Chandelier tattoo on the chest

The bead I dropped this morning is still under the window seat, and I have not told Mr Crane, because he would only make me climb the steps again to count the rest. There are two hundred and twelve drops on the great chandelier in the long gallery. I counted them the week I came, and I have counted them every Monday since, the way Father used to count the fence posts before a storm.

The fitting came over from Venice in a crate packed with straw, and nobody here knows how it was hung. Mr Crane says the arms are cast brass, the candle cups are real silver, and the stem runs up through the ceiling joists into the attic. When I lie on the boards and look up through the wires, the whole thing hangs over me like a bell that has forgotten how to ring.

Last night the gallery was dark except for the moon through the east glass, and the drops swung very slightly, all of them together, tapping like rain on a tin roof. I stood under it with the duster in my hand and did not move for a long time. I thought of the candles lit for the first dance in the year the house was new, and I wondered who had stood where I stood and felt the same small fear.

I will finish the polishing on Friday. Tell Mum the post van is late again, that I am well, and that I have not yet been up the attic stairs alone. Your loving sister, Hettie.

P.S. The bead is not lost. I can see it from here, catching the light.