T HE NEXT SUMMER WE TURNED THIRTEEN, HIM FIRST, and then me. Our
bodies began to stretch, pulling at our joints till they were aching and weak.
In Peleus’ shining bronze mirror, I almost did not recognize myself—lanky
and gaunt, stork legs and sharpening chin. Achilles was taller still, seeming
to tower above me. Eventually we would be of a height, but he came to his
maturity sooner, with a startling speed, primed perhaps by the divinity in his
blood.

Chapter 7