Crescent moon with dotwork on upper back

The roof of the east tower came down in the storm, so I have moved my instruments into the chapel, where the walls still stand and the moon can be seen through the broken window like a coin in a slot. Mrs Penhallow sends her regards and says the Ashdown mine lads have been stealing the lead flashing again, so mind your coat pockets when you come up on Sunday.

I have finally finished tracing the chart the old baron left in the solar. Every night for nine years he marked where the moon stood against the notched battlements, and every night his marks disagree with the almanac by the same small margin, a little less than a finger's width. I thought at first he had been drinking. Last Tuesday I worked out the pattern: he was not measuring the moon at all but the shadow it threw across the stone chain of the portcullis, which hangs in the gatehouse like a row of falling beads.

Then the strangest thing happened. The moon came up thin and bright, its face turned away in sleep the way the old painted panels show it, and for the length of one breath the beads of the chain seemed to slide down into the dark courtyard and collect below, each one catching light, the way drops gather on a leaf. I wrote the time down exactly. I have enclosed the page, though I know you will laugh.

Come up before the new moon. Bring the good brass sextant and a bottle of something warm. I would rather you saw it with your own eyes than have me describe it, because when I try to put it into words it sounds like a fever dream. You will understand when you see the drops hanging under the crescent.

Yours in haste, Eleanor