Perforated pyramid with roses and runic circle

Your father would have wanted the lantern to go to you, not sit in the church vestry with the brass polish and the spare hymn books. I've wrapped it in the blue tea towel so the punched holes don't scratch Mrs Ayres's good linen when she unpacks the hampers on Saturday. Don't let the girl hang it by the hook yet; the solder on the top seam is still soft where I patched it on Tuesday.

Read the ring of letters round the base before you light it. Your grandfather cut those himself, backwards, so the warding would sit on the inside of the glass when the flame was low. Nobody in the village can read them now, but the old dogs still sit up when the lantern is lit in the porch.

The roses were from the wall behind the forge, the gold ones that never gave us anything but thorns and mildew. I cut them at dawn with the rain still on them and wrapped the stems in wet newspaper so they'd last the drive to Ashworth. Mind the red drips on the paper; that was beetroot juice from Margaret's jars, not blood, whatever Gladys says at the shop.

When the candles are out tomorrow night, carry it to the lane yourself. Hold it up and let the holes throw their small stars on the wet cobbles, the way your father did for me. Then come home and tell me whether the bride laughed.

Love, Mum