By late evening the attic hatch is left a little ajar, the way a host leaves a porch lamp burning. In a biscuit tin marked For Visiting Light sit ladders no taller than a thimble. When the moon finds the roof crack, each beam takes a rung, and the dust puffs up like a welcome mat.
We asked on the landing. "They used to drop straight onto the floorboards and startle the trunks," said Mrs. Pell, who stores winter coats up there. "Now they come down one at a time. The ficus likes to know who is arriving."
Neighbors had whispered that the leaves were waving at strangers after dark. It was only the moonbeams, pausing to nod before they stretched out for a nap on the warm sill.