Page 15 of The Muse (Beautiful Magic 1)
“Right. Like the five-legged cow thing.”
“But she loved Woman Wandering in the Irises. It has been passed down through the family, along with the duty of keeping it safe.”
I realize I’m staring at the white door at the end of the hall. Remy follows my gaze and smiles slyly. “Would you like to see it again?”
Good sense says I shouldn’t. This goes over the line from eccentric to delusional. I know that the deeper I go, the stranger my life is going to get. The most rational part of me says get out while I can.
But something else whispers, Stay.
It’s the same thing that drew me to follow the sound of dancers on the parquet floor in the museum to see what was there. To find out how much reality there was in my imaginings.
“What do you mean ‘keeping it safe’?” I ask.
“It’s not like other paintings, Julien. It’s quite special, and it needs protection from harm. So we are charged with its care.”
Protective outrage pushes aside confusion. “Why? Who would want to hurt that painting?”
Remy shrugs in that “it just is” way of his. “Why does anyone want to ruin beautiful things?”
I consider the stories that Adaline dismissed. Two artists in love with the subject of the portrait. Maybe her family wanted to hide or destroy the portrait to protect her reputation. Maybe there is some other shadowy reason I can’t speculate.
Who is she, this woman who inspired love, aroused jealousy, and needed protection?
“Then why let it go now?” I ask Remy.
“It’s time. And I think you’ll keep it safe at the museum.”
“Of course.” It’s a vow, even though I’m only an intern. Even though I don’t know where my career will take me.
We’ve been moving toward the room as we’ve talked, and Remy unlocks the door and guides me inside without following.
“Sit. Take your time.” He might be grinning, but I only have eyes for the painting. “I’ll leave you two alone.”
The door clicks shut, and I walk over, hypnotized, to Woman Wandering in the Irises.
Warmth seems to radiate from the canvas, reaching across the short distance between us as if the sun that lights the garden doesn’t stop at the frame. As if the woman has body heat, a heart pumping blood through her skin. As I study her, she looks back, her lips parted ever so slightly, looking impossibly kissable.
I want to trace a finger across those red lips. What was she saying to the artist? What was she thinking? Was she raising a hand to greet a lover?
She stays still and silent, but the room feels expectant, like the hushed anticipation between the dimming of theater lights and the rising of the curtain. I watch for something, roaming my eyes over her, and when I do, I see the faintest of outlines.
A shimmer of silver.
The canvas buckles near her hand. I hold my breath, afraid to hope for more but pleading for it at the same time. This has to be real. Please let this be more than an illusion. There’s a rustling sound, and then one slender feminine finger pokes out. My heart stops then restarts; I have to breathe, but I don’t want to risk breaking a moment that feels as fragile as a cobweb.
I lick my lips and wait, not sure what I’ll do if enough of her hand appears that I can grasp it and pull her free.
“Come out,” I whisper. “Come out.”
I move closer, inches away now, so close that my words would stir the wisps of her hair. That sunny warmth spreads over my chest, as if I could wrap my arms around her and hold her against me.
I stare, full of anticipation. “Who are you?”
There’s the gentlest swish of a skirt from behind the frame.
“What is your name?”
Then a distant sound, like a far-off bell.
“What are your favorite things?”
There’s the sound of merriment, but it’s not coming from the party. It’s as if the canvas is echoing a sweet, inviting laugh.
I put my hands on the frame. This is as close as I have come to touching her. “What are you like, woman behind the paint?” I ask, and for a moment, I can hear soft breath and the beating of a heart, and I’m sure neither one is coming from me.
The canvas is quiet the rest of the night, and the woman doesn’t emerge from the painting any farther. I stay until the party noise dies down, and I’m one of the last to leave. I say goodbye to Rafe, injecting gratitude even though I feel disconnected, as if I’m waking from a too-long nap.
Remy walks me to the courtyard door, where he presses the pink polka-dotted calf into my hands and tells me I earned it.
“I want to see her again,” I tell him. “Before she comes to the museum.”
