He listened to her advice on protecting the art and hummed softly. He wondered what Ellen would make of it. They didn’t exchange gifts, they didn’t have keepsakes of each other – though Atticus had taken to saving the letters she sent him, rather than burning them, which had been selfish of him, he knew. The one keepsake he had was the locket around his neck, a twist of blonde hair within glass. It had been commissioned by he himself, when he found the hair in one of her infrequent letters, so it couldn’t be followed to her.<br/><br/>Sending her a sketch of himself was... daring fate. But if he worded the letter just so, he could pretend he had simply seen it, and thought of her. She would know it was him. And – well. If she felt she couldn’t keep it, she could burn it.<br/><br/>“I’ll do that. Thank you.” He smiled at her, though the expression faded as she asked for a favour. “Ask it,” he murmured, knowing it must be important if she couldn’t speak of it inside the House.<br/>