Peacock feather tattoo on shoulder and chest

The pass has been shut since Tuesday, so the carrier left the post in the hut at Cwm Du and I am the only one awake to read it. Mr Pryce's mule came through at dawn with a bundle of feathers strapped to its saddle, which he swore were for the Bishop's hat. I took one. It was a peacock's, the long kind with the eye at the end, and I have pinned it above the stove where the lamplight catches it.

Someone told me the eye is the part that matters, that it is meant to keep watch while you sleep. I did not believe that until last night, when the wind came off the scree and the shutters rattled, and I sat up looking at that feather. The orange and rose in the middle had gone the colour of a fire banked down for the night, and the blue at its heart looked like a hole cut through to a warmer evening. The fronds hang past the frame like wet hair, teal at the tips, and one curls out sideways as though it has somewhere else to be.

Mother would have called me fanciful. Perhaps I am. But I have decided to keep it, and to write to you that I am no longer frightened of the winter. When the pass opens, come up on the Thursday cart. Bring the blue wool you promised, and I will show you the feather, and you can tell me what you see in its eye.

Your loving sister, Nell