Pink interlocking monogram on a forearm

The new die came off the carrier this morning and the mark has gone crooked. Two letters locked together, the upright of one running through the belly of the other, with a little spur at the top where the pointed shield was meant to sit. Mr Pryce swore the bronze was true. I told him a monogram ought to hold still when you look at it, and this one keeps sliding about as if it wants to be somewhere else.

I've kept your old sail numbers in the drawer under the bench, the ones you pressed in with the brass stamps when you were fourteen and too proud to ask for help. Ada found them while she was sweeping and asked whose initials they were. I said they belonged to a boy who went to sea and never learned to spell his own name neatly.

The boats came in Tuesday with the herring, and the Marigold had lost her mainsail in the squall off the Ness. Her skipper sat on the quay steps and wept, which I have not seen a grown man do since your father's funeral. We stitched her a new one by lamp light. Nobody charged him a penny, and he left the stamped corner facing outward so the whole harbour could see it.

Come home at Michaelmas if the tide allows. Bring the logbook. I want to see whether you have been keeping your mark straight or whether it has been getting lost at sea like the rest of us.

Your sister, Mae