As a child, Irene had imagined Agnes as something opaque, edgeless, like a pottery cup, filled with things she couldn’t see. She had snuck into the nursery and imagined smothering her in the throwaway fashion young girls often picture great acts of terrible violence. She looks down at the jacket and bag in her arms, wishes in a pathetic sort of way that Isla could gather herself enough to take charge of the situation because she isn’t equipped to do this herself. Sisterhood, she thinks, is a trap. You all get stuck in certain roles forever.
