Crystal and galaxy heart on upper arm

The tide gave up another stone this morning, and I know you'll say I'm romanticising again, but this one was the size of a fist and pink right through, with crystals bristling out of it like the spines on a hedgehog. Mr Macleod at the pier took one look and offered me four pounds. I told him it wasn't for sale. He laughed at me, which I'm getting used to.

I carried it up to the cave above Scarr Bay, where Granny used to shelter the ewes in March, and split it with the cold chisel you left in the shed. Inside was a heart, black as the water at night, with a whorl of violet and rose wheeling through it like the sky had been stirred with a spoon. The crystals had grown up around it as if they were guarding it. I sat on the rocks for an hour with the thing in my lap, watching the light slide over it.

Mr Macleod says the old people called these island hearts and warned against keeping one indoors, because they pull the sky down into the house. I laughed at that too, but I put it on the windowsill of your old room. Last night the glass was full of stars I couldn't name, and I stayed up with your atlas trying to find them.

I'm wrapping it in your oilskin and posting it on Thursday's boat. Keep it on the dresser, and don't let the kettle steam anywhere near it. If it starts humming, ring me.

Love, Ailsa

P.S. The gulls have been following me up the lane all week. I think they want it back.