Ornate cat face tattoo on an arm

The cat came in again last night, through the gap where the chapel window used to be, and sat on the top step of the old keep as if it owned the lot. I've stopped trying to shoo it. It has a face like a painted mask, all swirls in the fur and little teardrops down the cheeks, and a diamond set on its forehead that catches the lamp when I carry it out. Mr Pryce from the village says it's a stray from the hunting lodge, but nobody has ever seen it take a bird.

I've been counting stones for the survey, as you asked. Two hundred and eleven in the north curtain wall that still stands true, and one fewer than last month, because the frost took a chunk out of the arrow slit on Tuesday. The surveyor from Cardiff wants the whole thing measured by Friday. I told him the cat has been counting too, and he laughed as though I'd said something clever.

Yesterday I found a silver button in the moat silt, stamped with a crown and a tiny cat's head, and I nearly pocketed it. Instead I left it on the top step beside where the cat sleeps. This morning it was gone, and in its place sat a pebble with a hole worn clean through the middle, the sort the old shepherds hung on string to keep the damp off.

I don't know what that means, and I suspect the cat doesn't either. Come up in the spring. Bring the good tea and your reading glasses, and we'll see who the castle keeps.

Love, Margaret