Free The Muse by Jessie Burton

began to approach the house, both of them with a pace as sure as the mountain goats, avoiding rabbit holes and minor rocks in their seemingly inexorable desire to approach. It jolted Olive, this confidence. She and her father watched them come near, their progress punctuated by the light snap of bracken beneath their feet.
    The woman was younger than Olive had thought. Her eyes were dark, her satchel bulky and intriguing. She had a small nose and a little mouth and her skin was burnished like a nut. Her dress was plain black, with long sleeves that buttoned at the wrist. Her hair was also dark, thick and braided into a long plait, but as she turned to look at Harold, strands within it glinted redly in the morning sun.
    The man had almost black hair, and was older, probably in his mid-­twenties. Olive wondered if they were married. She couldn’t take her eyes off him. His face was that of a Tuscan noble, his body a sinewy featherweight boxer’s. He was dressed in pressed blue trousers, and an open-­necked shirt like those Olive had seen on the men in the fields, although his was pristine and theirs were threadbare. His face was fine-­boned, his mouth had an agile facility. His eyes were dark brown, and they grazed Olive’s body like a small electrical current. Were these two together? Olive was probably gawping, but she could not look away.
    â€˜We bring bread,’ the man said in accented English, as his companion fumbled in her satchel and raised a loaf aloft.
    Harold clapped his hands with delight. ‘Thank God!’ he said. ‘I’m starving. Hand it over here.’
    THE PAIR MOVED TOWARDS THE veranda. Although she was about the same height as the girl, Olive felt much bigger than than both of them, and uneasy for it – her arms too long and her head too large, her limbs out of control, giving her away. Why the hell was she still in her pyjamas like a schoolkid?
    The girl placed a hand on her own chest. ‘ Me llamo Teresa Robles ,’ she said.
    â€˜ Me llamo Isaac Robles, ’ the man said.
    â€˜ Me llamo Olive Schloss. ’
    She must be his wife, Olive thought, for why else would he be with her at this time of the morning? The ­couple laughed, and she felt a flare of rage. Being called ‘Olive’ in Spain might be funny, but it was hardly the same as being called ‘Anchovy’, or ‘Apricot’. Olive had always been teased for her name: first, as Popeye’s woman; then as an adolescent, a cocktail nibble. Now, on the cusp of freedom, she was being laughed at for being the fruit upon the Spanish tree, and still no one had ever plucked her.
    â€˜Harold Schloss.’ Her father shook hands with both of them, and Teresa handed him the bread. He beamed at it, as if it was a bar of gold and Teresa one of the Magi. ‘I’m her father,’ he added, which Olive thought unnecessary. Teresa knelt down, and with the careless precision of a magician, she produced from her satchel a strong-­smelling hard sheep’s cheese laced with sprigs of rosemary, a cured sausage, three small quinces and several enormous lemons. She placed each fruit with a flourish on the scarred wood, where they glowed like planets, a solar system in which she momentarily became the sun.
    â€˜Having a picnic without me?’
    Sarah had appeared at the kitchen door, shivering in her silk pyjamas, wearing one of Harold’s flying jackets and a pair of his thickest hunting socks. Even haggard from a bad night’s sleep and the champagne they’d picked up in Paris, she looked like an off-­duty movie star.
    Olive saw the familiar reaction; Teresa blinked, dazzled by the bright blonde hair, the air of glamour that clung to Sarah wherever she went. Isaac knelt and plunged his fingers into the satchel. Something living appeared to be at the bottom, and it stirred, and the satchel began to move of its own accord.
    â€˜Jesus!’ Olive