The Fate of the Muse - By Derrolyn Anderson Page 0,18

determined to light and pose each article of clothing for the optimum effect. I could easily see him as the head of a major design house.

When the agent showed up he fawned over Evie, air kissing each of her cheeks with a loud smack and flattering her in French. He looked up to see the three of us watching expectantly.

“Allow me to introduce myself,” he said with an artistic flourish, “Jacques Reynard, at your service.”

He was a funny looking little man, who seemed to have stepped right out of another era. He sported a perfectly tailored light grey suit worn with an ascot tie in a brilliant blue. A ridiculous little waxed mustache sat on his upper lip like a piece of twisted black licorice: it was hard not to stare at it. I suppressed a giggle as I watched Evie nudge Shayla forward to meet him.

He appraised her like she was an object, and although I knew it was all part of the business, it triggered a twinge of annoyance that worried me. I took a deep breath and slipped out of the room to get a drink of water.

In light of what had happened to the congressman, I realized that I couldn’t be too careful. After some reflection, I decided not to allow myself to feel any form of rage. If there was even a remote possibility that anger was some kind of weapon in my muse arsenal, I desperately needed to master it. I’d searched the internet, reading up on meditation and prayer, and was working to develop the serenity of a Zen master. I planned on becoming a completely calm reflection of inner peace and control.

Fat chance, a little voice in the back of my mind mocked me.

I gathered myself together, returning to see Shayla walking back and forth across Evie’s vast great room while Jacques scrutinized her like a man looking to buy a horse. Cruz nodded his encouragement on the sidelines. Shayla’s athletic gait gave her a straightforward, aggressive kind of grace that other runway models lacked, and I could tell Mr. Reynard was intrigued. He sat down and leafed through her book of photos, studying them carefully, clearly impressed.

“She photographs well, nest-ce pas?” he asked Evie, nodding his approval. He looked up to see me watching, “Well, well, who do we have here?”

“Jacques, this is Marina,” Evie said, with a gesture towards me. I held out my hand.

He stood up and came closer to inspect me with the same judgmental eyes, addressing Evie, “Exquisite… simplemont exquisite…”

“I’ve always thought so,” said Evie, beaming.

“Like a miniature Evelyn Pond! But too petite for runway, non?”

“Nice to meet you too, Jacques,” I said, trying not to sound too sarcastic.

“The pleasure is all mine,” he said, taking my hand in his with a knowing twinkle in his eye, “Are you searching for ze agent as well?” he asked me.

I looked at Evie with narrowed eyes. She must be up to something.

“No thank you,” I said politely, “Have you decided to represent Shayla?”

He smiled, “Oh yes, most certainly! I’m going to make certain zat she’s booked for fashion week… But ave you any photos I can see?”

“She will,” Cruz jumped in, “We took some awesome pictures today, and Marina and Evie are going to be in Paris for the shows!” He turned to take Shayla by the upper arms, excitedly squealing, “Now you get to go too!”

Shayla looked stunned, “I’m gonna go to France?”

Evie and Jacques took Shayla into her study to discuss the terms of her contract and finalize her travel plans, while Cruz and I finished up with the photographer and got his clothing all packed away. When they returned Jacques bid us all farewell and followed the photographer out the door.

“I’m the only one here who’s not going to Paris,” Cruz pouted.

“There, there,” Evie said as she gave him a pat on the back, “It won’t be too long before you’ll be showing your designs all around the world.”

Shayla stood silently, a dazed look on her face.

“Are you okay?” I asked her with a smile. I knew once everything sank in she’d be bouncing off the walls.

She swallowed hard, “Do all French men have mustaches like that?” Cruz’s eyes met mine and we couldn’t contain our laughter.

Evie looked at us reproachfully, patting Shayla’s arm, “No my dear, Jacques is simply a bit of an eccentric.”

“A what?” she asked.

Shayla thanked Evie profusely for getting her the interview, solemnly promising not to let her down in Paris. We