She has been painted for centuries and never asked to speak. Now Eve kneels at her grinding stone in a smoky highland courtyard, chaff in her hair, and answers. First she takes back the word that made her a “helpmeet”. Then comes the man who stood silent beside her at the tree, and the reason she swallowed his accusation and took her payment in naming her sons. Afterwards five readers press harder: an archaeologist, a theologian, a chaplain, a sceptic and a feminist scholar. Her replies are unsentimental and fierce. Forget the apple. She would rather you remembered the stone.
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