Howling wolf and moon on a shoulder blade

The moon came up over Coldgate Fell last night so full and low that Father would have called it a bad sign and gone straight to bed. I stood at the back door with the kettle going cold and listened. Mrs Ainslie swears the last wolf on the fell was shot the year her mother was born, but every autumn somebody in the valley claims to hear it, and last night the sound came down to me clear as a bell, one long note that pulled the hairs up on my arms.

I know what you will say, that it was the Hendersons' collie chained by the byre, and perhaps it was. Still, I went out in my boots and stood in the wet grass with the lantern off so my eyes could get used to the silver. The craters on that moon were as plain as the stains on Mother's old tablecloth. Nothing moved on the ridge but the bracken, and the howl came again, from somewhere behind the moon's own edge, as if the animal had climbed up there to call the rest of the pack home.

I have set a dish of scraps on the step for it. Mrs Ainslie says that is foolish and that wolves do not take charity, but the dish was empty this morning and the cat looked far too pleased with itself to have been the thief.

Write when the tide allows. I want to hear what the sea sounds like from your galley, and whether the cook there keeps any stories of his own.

Your sister, Agnes