Page 62 of The Muse (Beautiful Magic 1)
How am I supposed to answer that? Poets and songsmiths have been trying forever. It’s feeling as if the stars exist only to shine on the two of you. Feeling as if time stops and your whole heart is full.
Feeling like the impossible has become possible.
My eyes fall on the score spread out on the counter, and I say, “It’s like finding a lost symphony.”
Thalia smiles. “That sounds wonderful.”
“It is,” I say with absolute certainty.
It’s amazing, and I would stop time to enjoy it forever, but I can’t, and there is work to do.
“So, the curse. From what I can tell, it seems to have spread from the Renoirs to affect the other paintings around it, and we need to do something to reverse it. Last night, Clio tried to fix Renoir’s painting of Gabrielle with a Rose, but . . .” I spread my hands, empty of results. “You’ve tried, and I assume Calliope tried in London. Nothing seems to work.”
Thalia looks at me. Her eyes sharpen. Her tone is crisp but curious. “Well, have you tried?”
24
I stand in front of the painting I touched this morning and consider asking one of the Musée’s visitors to pinch me. The Swing looks perfect.
Absolutely perfect. The woman’s white dress is luminescent again, the blue bows radiant. I did that. While I was out all day, the magic went to work.
Why my touch and not Clio’s or Thalia’s or one of the other eternal Muses?
I answer my own question almost before I finish it. A human muse set the curse into action—ignited it in a way. Logic dictates that a human muse can reel it back in.
Since I can’t very well run around the gallery touching all the Renoirs in front of the visitors, I’ll have to take care of the others tonight.
But then I see that Gabrielle with a Rose has been taken down and a small card placed beside the empty space: Removed for conservation.
That gives me a place to start.
I head for the lowest level of the museum, far below ground. If Gabrielle with a Rose was taken down this morning, it shouldn’t be too hard to find the painting in the storage room. It’ll be near the front—especially since the restorers will be in to look at it. Right now, though, the long hall leading there is deserted. I detour to wash my hands—because it would be a shame to cure magical damage and cause the ordinary kind—and then unlock the door to the storage room via the keypad.
Only a portion of the museum’s collection is on display at any given time. The ones that aren’t on loan spend their sabbatical here, shelved on specialized racks, the lights kept dim and the temperature cool. I find Gabrielle with a Rose easily, carefully slide the frame out, and rest it against a nearby wall.
I’ll have to be quick—anyone with the code can come in, and I won’t be able to hear them approaching. I start where the damage is the worst, spreading my hands and pressing my palm gently against the canvas. I try to remember how long I touched The Swing. It wasn’t very long at all. So, I lift my hands away and wait.
Nothing happens. I stand, walk through the racks to stretch my legs, and try not to check my watch every thirty seconds. The Swing didn’t return to its proper state immediately, and the damage to it was much less extensive than that done to Gabrielle with a Rose.
Instead of pacing, I head back up to the staff offices and tap on Adaline’s door. She’s on the phone, but she motions for me to come in.
“Yes,” she says to the caller. “We’re as baffled as you are.” Adaline rubs her temple as she wraps up the mostly one-sided conversation. When she finally hangs up, she sighs. “That was the Met. The sleeping maid in their Vermeer snores, apparently. Trying to move it made things worse, so they’ve left all the art in place and roped it off from visitors.”
I nod. “That’s only sensible.”
I don’t realize how ridiculous that sounds until Adaline says, “Julien,” like I’ve suggested tea on Mars this afternoon. “None of this is sensible.”
We stare at each other for a long loaded moment.
Adaline cracks first.
A snort.
A smothered snicker.
We give in to mad, sleep-deprived hilarity so loud I have to shut the door so the staff doesn’t think we’re lunatics or monsters. Once we get ahold of ourselves, Adaline looks better for the release of endorphins, and I feel a bit better too.
She rubs her hand over her face. “You look like crap.”
“You’re one to talk,” I say, since we’re pulling no punches.
“Yes, but this is my job.”
“It’s mine too,” I say, not meaning the internship.
“At least get out of here and get some fresh air and some lunch.”
