Gold moon, wings and chain flash sheet

The gold came in on Tuesday's boat, a whole crate of it pressed flat between tissue paper, and Mr Alderney insisted on opening it himself with the bread knife. He held one sheet up to the lamp over the cloakroom and said the moon had been cut into pieces and sent to us for sorting.

You'll want the crescent for Saturday, every girl at the Palais does. A moon laid on the collarbone says you're leaving at midnight whether anyone asks or not. The wings are for the ones who think they can fly home alone. I've put the chain strips aside for the wrists, because nobody can tell gilt from a bracelet across a crowded floor.

It peels off clean if you press it with a damp cloth and hold your breath, and the metal stays as bright as a sixpence after rain. Doreen tried one on her forearm and danced the Lindy with the bandleader's nephew just to watch it catch the spotlight. He asked her twice where she'd bought such a thing, and she told him the moon had lent it to her.

The black diamonds are the last of the batch. Mr Alderney says they're meant to look like a night sky dropped on the floor, but I think they look like the bits of dark between the bulbs when the power fails. I've kept one back for you in the tin with the sewing thread. Come early on Saturday and we'll sort the rest together, before the moon goes out on the ballroom step.

Yours in a hurry, Maude