Symmetrical lotus mandala on both calves

The lamp room has been cleaned top to bottom for the inspector, and I have spent three days on my knees with chamois and methylated spirits. Father says the prisms must be bright enough to throw light twelve miles out, and I believe him, though some mornings I think the glass only wants someone to look at it properly.

The lens sits on its brass cradle like a flower opening upwards, rings of cut glass stacked one above another, and when the sun comes round the drops hanging from the lower rim split it into little rainbows across the whitewash. Mr Gorrie, who came over with the relief boat, called it a chandelier fit for a drowned queen. I told him the drops were for counting the hours of the watch. He laughed, but I have started counting them myself, and there are fourteen between dusk and dawn if you include the grey hour before the sun.

Last Tuesday a fishing boat from Eyemouth came in too close under the rocks. The clockwork stuck, so Father put his shoulder to the beam and turned it by hand while I stood at the gallery rail with the wind pulling at my hair, watching the glass flash ring by ring until the bow cleared the reef. Nobody drowned. The skipper rowed out next morning to thank us and left a bag of mussels on the step.

I have not told Father that I want the post on the Isle of May when it comes up, but I am writing it here so it exists somewhere. Keep the spare wick for me, and tell Mother the drops are polished. Your loving sister, Marion.