Winged dagger and heart with banner

The blacksmith in Scarborough has finally finished the little dagger you asked for, the one with a garnet set in its hilt like a drop of wine. He said a month and it took six weeks, which is more than I expected from a man who swears at his anvil. I've wrapped it in oilcloth and sent it with the carrier on Thursday, so it should reach the Baltic packet before you sail, if the weather keeps its temper.

You'll laugh at what I've done about the wings. Mother always said a heart is only a heart until someone asks what it means, so I went to Mr Harrow at the chandlery and had him paint two gold wings above the shop door, then made him promise to forget it. He didn't. Half the dockside now asks after the Gilded Dagger, and nobody believes me when I say we only sell rope.

Keep the blade clean. The salt gets into the brass faster than you'd think, and I know you'll be tempted to rub it on your sleeve the way you did with my silver thimble. Wrap the ribbon round the grip, the pale blue one with the motto I stitched in white thread, before you go up the mast.

Write when you can. The cove is quiet now the herring have gone, and I find myself counting the boats at the harbour mouth twice each evening, as if one might have slipped in unnoticed.

Your loving sister, Nell