Since she faces the saline spray, her copper skin has already turned green, but she wears it majestically, nobly. “You’re like . . . the Statue of Liberty now,” I tell her, but it doesn’t comfort her. “Am I really that lonely?” she asks. “Lonely?” “That poor shell of a woman must forever hold her torch aloft while the world does its business around her,” Calliope says sadly. “Have you ever considered how lonely it is to be the girl on a pedestal?”
