Purple rose and lace shoulder tattoo

The snow closed the Hollin Pass on Tuesday, so I am stuck at the inn with nothing to do but count the bobbins you left in my trunk. Mrs Aske, the landlady, has a window full of geraniums that she insists are roses, and I have not had the heart to tell her otherwise. Still, I have started a new piece. It is a collar of black bobbin lace, the cheap sort Father used to sell at Kendal market, with the dotted edges you taught me, every dot pricked by hand so the lamplight catches it.

You will laugh, but I keep thinking of the chains. When Mother hung her good shawl on the line, the dotted fringe swung from it like a string of jet beads, and I wanted to make something that would hang that way for good. I have been working the loops in a row, one drop at a time, and tonight I finished the first length. It falls just where the wind pushes it.

The roses I have not attempted yet. I have only the pattern the pedlar left, two big purple blooms with their petals curled back like the inside of a fist. I told him they were vulgar. He said the mountains need something to look at besides rock. I am beginning to think he was right, and that I will need to see the pass clear before I can draw a flower that size.

The road opens Thursday if the wind holds. Bring the fine thread when you come up, and do not let Mrs Aske talk you into her geraniums.

Your loving sister, Anne