Angel and ravens on upper arm and shoulder

The ravens came back to the beech wood the week after the funeral, which Mother says is a bad sign and Mr Hale says is only ravens being ravens. I have decided not to ask either of them. You will remember the wood starts where the lane gives up at the stile. Past it the branches are bare already, though it is only October, and they lean over the path as if they are trying to listen in.

I went up there on Sunday with the sword from the chapel vestry, the old one the church keeps for the Michaelmas pageant, because the glazier says nobody will miss it until spring. I wanted to see whether the angel carved over the lych gate would look at me differently from the path. It did not. It only looked tired, and its wings had gone green at the tips with moss, so I carried the sword back down point first and felt foolish.

Halfway home a raven dropped onto the wall beside me, turned its head sideways the way a clerk checks a figure, and then flew off towards the church with something pale in its beak. I followed it. It went straight to the stone angel and set the thing down at her feet: a child's glove, mended at the thumb, which I recognised because I darned it myself last winter.

I have hung the glove on the lych gate nail. Come home at Christmas, and bring your good boots, because the path will be mud.

Your sister, Nell