Page 43 of The Muse (Beautiful Magic 1)
“That’s great.” And I mean it. The real Max is personable and will enjoy talking about what he loves, I’m sure.
He laughs. “Pretty soon, a whole generation of French youth will be drawing pointy chins and big noses.”
I laugh too, relieved that Max has regained sole proprietorship of his own body.
Emilie and I pop into a café and order coffee.
“So, that Degas. You might not believe this, but you want to know why I got so red when that woman said what she did about me looking like the woman in the painting?”
“Red?” I ask, straight-faced. “I hadn’t noticed.”
She pretends to swat at me. The waiter brings our coffees, and Emilie stirs sugar into hers.
“Try me,” I say. “You’d be surprised at the things I believe.”
She hesitates than plunges, the words rushing out. “I’m like the great-great-great something of some Degas dancer.” Her nose wrinkles with an embarrassed grimace. “That’s what my mother tells me, at least. It sounds crazy, doesn’t it?”
“Emilie, that doesn’t sound the least bit crazy.” Or if it does, her crazy is nothing compared to mine.
“So, she was supposedly this amazing dancer. Her name was—”
“Emmanuelle.” We say it in unison.
Emilie’s mouth falls open in shock. “How did you know her name?”
I wave to dismiss my gaffe and improvise, “It must have been in the description in one of the catalogs.”
That actually makes more sense than the truth.
“Sometimes I wish I weren’t related to her,” Emilie says with a sigh. She rests her chin on her hand, and I hear the faintest notes of music again, just like I did at the café in Montmartre.
“Why would you wish that?”
“It’s too much pressure. I’ll never live up to it.”
The strains of music grow louder. Emilie’s gaze is turned inward, so I glance around to see where the melody might be coming from. Thing is, I have a feeling, but I need to rule out mundane possibilities. “Do you hear that?”
“Hear what?” She looks around too.
“It sounds like flutes.” I point to the ceiling speakers, even though the music surrounds Emilie, wreathing her in melody. “You haven’t heard them at all?”
“No, but is the music pretty, at least?” She sounds amused.
I smile. “Very much so. But tell me why you think you won’t live up to her?”
The music has become distinct now. The string section comes in, and the melody turns to three-four time. This waltz is familiar—iconic, even, recognizable without even knowing the ballet. The source isn’t the café’s sound system, but the down-in-the-dumps ballerina in front of me.
“Because I’m awful.” Emilie sinks deeper into her propped fist. “I’m rehearsing right now for—”
“The Sleeping Beauty,” I finish.
Emilie sits up straight and gapes at me. “How did you do that again? How did you know?”
I shrug. “Just a guess.”
It’s like when I saw exactly how Gustave could finish his art piece, as clearly as if I had read a schematic. He only needed a final touch of inspiration. With Emilie, I hear music when she needs a boost of confidence.
I don’t know how Remy’s eternal Muses work, but this is how I work. Finally, something for my Human Muse User Manual.
Desperately, I wish I could text Clio and tell her my insight, right now, while I’m still giddy from it.
“A guess?” Emilie narrows her eyes then wags a finger at me. “Or perhaps you looked at our calendar and know that’s the next ballet of the season.”
“That must have been it. I’m sure I read it somewhere. I bet you’ll even get a solo.”
As soon as I say it, the music fades, like someone has closed the doors of the orchestra hall.
“I’m trying out for one.” Emilie’s shoulders have relaxed, and so has her smile. “And thank you for saying that. I don’t know why, but I always feel so much better about my dancing after I talk to you.”
“I’m glad. You should feel good about your dancing.”
“Will you come to the performance?”
“Name the time. I’m there.”
She gives me a time and a date a few weeks from now, and we finish our coffee and say goodbye, both of us feeling good about the encounter.
But good feelings don’t always last.
On my walk back to the museum, my phone pings with a text.
* * *
Remy: Julien, mon ami!
* * *
Julien: That’s not at all a suspicious way to start a conversation.
* * *
Remy: C’est vrai. But promise to consider that I am but a lowly messenger for the powers that be.
* * *
Julien: What does that mean?
* * *
Remy: It means “Don’t shoot the messenger.” Here goes. The Muses want to know how everything is going with the Woman Wandering in the Irises.
* * *
Julien: Oh, really. The Muses want to know? Did you get an email, or do they communicate by skywriting?
* * *
Remy: Don’t be absurd. They write a note and leave it in the basement.
