Jack Daniel's whiskey label on a calf

The proofs came back from the press on Thursday and Mr Pell has put his thumb on the Sour Mash line again, the one you set in the wrong face last spring. He says it looks like a chapel sign now. I told him the blame was mine for not checking the kerning, which was a lie, but it kept him from docking your wages, so I'll say no more about it.

Something stranger happened at the works. A crate of the old oval labels was left out in the yard through the rain, and when Ada went to bin them she found the top sheet had lifted and curled at one corner like a dog's ear, the ink gone soft and grey at the edges, all the cream lettering standing out bright above it. She brought it to me and we both stood there in the drizzle looking at it as though it were a photograph of someone we used to know. The name was still legible. The little seal in the middle still held the year, faded, the way it has since your grandfather first pressed it.

I took it home and pinned it above the stove. Mother says it looks like a relic and wants it moved to the parlour, but I like it where the steam can reach it. Each morning the curl of the paper throws a small shadow across the words, and the words seem to stand a little further out from the page, as if they'd rather be read than kept.

I'm sending you the damaged sheet by the Tuesday carrier, wrapped in oilcloth. Don't set anything new until you've had a look at it. I think Mr Pell is wrong about the chapel sign. I think it looks like something people would rather keep.

Your loving sister, Nell