Key with mouse-ear bow on upper back

The shop has been quiet since you sailed, so I have finally finished the key you asked me to leave for Mr Pargeter's tin box. You will laugh. Father always said a key should look like a key and nothing else, but the Hallows boy came in last Tuesday with his mother's sixpence and a drawing of two round ears, and he would not leave until I promised to put them on the bow. I cut the bow in brass, the shank in grey steel, and set a small disc of teal enamel in the centre, the colour of the harbour on a clear morning when the sun gets under the pier.

The wards were the hard part. I cut them twice, because the first pattern would have let the tin open before the bolt had properly turned, and I could not have a thing so fancy fail at its only job. Father taught me to file to the sound of the lock, so I listened to it for a whole afternoon with the window shut against the gulls, and when the third cut finally sat right the tongue slid back like a held breath let go.

I have wrapped it in oiled paper and tied it with string. The boy has not collected it yet, so it hangs on the hook above the bench where the light comes in. Mr Pargeter came by this morning and asked why I was so pleased with myself. I told him it was a key for a box that does not yet exist, which he found a poor answer, though he did not argue.

Come home before the autumn gales and bring the box you promised me. I will have the key waiting, and we can see whether it turns.

Your loving sister, Ada