Calla lily design with swirls

The ink has frozen in the pot again, so you'll have to make do with pencil. The glasshouse roof is white with snow and the boiler has given up twice since Sunday, but the calla lilies have done what Father swore they would never do in February. Three of them opened on Tuesday, their spathes curled back like the collars on your good wool coat, and the whole bench smells faintly of cold green water.

Mrs Hollis came up the lane yesterday in her Sunday boots, wanting eleven stems for the chapel. I told her the bulbs had been forced in the dark since October and would hold for a day, no more. She cried a little when she saw the cream ones, and I did not know what to say to that, so I cut the stems on the slant the way Father taught us and wrapped them in brown paper.

I have pencilled one of the blooms for you on the back of this sheet. The long leaves go up the page like someone running a hand through wet hair, and the curl at the bottom is the tendril off the old vine that I could not bring myself to pull. Father would have had it out with the shears by now. I left it because it kept turning towards the light, and I thought, well, that is one thing in this place that knows where it is going.

The inn road should open by Thursday. Come home if you can, and bring the lamp oil. The third bloom is still shut, and I am waiting to see what colour it turns before I decide whether to tell you.

Love, Nell