Leopard face on a finger

The crate came off the Cormorant on Tuesday with its name painted in red on three sides, and by Wednesday the whole quay knew there was a leopard in the hold. Mr Abernethy from the customs shed swore he had seen its eyes through the slats, pale as a lamp in fog. Father wouldn't go near it. I did, with the mackerel scraps from the morning boats, and it took the fish from my fingers so gently I forgot to be frightened.

According to the manifest its name is Tansy, though nobody thought to ask her. She is smaller than you would imagine, all rosettes and dust-coloured fur, and when she sits on the warm stones by the net loft she looks like a bit of sunset that has decided to stay. Harold from the chandlery says she will be shipped on to a menagerie in Hull once the paperwork clears. I told him the paperwork has been lost twice already, and he went red and stopped talking to me.

Last night I sat up on the harbour wall with her, my hand resting beside hers, and she pressed her face against my knuckles and purred like a kettle. Her eyes never left the water. I think she knows the tide better than any of us. When the lamps went out along the front she stood and looked at the lighthouse for a long while, and I understood she was not waiting for a ship at all.

I am going to open the crate door on Friday before the men come. Don't tell Father. Come home and see her go.

Love, Ada