Her features appear strangely pulled forward, cheeks, brows, lips all bunched around her sharp nose like a curious configuration of sails about a mast. He starts to laugh, though Agatha shows no sign of wishing to join him. “You are awake? Aren’t you?” she demands. “Because I need to speak to you.” Juno growls. Agatha looks as though she may growl back. “This can’t go on, Odo. What with nursing Margaret, and Judith suddenly worse than useless…the workshop isn’t functioning, and I need you to do something about it.” She has tried to be patient with him, but if he is not ill, what is the meaning of this extraordinary lassitude, with Gytha imprisoned, the little of what remains of the livestock drowning in mudslides, the grain brought in from Normandy at such expense rotting in sodden granaries, and his workshop full of idle hands and poisonous gossip? Determined to bring him round, she will tip him out of bed and scrub him head to toe with cold water herself if need be.
