Welcome to October's Table

They say I was made, not born. That the storm gave me breath and the candlelight gave me a name. Perhaps. But tonight I am only your hostess, and you are the company I have waited a long while to keep.

My husband and I keep a peculiar table. We set it once a year, when October thins the air and the roses refuse to die. We light every candle. We pour the good wine. And we invite a handful of souls we find interesting to sit among us — and to play.

For this is no ordinary supper. Beneath the courtesies and the candlelight, a game will be unfolding. Each of you will arrive carrying a secret of your own. Some of you will play it beautifully. Some of you will be caught. And by the night's end, we shall see who among you was watching, and who was merely dining.

Come as you are. Leave as someone we'll remember.

• Arrive in your finest. The evening is formal, the lighting unkind to anything less.
• You will be given something to carry. Hold it close. Speak of it to no one.
• Play your part through every course. Watch the others play theirs.
• All will be revealed when the last plate is cleared — and not a moment before.

This is only a whisper of what's to come. A formal invitation will find you in the months ahead, bearing the hour, the table, and all you'll need to know. For now — simply remember the date, and tell no one what you've read here.