Circe

by Madeline Miller

I had wondered why she was not more jealous of me. I understood now. I was not the goddess who had taken her husband.

Her calm grey eyes held mine. Her brow was arched like a temple, I thought. Graceful and enduring. ‘Telemachus has been a good son, longer than he should have been. Now he must be his own.’ She touched my hand. ‘Nothing is sure, we know that. But if I had to trust that a thing would be done, I would trust it to you.’