Galatea

by Madeline Miller

He says it’s the goddess’ gift first, and then his own since he was the one who made me from the marble.

But it does seem foolish that he didn’t think it through, how I could not both live and still be a statue. I have only been born for eleven years, and even I know that.

“The color is perfect,” he said, “look.” And he held up the mirror so I could see. “You make the rarest canvas, love.”