Pink seahorse with seaweed and waves

The pink seahorse came up in Tom's lobster pot on Tuesday, tangled in a rope of green weed so thick he took it for a sea snake. He carried it up the tower in a bucket of brine and set it on the brass rail of the lamp room, and when the sun hit its crown of spines it looked like a little queen who had lost her kingdom. I have not been able to make him throw it back. He says it is only a fish and fish are cheap in Newlyn, but he has taken to talking to it while he trims the wick.

The trouble is that it keeps leaving. Every morning the bucket is empty and the lamp room door is open to the wind, and every evening there is a damp curl of weed on the top step, as though something has been wading up the stairs to look at the light. Tom swears he has never once seen it move. I told him that is how the sea does its business, quietly, and he told me that was the sort of thing my mother used to say before she went off to sea herself.

Last night the fog came down so thick we could not see the rocks from the gallery. Tom lit the lamp and I wound the clockwork, and for the first time in a year the beam swept out over water that looked like spilt milk. Tom stood at the rail with the bucket in his hands and watched the bubbles rise from the swell below, dozens of them, each one catching the light before it popped. He did not say a word. Then the little pink shape rose beside the rock with its tail curled like a question, and it was gone before I could blink.

Come at Michaelmas, and bring the blue ribbon you promised me. I will show you the step where the weed was, and you can tell me whether I am a fool to be glad of it.

Your loving sister, Jenifer