With every step I felt lighter […] I had been old and stern for so long, carved with regrets and years like a monolith. But that was only a shape I had been poured into. I did not have to keep it.
Telemachus slept on […] So often on Aiaia, I had wondered how it would feel to touch him.
His eyes opened as if I had spoken the words aloud. They were clear as they always were.
I said, "Scylla was not born a monster. I made her."
His face was in the fire's shadows. "How did it happen?"
There was a piece of me that shouted its alarm: if you speak he will turn gray and hate you. But I pushed past it. If he turned gray, then he did. I would not go on anymore weaving my cloths by day and unraveling them again at night, making nothing. I told him the whole tale of it, each jealousy and folly and all the lives that had been lost because of me.