From a lighthouse, near the end of the year

From a lighthouse
Near the end of the year

My dear,

Thank you so much for your letter! I wish you could have seen the look of surprise on the mail carrier's face as I opened the lighthouse door to his knock. He seemed like a man bent on doing his duty no matter how absurd, just to make a point. He clearly did not expect anyone to be here and was already looking around for somewhere to stash the letter so that he could say his job was done. I had bolted the door and stuffed a rag rug under it to keep out the howling drafts, or I imagine he would have poked the letter under the door and been long gone by the time I descended all those stairs.

Our everlasting rain has turned into everlasting sleet and snow, hard pellets rattling on the walls and windows at all hours. The lioness refuses to go outside to hunt, merely making short, necessary visits to the snow fields as required and then returning to sleep on the bed by the fire. That's our bed, shared, because nowhere else is warm enough for us to survive the night. How did a family live here? Maybe they didn't stay the winter.

I appreciate your warning about the ship's captain! I'm gathering fragments of information as I buy fish each day from the fishermen who are brave or foolish enough to take their boats out into the bay in this weather. I admit I often look up from my books to watch them anxiously, in case one goes overboard, though what could I do in that case? One supposes that any fisherman who has lived this long will survive longer, but I suspect there is a logical fallacy in that statement somewhere. Any day could be our last, yet we have a one hundred percent survival rate up until that point.

The constant rattling of the snow and sleet has rattled my brains! I am rambling. I meant to say: thank you for the map, which has proved invaluable and has livened up the dull white plaster walls of this room no end. As you might imagine, my daily walks have been curtailed. I have boots, but after a walk I have wet boots. Until they dry, I have no boots!

The map and the fishermen's news together have helped me put together a picture of where he might have gone. That insufferable man! The town is still talking about him, my sister says. I got a letter from her last week saying that the rumors about us are flying fast and furious. She managed to fit quite a few veiled questions into her village gossip, but I am skilled at responding without giving her any new material. The town will just have to wonder. I'm sure anything they come up with will be more interesting than the truth, right?

The captain you mentioned should be arriving in port within the next few weeks, and I have secured a promise from Miles to notify me the moment it shows a sail. Whenever I get too cold, I go up and down the hundred steps of this lighthouse to warm myself up and strengthen my weak leg, sometimes as many as ten times, until I nearly fall over with exhaustion. Then the next day I can do a little more, and a little more. The lioness raises her head each time I reach our room at the top of the lighthouse, then drops it again when she sees I don't have a fish.

Fish, fish, fish. I'm getting as bad as the locals! I hope your lovely dry winter provides better than fish and your research goes exceptionally well for you! The dry, musty scriptorium sounds like heaven right now. I miss company and friends even more than I miss having dry boots! I will try to focus better on the research, so I have more to send you next time. I traded the ship's chandler in the port a painting I made of the lioness for a box of candles, so I will have many more hours of light per day to work now. Notice how much more I can write when I can see!

Waiting and watching and hoping,

A.