About a week later, Mirriam ran into Mrs. Allen at the post office. Unfortunately, this was not a turn of phrase. Mrs. Allen was coming out with a box from a popular online retailer of fashionable clothes.

Mirriam was going in with a huge pile of reports for work. She'd emailed them all, but one of her bosses was rooted in the Paper Age and insisted that she print and mail them. Why he couldn't print them himself from the electronic files she sent was a question with no good answer. All the reports in their plastic sheet binders went everywhere. Mrs. Allen apologized as she helped Mirriam corral all the slippery little books.

"Let me help you carry these to the counter, dear. We'll get Herbert to put them in a box." Mrs. Allen bustled away with a handful of Mirriam's reports.

Meanwhile, Mirriam fished out the final report from behind the old-fashioned steam radiator and joined her. Mrs. Allen and Herbert broke off their hushed conversation and turned expectant faces her way. Her suspicions were raised by their sudden lurch of subject into the weather. How marvelous it was that it remained hot and dry!

As if it wasn't hot and dry in these parts every late July, Mirriam thought with a cranky sigh.

Perfect for the Wicker Man. Yes indeed! Their enthusiasm wasn't even a little contagious for Mirriam, who only wanted a tracking receipt and a hot cross bun reward. For some reason, the Westfarthing bakery made them year-round instead of only on Good Friday. Also, one could get a slice of plum pudding at the tavern any time of year. Did these things make Westfarthing charming or peculiar? Mirriam judged it was a little of both.

Though Mirriam had lived in the village for over two years, she wasn't used to all its eccentricities. Even after meeting her Deep Child, much of the weirdness of Westfarthing remained opaque to her.

It's for the best to not get too involved. She stood blinking in the bright sunlight outside the post office, then remembered that she had sunglasses. If she could find them in her purse...

"So, have you decided what to put on your receipt?" Mrs. Allen interrupted.

The finally discovered sunglasses slithered from Mirriam's fingers back to the bottom of her too-full purse.

"Um. No? Not yet?" Mirriam hadn't given the receipt another thought after she shoved it in a drawer. She pulled a wad of crumpled tissues from her purse, hoping to regain the all-important sunglasses. The blank piece of parchment came out with them. Strange. Hadn't she put it in the drawer?

Mrs Allen flashed her a look of alarm. "Best get on that, missy. It's but a few days to Lammas!"

"Oh. Oh! I wasn't actually planning on coming to the bonfire. Lots of work for me at this time of year, you know."

Mrs. Allen's eyebrows shot up in alarm. "That won't do! John particularly said that Miss Mirriam Friedman must attend this year."

Herbert came out of the post office and joined them on the sidewalk. He flipped the little sign around to say 'Back at 1 pm', then put on his sunglasses, ready to walk down to the tavern for his lunch.

"Ladies."

"Herbert! Mirriam's planning on skipping the bonfire again! Tell her it won't do!"

"People come to the bonfire when they're ready, Edna." Herbert twisted his key in the old-fashioned lock on the post office door.

"John said that she was to come," Mrs. Allen insisted.

"Well, then. That's an end to it. You'll have to show up, Miss Friedman."

"Who's John?" Mirriam asked.

"He's the head of the wicker man work crew," Mrs. Allen said, while at the same time Herbert muttered, "No one. Just a guy."

Herbert nodded to Mrs. Allen, winked at Mirriam, and headed off to the pub for lunch.