Mountain peak on a forearm

The survey office in Fort William has sent my sketches back with a note asking why I've drawn the north face in pencil when they want ink. I told them the shadow won't hold still long enough for a pen. It creeps across the scree from six until noon, so I've been dotting it in with the nib, one speck at a time, so the dark comes up soft instead of hard like a wall.

The small summit to the right is what they've been arguing over. It isn't on the register. From the bothy it looks like a mere shoulder, but walk the ridge and it lifts into its own point, sharp as a pencil tip. I've been calling it Mags's Shoulder since Tuesday, which is daft, and I'll cross it out before they read it. Old Dougie at the hut says the mountain never had a second top until some fool looked at it from the right angle.

Last Thursday the cloud tore open for ten minutes and I saw both peaks at once, the lit one and the little one, with the mist pooling between them like milk in a saucer. I drew it fast and got the ridge wrong twice. The third time it came right. I'm posting you the sketch, so keep it somewhere dry. When the ordnance man writes back, tell him the mountain has two names now, and one of them is yours.