Agnes’s hands, curled around the pebble pots, feel enfeebled, useless. She doesn’t think she is able to grip the knife, to grasp the thorned stems, to pluck the waxy-skinned hips. The idea of harvesting them, bringing them home, stripping off their leaves and stems, then boiling them over a fire: she doesn’t think she can do that at all. She would rather lie down in her bed and pull the blankets over her head. “Come,” says Susanna. “Please, Mamma,” says Judith. Her daughters press their hands to her face, to her arms; they haul her to her feet; they lead her down the stairs, out into the
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