Woman with prism and rainbow on thigh

The pass closed on Tuesday, so the coach has gone without us and I am writing this at the window of the Grey Elephant, which is nowhere near London, though the landlady swears her grandfather painted the sign. The beast on it has a howdah stuffed with cushions and a face like a disappointed uncle. Snow has buried the yard to the sills. Nobody is going anywhere until the plough comes through, and the plough, I am told, is more of a rumour.

Something odd happened this morning. The chandelier in the dining room has one cut glass drop that the maid polished for an hour, and when the sun rose low over the white hills it threw a beam across the far wall, splitting into every colour you could name and a few you couldn't. I thought of you at once, hauling flats across the village hall stage every night and swearing at the hammer. You would have laughed at the cook, who stood in the rainbow with a ladle and refused to move.

Here is the part I cannot make sense of. Mrs Hollis took the glass drop down and gave it to me, saying it had never been hers to keep. She told me the pass has shut like this three winters running, and that the cellar holds a wall of bricks stacked by a man who came in out of the snow and never went back out. I did not ask whether she meant it as a joke.

I have taken the hammer from the woodshed and I am going down to the cellar now. Do not worry. If the rainbow is still there when the thaw comes, I will bring you a brick.