The moon was slung low in the sky, clouds veiling its full and ghastly yellow face. Extraordinarily big. (Why are there days it looks so big?) Helena's usual suggestion to hoist a ladder — we can climb up to visit Pierrot! — seems almost workable.
I turn her to face southeast. She lifts her gaze to just over the rooftops and gasps. "C'est pas la lune — c'est une planete!" (Poor Pluto, I think to myself.)
She thinks about it for a while, then hollers out, "Pierrot!" just in case. But it seems we always call him during bathtime.