Tribal swirl and band on upper arm

I know you'll say I should have written sooner, but the rope walk has kept us at it since the Lerwick boat came in, and Mr Quill wants every hawser laid before the tide turns on Thursday. Last night I stayed until the lamps guttered out, twisting yarn by feel because the gas failed in the long shed. Tom would have laughed at me, though he'd have been the first to let his own hands go slack.

Here is what I meant to tell you. Old Haskell, who keeps the knot board by the gate, showed me how a proper coil differs from a lubber's. A lubber winds the strands loose and they fall apart within a week. A true coil lies flat, every turn pulled down hard onto the one beneath, so the whole thing bears its weight like a ribbed roof. He drew one on the back of my hand with a burnt matchstick. The soot went into the cut where the ledger pricked me, and I still have the shape of it.

Haskell says the row of triangles is the Hanging Hitch, the one the men tie before they go aloft. The knots fold into each other so none can slip without the rest giving way. He swears no man who ties it has ever gone over the side. I told him that was a fine thing to believe on a wet quay at midnight, and he told me I'd understand when I was older.

I've decided I'm taking the Thursday boat south, with a coil of tarred line in my pack and the hitch still stinging on my hand. Don't tell Mother. Meet me at the bottom of Saltmarsh Steps at midnight, and bring the lantern. I'll show you the spiral I've worked out, the one that holds even when nobody is pulling it.

Your loving sister, Megan