In which the worst of coming home is dealing with one’s mail.
The quote at the head of this chapter seems, at first glance, not to have much to do with what follows. There isn’t obviously anybody doing something dangerous in the name of necessity.
Unless it’s the Tree.
I am deeply suspicious of the Tree’s purposes in giving out this set of sweet cedar-smelling seed-pods — the more so since, on this re-read, I’ve noticed the other place in the chapter where the smell of sweet cedar recurs.