Vienna Read Online Free Page B

namesake was Duchess Joan of Someplace. A fourteenth-century warrior queen who tried to unify embryonic Belgium. Having failed to die horribly, she’d been largely forgotten.
    Since Joan’s creation a hundred and fifty years ago, some philistine had stained her blue. The caustic dye had distended the grain, giving her a corrugated appearance. She didn’t even feel like wood anymore. The manikin stood upright, palms on hips. Below a flowing brunette wig, her expression was wistful, lips frozen in a sad smile. Her gaze downcast, as if surveying life’s bitter defeats. Justine guessed that the sculptor—she couldn’t remember his name—had been a hard-luck case.
    Searching the manikin’s dead eyes, Justine tried to untangle the Prague Weirdness. Had one of Joan’s wooden sisters moved? Elizabetha had been carved in mid-skip—a motion capture of youthful energy. Over two days of shooting, Elizabetha’s left arm had shifted down, or her torso had canted to the side, or her feet had spread farther apart. Something.
    Or was it simply the manikin’s dynamic pose suggested movement? Why was the obvious answer so hard to believe?
    â€œWe’re ready, Justine.” Mathews showed her the first position marks of the day. His boney hands shifted into constant motion, framing each shot. “Three quarters to the fan, smile … more pout … this light is for shit … tilt forward from the hips … You seem off today. Tired? That’s better … If another pigeon wanders in frame, I want it fucking strangled.… Get the hair again … less happy, more smug … hand lower on your leg…” Justine thought Mathews sounded like someone who wanted to sound like a fashion photographer.
    Five hours and six wardrobe changes later, Justine was left demoralized. The day had been too hot and too wet and her thoughts remained tethered to Vienna’s gray shower curtain. The seamless floor and fractured ceiling. The broken spirit forever guarding strawberries from invading yolk. I shouldn’t have just blown her off.
    Guilt on a seven-hour delay. Wonderful.
    Justine waved to the crowd and ducked into the wardrobe tent pitched to the side of the camera. By the time she emerged, Mathews was downloading pictures to his oversized laptop while his assistants finished stowing gear. Justine watched the images stream by, depressing in their rows of sameness.
    â€œWe have several excellent shots.” Mathews pointed to a picture of her mimicking the manikin’s pose, her absurdly padded shoulders towering overhead. “This is nice.”
    She knew his reputation enough to trust him. She signed off the final paperwork and said her good-byes.
    Back to the hotel for an hour of cardio. A quick shower and a primal rendezvous with Grant. He moved with relaxed confidence, hands guiding her hips, his cool lips on her throat. Justine felt her body respond to his touch through filters of fatigue.
    Off to rinse, adding a mental note to make certain all the water wasn’t drying her skin. Dress in something expensively casual and spend the late afternoon on the phone. To Bernoulli in Paris: I’ll be there. Adelina in New York: please double-check my London itinerary for the next stage of Clay to Flesh, and contact Vogue to see exactly what they want. A quick call back to Georgia. Mom fixing tea and fiddling with a new math curriculum. Dad out for a jog along the shoals.
    â€œYou check for wayward shopping carts?” Justine asked. An old family joke.
    â€œOf course,” her mother answered. “I take care of your father.”
    Conversation danced around the trivial. Justine tried to emulate her mother’s tranquility. The genes had to be there somewhere.
    â€œWhat’s wrong, Sassy?” Her mother’s ability to sniff out sulking was known to exceed the speed of light.
    â€œNothing major.”
    Off the phone and on to a