Feather tattoo down the upper back

The rain has come in sideways off the river again and the stallholders have all pulled their tarpaulins down to the boards, so I am writing this under the counter with the lamp hung on a nail. Mr Okafor from the fish stall says the damp will ruin the rook wings I bought off the gamekeeper at Swaffham, but I told him they were ruined the day the bird was shot. Still, they sell. People want a feather for a hat, a bookmark, or a letter opener they can say came from the country.

Yesterday a girl came by with her mother's umbrella and asked for one long grey pinion, the kind that tapers to a point like a pencil shaving. I had only the moorhen flights left, too short for her, so I dug through the back crate and found a heron quill that came in with the Ferris lot. It was the best thing I had sold all year. She paid me in coppers and counted them twice into my palm as if I might cheat her. I did not cheat her. I told her to keep the vane dry and the quill out of the wet, and she laughed and said she would wear it under her collar where nobody could see.

What people ask about is the small mark I put on the price card beneath the tip of the sample feather, a single dot like a full stop. I tell them it is where the feather finishes and the quill begins, which is nonsense, but they nod as if I had said something wise. Come on the train Saturday if the weather clears. I will keep the heron quill back for you, and you can tell me whether the girl ever came to thank me.

Love, Ruth