Compass and lotus on a forearm

The pass closed on Tuesday and the snow has not let up since, so I am writing this at the long table by the stove, with the ink pot balanced on Mrs Oakley's bread board. The landlord has given me the back room over the stables, which smells of horse and winter apples, and I have made it my office.

You will laugh, but the compass you gave me has been the only honest thing in this house. The needle shivers every time the wind shoves the shutters, and the brass rose on its lid still points north with more conviction than the innkeeper. I have set it on the sill beside a small lotus that the cook's boy whittled from sycamore for a penny. He says it brings luck. I say luck is a poor surveyor.

Yesterday I took the lantern up to the ridge to find the road. The drifts had buried every marker we set in October, so I followed the bearing on the rose, counted my paces as Father taught us, and found the cairn where we buried the old letters. The stone was there, dry and grey, and nothing else was. I came back down with my ears burning and laughed at myself the whole way.

The thaw is forecast for Friday. Keep a lamp lit in the east window, and tell Mother I have not lost the north. I will wait here with the needle and the lotus, and write again when the drifts give up the road.