Page 21 of The Muse (Beautiful Magic 1)
Finally—finally—the museum closes. Gustave patrols, and another guard keeps watch on the monitors at the security desk. Now the waiting gets tough. The sun sets late in the summer, and I’d wrestle it down beneath the horizon if I could.
My phone chirps at sunset, and I pack up my messenger bag and make a loop through the galleries while I wait for full dark. Anticipation has sharpened my senses, and as I near her gallery, a dress rustles. Quickening my pace, I arrive as she steps out of her frame.
It’s as natural and effortless as if she does this every single night. Her long cream dress skims the floor, and she shakes out her curls, a Botticelli Venus emerging from the ocean, sun-kissed skin and tousled hair. Her chestnut hair is long and luxurious, enticing me to touch it, hold it, wrap my fingers around its silk.
She hasn’t noticed me yet, doesn’t realize I’m watching as her paint turns to flesh. As she takes on shape and skin and breath and life.
I would be shocked if I wasn’t used to paintings coming to life. What I am, though, is awed.
Awestruck by her beauty and her wonderful realness.
She turns, and her eyes fall on me for the first time. They are the fierce blue of a revolution, a color to rally flagging armies. They stun me.
Then she speaks. In English, her accent warm, her voice sounding like a poet. “I’m awfully hungry.”
I laugh in surprise. I didn’t dare imagine what she might say first, but not something so pedestrian.
But I like it, and it makes answering easy, bypassing nerves and vaulted expectations.
“It’s probably been a while since you had a bite to eat.”
She nods with a wry arch to her brow. “More than a hundred and thirty-five years.”
“I know where there’s a great île flottante,” I say, thinking of the nearby café that serves the floating meringue in caramel. Then I follow the thought through, and wince. “But it’s closed.”
“Maybe you can bring me one tomorrow?”
“Sure.” I would bring the Eiffel Tower to her if she asked for it. “It’s the best in the city.”
She nods. “I do love sweets.”
“Fortunately, we have plenty of those here in Paris.” I remember I have half a sandwich from earlier, and it’s not a courtly gesture, but it solves her problem.
I pat my messenger bag. “I have some of my lunch in here. It’s just a sandwich, but it’s pretty good.”
She eyes my bag hungrily, like she might take a bite out of it instead if I don’t hand over the food. “Would you mind terribly?” she asks, then recovers her aplomb. “I mean, may I have it?”
“Absolutely.” I sit on the wooden bench, and she sits next to me. The skirt of her dress spreads out and touches my leg.
She’s real. She’s here. And to say she’s beautiful would be to call the Alps tall or the ocean salty.
I unwrap the sandwich and hand it to her. When the food reaches her lips, she rolls her eyes in pleasure.
“This is perfect,” she says.
“I can bring you one of your very own tomorrow. Is there something you’d like?”
“Anything. Anything is good.”
She takes another bite, then holds up a “one more thing” finger until she can swallow. “I meant that. Everything is good. Bring me one of everything.”
Her voice is ravenous. No, she is ravenous. As she chews, she looks around the gallery with lively, hungry eyes. She glances at the messenger bag at my feet, as if she’s able to notice them now. She inventories my shoes, my jeans, my button-down shirt, and she can probably see the flush rising on my neck when she gets to my collar.
“I don’t know what to call you,” she says.
“I’m Julien.” I offer my hand to shake, and she takes it. I let the last of my doubt run out on a sigh. Her touch is real. She is real, from the hair that falls past her shoulders to the folds of her dress to the slim silver bracelets she wears, each one the width of a few strands of thread.
“You can call me Clio,” she says.
“Clio.” Her name is like a bell, clear and pure. “Clio.”
“It’s better like this, isn’t it? When we are on the same side of the frame?”
I laugh softly. “I couldn’t agree more.”
“I’m free.” Her voice breaks a little, as if her throat is tight with tears. She sighs and stretches her arms overhead. “And it feels spectacular.” She leans her head back as if she’s on a beach letting the sun warm her face. “Ah, you have no idea what all those years inside a painting will do to a body.”
Eyes closed, she shifts her neck from side to side, and I want to offer to rub the kinks out of her muscles, if only for an excuse to touch her. She turns to me, her wild blue eyes lit up like she’s ready to misbehave. Whatever she’s about to suggest, I’m down for it.
