Page 9 of The Muse (Beautiful Magic 1)
My strength is curiosity. I have a passion for exploring, for uncovering answers.
And damn, if it isn’t going into overdrive.
I crouch beside the door and unhook the latch, then I pull it open, expecting a creak or a moan of hinges.
I obviously watch too many horror movies.
The door opens without a sound. Below, a circular staircase winds down into darkness. Could it be a cellar far below, deep inside the hill the house sits atop? I imagine Rafe’s relatives hiding their art there to keep it safe during the Nazi occupation of Paris. Many families did the same.
No chance to confirm it now, so I close the door and shut the latch, curiosity unsatisfied. Something is going on beneath the surface here, and I don’t just mean in the cellar.
A chair scratches across the floor, likely coming from the table in the living room. Time to get out of here.
I close the door behind me as I leave, then I take a wild guess and open the second door on the right to find, sure enough, it’s the bathroom. I duck in, do my business, then leave and close the door again just as Remy comes down the hall.
“Did you lose your way?” he asks, teasing.
I hook my thumb toward Monet’s painting of the Japanese bridge in his garden. “You said to take a look at the art.”
He smiles with something like approval. “Good, good. And did you get a chance to look at all of it?”
All of it? Including the chalk drawing?
He wanted me to see the trapdoor. I’m certain of it. Was I supposed to find the stairs beneath it too? And why the hell not just say, “Mon ami, you should see the stairs in the media room. I promise they don’t lead to a dungeon or anything.”
I suspect Remy would love a dungeon simply for the irony of there being one in bohemian Montmartre.
The moment passes as Remy tilts his head toward the living room and rolls his eyes. “They’re still talking pigment and chemistry and blah, blah, blah. So I figured I’d leave them to it and just show you the painting.”
Yes, the painting.
I forget everything else. Adaline and basements and trapdoors and mysteries. All I can think is, Show me.
Show me now.
Nerves thrumming with anticipation, I follow Remy to the white door at the end of the hall. He removes a key from his pocket, unlocks the door, turns the brass handle, and it all takes forever. At last, he pushes open the door, and once inside, he gestures to the painting hanging behind an imposing oak desk.
Time stops.
The house goes silent.
Forget trapdoors and five-legged calves. Forget black cats and painted peaches.
Nothing in the world moves outside of my tingling skin, while inside I’m a riot of thoughts and feelings. It’s Christmas morning presents and a winning bet at Monte Carlo and free run of the Louvre and love at first sight all rolled into one.
I’m all goosebumps and hammering pulse. Photo reproductions are to this painting what a music box is to a symphony.
The woman stands in the garden.
Her back is mostly to the painter, but she’s twisting around, looking over her shoulder with a fierce stare, sharp longing in her eyes. Her gaze is defiant, and her eyes are etched in pools of radiant blue. Long brown hair cascades down her back, and one hand is raised as if she’s reaching for something or someone. And all around her, there are flowers hemming her in—irises in shades of violet, royal purple, and a plum so dark it’s nearly the color of chocolate.
A chocolate-plum iris.
And the woman. She is the most beautiful woman I have ever seen.
“Shall we return to the others?” Remy asks, jerking me out of the moment.
Maybe I need to be yanked away. I’m not sure I’d leave this room otherwise.
Because I’m enrapt. More than I expected.
“Yes, of course,” I say, catching another glimpse of her as I go.
I can’t wait a few weeks to see her again at the Musée d’Orsay.
But, I don’t have to wait that long.
Without planning it at all, I turn to Remy. “About that invitation. I’ll definitely be at your party.”
4
Simon and I have zero classes together, as studies in history and studies in art history share only a word and not a department. But my last lecture on Thursday afternoon coincides with his in the same building, so it’s our routine to grab a coffee after.
Coffee will be the perfect time to tell him my plan. My mind is still fixated on the painting, but also the staircase, the sounds that came from below. Which means the party is a perfect solution for everyone. As I emerge into the sunshine, he’s waiting on the front steps, scrolling through his phone. He looks up at my “Hey,” and pockets his cell.
