Galaxy swallow tattoo on a shoulder

The swallow came in through the scullery window the night the Hartley party left without paying, and I have been meaning to write since, because Mrs Pryce says it is bad luck to shoo one out and worse to let it nest over the bread. So it stays. It has built in the corner above the coal scuttle, and every morning it sits on the rail of the back stairs watching me scrub the step, head tipped as if it were reading the lodgers' names off the board.

It looks blue-black when the light comes through the net curtain, but last Thursday, when I carried the lamp up to check the attic, I saw the night in its wings: a scatter of white specks and a dusting of pale blue where the feathers turn, as though somebody had let the sky sit on it overnight. Father always said swallows sleep on the wing, and I used to think it was one of his yarns. Now I wonder if they only wear the dark on top and keep the stars underneath.

Last night I sat on the wall above the promenade with the tide going out, and the sky was so clear you could have counted the sea-lamps and the stars together. I counted to two hundred and lost my place, which made me laugh out loud like a fool. The bird came over the rooftops then, low and fast, and I swear it dipped its red throat at me before it dropped into the eaves.

I am leaving the window open tonight. If the bird wants to go, let it. If it wants to bring the sky in again, I will have the kettle on.

Your loving sister, Ada