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ahead of us. Inside, she reached into the bin for potatoes. She had to scrape the bottom for them. The last of the old harvest was on us.
    I looked at Granda again. He was terrified and trying not to tell us.
    “We can gather limpets,” I said, “and mussels on the rocks.”
    He smiled a little. “Aye.”
    “And Sean and I caught that wonderful fish. We could catch another.”
    “Grand.”
    “And we could buy bread.” She held up her knitting. “I will walk to Ballilee and sell my shawl. It is almost finished.” She stared at me.
    “Lovely,” I said a little grudgingly. My shawl was hanging in its bag on the hook. A shawl with a hole. A splotch of mud. Knots as thick as the wild onions along the river.
    “I will finish my own straightaway,” I told her. “And make mittens from the last of the wool.”
    “Yes, fine,” Celia said, but I knew she didn’t believe it.
    I didn’t believe it either. Much less a pair of mittens. I had never once been able to do the thumb.
    “But remember.” Celia leaned forward. “Our potatoes are still healthy. Not a mark. Not a spot.”
    We all nodded, looking out the open doorway. She was right. The potatoes were still fine.

C HAPTER
9

    I was dreaming, rocked in the currach on Maidin Bay, small fingerlets of waves underneath me. There was a pull on Sean Red’s hook. Drops of water ran off the line as it came in, the fish a flash of silver under the surface.
    But what was that smell? I opened my eyes. It had been my turn for the hearth side, so there was no need to climb over Celia and Patch. I rolled out of the bed, the straw crackling under me. The glow from the hearth was just bright enough for me to see Granda huddled in the bed on the other side of the room.
    I stood there to be sure they were still asleep. But how could they sleep with the smell that was drifting in under the door?
    Three steps, then I eased the door open. Outside it was bright as day. The moon was up, full and white, throwing sharp shadows away from me. I heard thunder somewhere, though, and the air was damp and heavy.
    Nighttime belonged to the sídhe , so I was afraid to take more than a few steps, but it was far enough. The potato stalks leaned against each other, limp and wet, the leaves shapeless and dripping.
    I pulled up the edge of my petticoat to cover my nose and backed against the wall of the house. My throat felt thick. In my mind was Granny Mallon’s voice: “Without potatoes we will starve to death.”
    I couldn’t stop shivering. All our food for the next season was gone. The fish we had talked about, the mussels, the limpets. They would not be enough.
    I didn’t know how long I’d been standing there when I heard Granda come outside with the loy in his hand. I knew it was morning, though. A pale yellow sun appeared and was hidden again.
    “Granda,” I said, reaching out to touch his sleeve.
    “I thought you were sleeping,” he said.
    I followed him, trying to walk on my toes, trying to keep my petticoat above the ground, out of the ooze of the potatoes.
    He began to dig, pulling up a potato that was no bigger than my thumb, and then another.
    “Nory,” he said, out of breath. “Wake your sister. We will take up what is here. At least we will have something.”
    I started for the door, stopping halfway. If there were no potatoes, not any, how would we plant the eyes next year? It was hard to walk, almost as if I were at the edge of the surf with the water pounding at me, holding me back. I didn’t get to the doorway. Celia was standing there.
    She ducked inside for the smaller spade with the broken handle, calling over her shoulder, “It’s all right, Patcheen. Go back to sleep.”
    We ran across the field. I didn’t bother now about my skirt or the ooze on my feet. I tied the edge of my shawl over my nose and mouth and began to dig with a small shelf of rock.
    A burst of wind came up, driving the smell toward us. Granda’s hair blew as he worked, as Celia bent over,