"I don't reckon," Will said, scuffing the fine layer of sawdust with his toe. "Not all of 'em, anyroad. 'Salways them who'll grab onto power wherever they can find it. Some things don't change."
It's happened before, Clio had told him afterwards. People who'd caught a whiff of inspiration off her and couldn't get enough, needed to have it all to themselves. She'd told it as if it were her fault, like she were the one turning their heads, forcing them to kidnap and imprison another person. Will didn't buy that. The women were always asking for it, and the poor were always scoundrels, and the rich were always entitled to more. The world moved, inch by in-fucking-furiating inch, and the day-to-day got better, but slice it down the middle and the stories being told were still the same.
"And then there's the gods," he added darkly. Apollo, Hermes, Ares. They never changed.