Page 11 of The Muse (Beautiful Magic 1)
“I hear music,” I say. After all, I might not be imagining it entirely. “Funny thing is, it’s ballet music. Giselle.”
Her eyes widen. “You heard Giselle?”
I nod, unsure how to interpret her reaction. It seems less about how I’m hearing music and more about what I’m hearing.
She blinks up at me with those wide eyes and whispers, “That’s my audition piece.”
As she says that, I picture Emilie on the stage of the Palais Garnier in front of thousands of people in their red upholstered chairs underneath the six-ton candelabra. The rising sounds of the ballet build toward a gorgeous finale as Emilie pirouettes, her head tipped back, giving in to the dance, giving in with abandon.
“You’re going to blow them away.” I feel compelled to tell her. “I have no doubt you will be the newest member of the Paris Opera Ballet next week.”
Emilie beams, the warmest smile I’ve ever seen.
And the music stops.
So . . .
What the hell just happened?
Simon and Lucy join us, and she models a skirt with cheeseburger drawings on it.
“Just bought it. Isn’t this the best?” Lucy gives a flamboyant twirl, then settles into a chair. Funny that the nondancer is the one bold enough to execute a 360 in a public square. Lucy seems to possess a natural showmanship, from the twirl to the skirt to the emerald streaks in her long brown hair.
“I think I should get a shirt with French fries to go with it,” Simon says as the waiter brings our espressos.
“So, what’s with the cheeseburgers, Lucy?” I ask.
“I lived in Chicago for a year and decided to make it my mission to try one in every diner in the city.”
“Did you complete your mission?”
“No, but it only whetted my appetite for the United States.”
“And where else would you want to go in the U.S?” Simon asks.
The conversation turns to which American cities we most want to visit, from New York to Miami to Seattle to Austin, and while we finish our drinks, I notice Emilie watching the singing group in the square. Her foot taps in time to the music, and her eyes are keen and intense, her shoulders tight, as if she’s ready to leap after something she’s spotted.
Leaning over to her, I say with a smile, “You’re thinking about how much you want to be dancing right now.”
She smiles ruefully, speaks quietly. “Is it that obvious? I just feel like I should be better prepared for next week.”
“So go dance,” I tell her, keeping my voice down too.
“Really?” The suggestion surprises her, but her shoulders relax. “I could still squeeze in a class tonight. Practice some more.”
“Do it,” I urge. I don’t want to be rid of her, but she should go where her heart is, and that’s not here. I think we’ll be friends, but I can tell she’s already in love. She’s in love with dancing.
“I need to go,” Emilie says to the table. “Sorry, Lucy. But I want to take a class.”
“Emilie,” Lucy says. “C’mon. You’re always taking ballet classes. Let’s go to a party.”
“Sometimes inspiration strikes. And I’m inspired to go dance.” Before she leaves, she kisses me on the cheek and whispers in my ear, “Thank you.”
Before I can ask what for, she’s walking away.
And I’m one step closer to the party. To the painting, and to the staircase and wherever it leads.
5
A sheep grazes above on Remy’s spacious balcony, nibbling on a patch of grass.
The sheep keeps company with a goat. The sheep baas and the goat bleats and Simon gleefully rubs his hands together. “A party with farm animals. This is exactly what I needed for my Thursday night.”
We ring the buzzer on the green door with the iron gate. Remy opens it and ushers us in grandly. He wears a plain black polo shirt and jeans. A contrast for the fashionable man.
“What a surprising outfit,” I remark, and Remy grins in delight that I remembered the theme of his party. Surprise. “I’m shocked how much you look like…not you.”
“Sometimes I feel like…not me,” he says with a grin.
There’s a girl with him, and her perky brown ponytail swishes as she eyes the three of us with interest. She looks like the underclassmen at university—no, that’s not right. She looks like an underclassman at an American school, because I’m not sure a French girl would wear jeans and a faded orange T-shirt with a unicorn leaping over a rainbow.
“This is my little sister, Sophie,” Remy says. “She’s supposed to be upstairs working on a term paper.”
Sophie doesn’t look bothered by the comment. “My surprise was escaping the campus to come to his birthday party.”
“I’m pretending to be surprised she would flee the dormitory on the least excuse,” he says.
“Nice to meet you, Sophie,” I tell her. She shares her brother’s insouciance, the kind that makes her likable straight away.
