Libra scroll and stars on an arm

The pass closed on Tuesday and it has not opened since, so you will have to take my word for the snow. It sits on the sill of the back room in a drift the height of a bread board, and Mrs Pryce says the stars have not been this sharp since the winter of her wedding. She is right. Last night I went out to the yard with the lantern and the sky was full of them, nine or ten I could count before my eyes stung, and every one burned blue against the black like a coin held up to a window.

You will laugh, but I have been doing the reckoning for the inn. Father always said a Libra man could weigh a bill and a pint in the same breath, and I suppose it is in the family now, since I am the one who sits at the ledger with the scales of my own handwriting. Twelve guests stuck here, forty-one eggs, one barrel of ale that Dai swears is still good. I tally it all and set the columns against each other until they level, and when they do I feel steadier than I have since you left.

The stranger in room four came down this morning to ask what he owed for the fire. I told him nothing, because the chimney is ours and the wood was cut by Dai's boys. He stood in the doorway a long while, then left a silver florin on the bar with a note that said only: for the balance. I have pinned the note above the till. Do not tell Father, he would want to know how I came by such a fine piece of nonsense.

Write when the post runs. Mind the ice on the quay and do not bring back any more of those foreign coins. Your loving sister, Nell.