Page 27 of The Muse (Beautiful Magic 1)
“Are they what?” she asks, confused.
I force a laugh. “Ghosts.”
She doesn’t laugh at me, so that’s good, and she shakes her head solemnly in answer. “But I have heard that the ghosts of great artists tend to haunt cafés.”
“Really?” I can’t tell if she’s joking.
Her straight face breaks into a teasing grin. “Since that’s where so many writers, artists, and poets hang out.”
I chuckle at the joke, but also in relief that I haven’t ruined things with us, either tonight or altogether.
Clio continues her thought, glancing around the grand gallery. “Though you’d think they might frequent museums too. To see if they approve of how their masterpieces are being treated.”
I wince. “That is a terrifying thought. Please don’t tell me to expect a visit from a displeased ghost with an artistic temperament.”
Her laughter chimes like a bell in the vaulted ceiling of the hall. “Then I won’t tell you that.”
I don’t pursue an answer I don’t want. We walk a little farther and then she stops to face me, her expression serious. “When the paintings come alive for you, you see what some people sense when they say that art is immortal. The artist lives on in their work, and a bit of what they paint lives on too. But only as art. You could say that the painter catches a moment as much as a person. The subjects don’t spend their days wandering beyond the frame. They aren’t alive on the other side.”
But she is.
“You exist as more than a moment though,” I say, and her eyes flash and then widen. Have I stunned her with my insight, or is she just pissed that I’ve brought the question back to her? I don’t know, but I hold her gaze as I push my luck. “You are more than a moment, Clio.”
She swallows and nods. Her nose turns red as if she’s about to cry. It’s adorable, but I don’t want her to be sad, so I reach out and put my hands on her shoulders, rubbing her arms. “Hey. I’ve always felt that you were a person—a real woman in the irises. That’s why I said you feel real. Not just to me, but real in and of yourself. And that’s what I can’t make heads nor tails of.”
Her breath catches in a humorless laugh. “You don’t know the half of it. That’s why I asked about Monet’s garden the other night.” She lets out a long, heavy breath, like this is hard for her. “Because I live in the painted one—all the time.”
I flinch from surprise. How is that possible? “You . . . you . . . you live in Monet’s garden?” It’s hard to form a coherent sentence when I’m struggling to wrap my head around the idea.
“That’s where I was when Renoir painted me, so that’s where I am in the frame—a painted version. That’s where I sleep.” The way she says it, it sounds like a prison sentence. “That’s where I’ve been for all this time.”
“That sounds beautiful and awful at the same time.”
Her eyes are full of sadness. “It is. It’s gorgeous, but it’s lonely.”
I can’t even imagine what she’s feeling. I’m in awe that she hasn’t gone mad, alone in a painted garden for a hundred and thirty-five years. But how? Was it an accident?
Maybe the story is true. Perhaps Renoir was in love with her, but she didn’t feel the same, so he locked her away in a painted cage.
“Did he trap you?” I ask, my mind racing. “Renoir?”
She sighs and shakes her head. “There were things we didn’t agree on, certainly. But no.”
I begin to ask another question, but she places her hand on mine, and I wait.
“Julien . . .”
Everything stops—breathing, heartbeat, brain function. The universe narrows to only her as she says, “I don’t actually want to talk about Renoir right now.”
“Me neither.”
“Ask me what I do want to talk about,” she says.
“What do you want to talk about?” I oblige, matching her lighter tone.
“I don’t want to talk at all right now.”
She reaches for my hand and slides her fingers into mine.
I let go of all my questions. They fall from my mind like marbles scattering, and I smile at her, weaving my fingers through hers. “Funny, I don’t want to talk either.”
Her grin is delicious.
With a gentle tug, I bring her close. She slides against me, fitting perfectly. I lift my free hand, brush the soft tendrils of hair from her face, then ask her softly, as if anything louder would shatter the moment, “May I?”
“You may.”
I thread my fingers through her soft hair, shut my eyes, brush my lips over hers, and kiss this woman who was a painting and who will become one again.
Now, though, in my arms, she’s the most vibrantly real thing in my world.
