Page 40 of The Muse (Beautiful Magic 1)
A groan works its way up my chest.
More.
I want that too.
“Say the word, and I’ll give you anything you want.”
“The word,” she says, so deliciously that heat rushes over my skin, and I want to grab her hand, rush down the hall, and dart into that little alcove right behind Starry Night.
A quiet tucked-away corner.
No mystery is more interesting to me than the question of what it would be like to explore her body. How would she feel and taste? Would it be as life-changing as the first time we kissed?
I hear footsteps before I can tug her away and find out, and Gustave pops into the gallery. Have I lost track of time, or is he changing up the path and timing of his patrol through the rooms?
“Hey, Julien,” he says, coming farther in when he sees me, which makes for a third option—that he was looking for me. And maybe Clio? “Want to hear something crazy?”
“Sure,” I say nervously, because I don’t have a clue how he’ll react when he sees I’m not alone. But he doesn’t acknowledge her, only me, even when she steps between us. So . . . Gustave can’t see her?
She whispers, “This will be fun,” so close to my ear that I only resist pulling her against me because kissing the empty air would be hard to explain.
Gustave fiddles with a bit of wire and some shiny red stones as he leans a shoulder against the wall, as if settling in for gossip. “I just talked to my buddy who runs the night shift at the Louvre. Says he saw a lemon fall out of a de Heem over in one of the galleries a few minutes ago. They were adjusting it for that Interiors exhibit or something.”
Now he has my full attention. “Really?”
“Can you believe that?” Gustave shakes his head. “What a loon. Used to play rugby. Think he may have taken too many hits to the head back then.”
“Hmm, yeah. That does sound crazy,” I say. But what I really want to know is why lemons are dropping for this buddy of Gustave’s. Could he be another human muse?
I try not to look at Clio’s fingers plucking playfully at my T-shirt, try not to flinch when she taps my ticklish stomach. Have to stay still in front of Gustave. “What did he do with the lemon?”
“Threw it out,” Gustave says, and my heart lurches. “Said it was stinking the whole joint up.”
So, not another muse, then. Maybe there is no instruction manual, but that’s just not what you do with art.
“Bizarre,” I say absently. I’m thinking about my visit to the Louvre, the fire leaping into my hand, Bathsheba’s drooping belly—and now, a lemon gone rancid. It’s as if the art is throwing itself overboard, casting itself off the cliff of the canvases into the sea. But why is the art over there going full lemming while the Renoirs here are simply fading?
“You’re telling me,” Gustave says.
I can’t think about the Renoirs without a pang of worry over Clio’s painting. Worry over Clio. While Gustave’s attention is on the stuff in his hands, I look at her, but she’s watching whatever he’s doing, so now I have to look too.
“Can I ask . . .?” I point at the smooth copper wire and what looks like a fake ruby he’s twisting it around.
Gustave frowns and holds it up. “I just can’t figure out how to make this look right. I’d wanted to enter it in a subway art contest.”
When I see the whole thing, I see the whole thing—where the wire should go, what twists and bends would make the piece look both edgy and clever.
“Maybe if you bend the wire through the ruby so it’s like . . .” I demonstrate the angle I mean. Gustave looks at my hands, at the wire, at the rest of the miniature sculpture, and then something clicks for him—I can almost hear it. He does as I suggested, then lifts the piece and views it from different angles. “That does look good. Thanks, Julien.” He chuckles and straightens up. “I think I’m going to call it Crazy like a Lemon.” With a little wave, he turns to go back to his post near the front doors.
With him gone, I turn to Clio to ask her what she thinks about the lemon at the Louvre. But she’s grinning at me—absolutely beaming—and words slip away from me.
But not from her.
“You’re the muse,” she says, wonder in her voice.
Her smile grows, spreading wider and etched with awe.
Not just that—happiness, excitement . . . and relief, like something long-expected has arrived.
You’re the muse.
She’s been waiting on the muse.
My world does another seismic shift. “You know about that?”
“That there would be a human muse someday?” She nods slowly, her eyes alight with happiness. “But I didn’t know until you helped the guard just now that it would be you.”
