Page 55 of The Muse (Beautiful Magic 1)
“We’ve been keeping tabs on Cass Middleton,” Remy says. “Sophie has spotted her crossing the alley to this church with easels, stretched canvases, and paint supplies.” There are no signs of a makeshift studio—not so much as a whiff of linseed oil.
“Are you sure this is where she was headed with them?”
“Yes. She’s been going back and forth—was here this morning, in fact.” He looks around as Simon and I do the same. “Maybe she’s using another room or a basement?”
“Let’s spread out and look,” I say.
Simon heads for the altar, and when he’s out of earshot, I ask Remy in a low voice, “Did you ever learn why Suzanne Valadon asked your family to keep Woman Wandering in the Irises safe?”
I’m almost certain I know, but confirmation would be nice.
Remy shakes his head, seeming to genuinely regret that he can’t give me an answer. “Only that there was a woman trapped inside the painting until a human muse came along. The family henceforth had to keep it safe until then.”
From the start, it’s seemed like anyone involved has a piece of the puzzle, but no one has the whole story. Remy doesn’t know there’s an eternal Muse in Woman Wandering in the Irises. Clio doesn’t know what happened to her painting after Renoir’s last words, cursing her.
As for Renoir, I don’t think he has all the answers either. His forged papers were convincing, but none of his stories have been. Maybe I can’t figure out his plan because he’s still figuring it out himself.
Remy and I fan out too, but there’s not much to search. The church is tiny, and there’s no sign of a way into another room or a basement. I throw up my hands in frustration. “Nothing. Now what?”
“Now,” says Simon from where he’s casually leaning against the altar, “I dazzle you with one of my random bits of knowledge.” He taps the top of the altar. “A lot of these old alleyway churches have served as handy places to stash relics, refugees, riches. But sometimes . . .”
He braces his shoulder against the raised altar and shoves like a quarryman. The stone altar groans as it moves over a few inches to reveal a door in the floor.
“Voilà. You get a hidden staircase in front of everyone’s eyes.”
“Consider me dazzled,” Remy says, his sculpted eyebrows climbing. I think he’s more surprised by Simon than the door, but that’s my Scottish friend all right—more than he seems.
Simon holds up a hand as if demurring applause. “It’s nothing. Brilliance is all in a day’s work for me.” Then he takes the first step down, looking back at me. “You coming, mate?”
“Of course.” I hurry over, and Remy follows, peering at the uneven stone steps and wrinkling his nose.
“I’ll keep a lookout up here. I am extremely particular about basement upkeep.”
I can’t argue with that, so I thank him and follow Simon down a loop of stairs. I find the switch for a work light and pull it, illuminating a breathtaking and chilling sight.
Two easels. Two paintings in progress.
Renoir may be loathsome, but his work is astoundingly beautiful. And there’s no denying this is his work.
On one canvas, the artist has begun the Young Girls at the Piano, and The Boy with the Cat is underway on the other easel. Those were the first two Renoirs to fade. Is he replacing his own work?
Simon pokes around the stacks of empty canvases against the wall. “This proves that the Middleton woman is forging paintings, right? What next? Do we call the metro police or go straight to Interpol?”
I’m sure Renoir’s been here, inhabiting Max. But it must be Cass doing the actual painting. Renoir needs a master art forger to reproduce his masterpieces. The ghost can’t simply paint them in a borrowed body—whenever he takes possession of Max, his fingers twist into an unusable shape, mimicking the deformity of Renoir’s arthritis.
“I don’t know,” I answer Simon. “It’s going to be hard to explain the spirit of Renoir coaching his forger.”
“But I don’t get why. He can’t sell them, right?”
I picture Clio in the painted sunshine of Monet’s garden, telling me how Renoir loved his art above everything else. How it means the world to him.
“Losing his art has got to be his worst nightmare,” I say. “Maybe he has his reasons. If he can replace the works with exact replicas, he can preserve his legacy.”
Simon points out, “They won’t be exact replicas though. Not without the secret formula thingy in the signature.”
That’s true. And who knows if he can even create the signature pigment with modern supplies?
A door slams above us. Simon and I look up at the old musty ceiling at the same time. “Let’s get out of here,” I say, and I don’t have to tell Simon twice.
