Ornate cross on the inner wrist

Mother has stopped asking when you will be home, so I will tell you instead what the pattern mistress made me do on Thursday. She pinned a cross to the lamp-lit table, the same one she sets for the Lenten collars, and told me the diamonds sit at the crossing like stepping stones, and the little dots mark where a thread must be knotted off. Nobody in Honiton leaves a loose end, she said, not even in a prayer.

I spent three days on the first arm alone. The scrolls curl back on themselves, so the bobbins must be walked round in a tight turn, and if your hands rush the curl comes out lopsided like a drunk man's signature. Mrs Pritchard counted my passes aloud until I hated the number seven. Yesterday the arm finally sat true. She ran her thumb along it and said nothing, which from her is as good as a medal pinned to your collar.

The cross is meant for the Sunday collar Cousin Ada wants for the Bideford chapel, but I have cut a spare the size of a sixpence and am sending it with this letter. It has no pattern to speak of, only the four arms and the knot at each tip, which is the bit I am proudest of. Keep it in your cuff when the weather turns and the sea gets into everything.

Mind the knots, Tom. A cross is only as strong as its ends. Your loving sister, Ellen.

P.S. The dots are the hardest part, so if the lace ever frays, look there first.