Floral crescent moon with stars and script

I am writing this on the upturned stool by the galley range, because Mrs Pellow has let me have the last of the warm water and the quiet that comes after supper. The dried roses you tucked in my kitbag have survived two weeks of salt, though one has gone the colour of weak tea and the others have shed their petals into the flour bin. Mrs Pellow swears they bring luck. I told her you pressed them yourself in the back bedroom, and she said that was luck enough.

We are three days out from Falmouth, running easy with the wind on the quarter. Last night, after my watch, Mr Adair took me up on deck and showed me the constellation the old hands call the Weaver's Frame, five stars joined by lines that look as if someone sketched them in a hurry. He found the north star by it, and then the moon came up thin as a paring, bent over the water the way a petal curls when it dries. He said a crescent always leaves you enough light to steer by, which I thought was a kindness until he added that it also leaves you only a little time.

That is the part I keep turning over. The pilot's boy used to call it out at the harbour mouth: before it gets dark, get the lamps lit and the lines made fast. Mrs Pellow says it on the stairs every evening when she sends me up for the lamp oil. I used to think it was only about lanterns.

Tell Father the galley is warm and the bread rose well this morning. I am keeping one petal back for the mantelpiece, so save the second tin of roses for me.

Your sister, Ada