She’d grown far too used to portraits of herself that bore little resemblance to reality. But the statue before her was perfect, right down to the snake-bracelet on her wrist. The detail was so incredible that she would have wondered if the statue was actually a petrified girl... if she hadn’t been standing right in front of it. It was just perfect. “I don’t understand,” she said, shaking her head in disbelief. “That’s me!” “Well, it could be a statue of someone who just happened to look like you,” Cabiria said, mischievously. “I have a cousin who looks alarmingly like me.” Emily shook her head. It could be a coincidence, she supposed. If artists could paint portraits that made her look like Melissa, why couldn’t sculptors do a statue of someone that looked exactly like her? And yet, the level of detail was far too perfect. Up close, the only real difference—save for the clothes—was a scar marring her left cheek.
