You became the artist’s muse; immortalized, written in stone, both locked and released from the very fabric of the mineral. You were the inspiration for the piece, you were the solution for the sculptor’s incarcerated creativity. Born of the rock. The reason for the stone. Conceived, carved, polished. How flattered you must feel! ‘Ronan Brady!’ Gus had declared once he had perused Her at length and from a variety of angles, ‘truly magnificent!’ Chloë remained outside the workshop, clenching her nails into the palms of her hands until she could no longer feel the pain or her fingers. No one looked at her or invited her to cast her eyes and her compliments. They don’t need to, she thought, they’re having their eyeful right there. Gus made to leave and suddenly both he and Ronan were facing her, hands on hips. ‘Chloë!’ Gus declared. ‘I can see it,’ she shouted before tempering her voice, ‘quite well enough, thank you. From here.’ ‘For heaven’s sake, girl,’ Gus retorted raising his eyebrows at Ronan, ‘it’s sculp-sure!
