and they are all dancing.

“So this is where everybody got to,” says Iris with great approval.

The room—lit entirely by candles—could most certainly be classified as a fire hazard. I glance around, but see no emergency exits. Instead, I see the source of the music. Four women—a drummer, pianist, double bass player, and saxophonist—in matching black dresses with matching black nail polish and matching black high heels, the pointed toes of which tap in time to the irresistible rhythm. None of them look up at the interruption that is our arrival. They concentrate on their instruments with their eyes closed. They look like they’re lost in the music. No, that’s not right. It’s the exact opposite. They are found.

“Are you sure it’s okay for us to be here?” I ask Lucas.