Fine line crossed branches on the ribs

You will not believe what came through the north gate this morning. The stag was no larger than a yearling, but its antlers had grown in crossed, the left tine reaching over the right like two hands that had forgotten how to shake. Master Ludd says the beast has been in the Hollin Wood since the thaw, drinking from the same spring the queen's gardeners use, and nobody thought to ask why the lilies were failing.

I was sent to fetch it down. I went alone because the others were still abed, and I will admit I was frightened. The thing did not run. It stood among the washing lines of the lower town and looked at me the way the old tapestry hunters look at the stag in the hall, as though I were the one being counted. I kept my spear low and my voice lower. I told it the story Mother used to tell us about the branch that bent for the wren, and the stag lowered its head, and I saw that the antlers were not growing at all. Someone had bound them. A ribbon of faded red was knotted where they crossed.

Now I am sitting in the scriptorium with ink on my cuff and the bells ringing for compline. The stag is in the king's paddock, and the chamberlain has asked me to draw the knot so the heralds can find its owner. I have drawn it twice. Both times the lines came out sharp and even, the way you taught me to cut a branch, and both times I thought of you.

Write soon. Tell Father the ribbon was red.

Yours in the frost, Hebe