Dagger and rose flash design

The rose you sent with the last supply boat has finally given up. I pressed it between the pages of the signal log, the way you showed me, and the petals went brown at the edges while the stem stayed green, which I suppose is the sort of thing you'd want me to notice. Tom from the relief boat says the mainland is full of men selling fish knives and ivory combs, and nobody wants to buy anything that will outlast them.

The dagger came with it, wrapped in oilcloth. I know what you meant by it. You always did favour a joke that cut both ways. I've hung it on the nail above the stove where the paraffin smell hides the steel, and every evening when I trim the wick I look at the twisted grip and think of your father's hands, which were never gentle but were always fair.

The glass is cracked on the north side. The storm took a pane in February and I haven't the glazier's fee until the board's cheque clears, so the beam sweeps out over the water with a draught singing through the gap. Ships still come in. Last night a schooner passed close enough that I saw the cook on deck lifting a kettle in the rain, and I thought, there goes somebody's dinner getting cold.

Come in June if the sea allows. Bring the good scissors and I'll show you where the thorns have grown back through the fence. Keep the dagger if you're not coming. I find I can bear the sharp things better than the sweet ones.

Yours, as ever, Marian