Page 64 of The Muse (Beautiful Magic 1)
But her eyes are closed, and she barely acknowledges me before I lower her head gently to the floor, with Simon watching me, bewildered. “Don’t let Max move,” I tell him, and race to Dr. Gachet’s frame on the second floor. There, I wipe the blood on my hands off on my jeans before I knock on the frame. “Dr. Gachet!”
He yawns, and his mouth stretches through first. “Yes?”
“Come out,” I tell him quickly, my heart racing. “I need a doctor.”
“Of course,” he says. The rest of him, in his shimmery, shiny royal-blue coat, squeezes out of the painting, and I bring him down to the first floor.
Clio is curled on the ground, twisted in on herself. Blood trails between her fingers where she has them pressed over her midsection. Dr. Gachet wastes no time bending to examine her wound. Olympia takes notice too, and jumps out of her frame, hovering nearby, watching.
Dr. Gachet turns to me. “She needs to be stitched up.”
I shake my head, grabbing and discarding ideas at the speed of thought. “We don’t have a single painting of a hospital to go into. No medical equipment that I can grab.”
“Julien,” says Dr. Gachet, calm and patient. “This is real blood, not paint. She’s not like us. She needs real stitches.”
“What do you need, then? To fix her? Tell me, and I’ll get it,” I say in a rush.
He lists the equipment that will help him help her. Scissors, thread, a needle, and a little painkiller would be ideal.
I run my hands through my hair. Scissors I can grab from an office, but a needle and painkiller? I’d have to go home, or to a drugstore. “There’s no way I can get all that in time.”
“Julien.”
It’s the tiniest whisper. I kneel at Clio’s side and ask softly, “What is it?”
“Draw them,” she says. “Draw them for me.”
Yes!
With blood-covered fingers, she flicks a bit of silver dust into my left palm while I fumble inside my bag for my notebook. I throw it open and listen as Dr. Gachet describes in detail the instruments he’ll need. I draw like a surgeon, fast and precise, then trace the lines with the dust. In seconds, the flat white of the paper takes on shape, turning tangible under my touch. The tools I slide to Dr. Gachet to begin his work, and the painkiller I give to Clio.
“Holy crap.” Simon sits on Max and watches me while his jaw hangs open. He’s pointing at the scissors Dr. Gachet holds. Simon may not be able to see Dr. Gachet or Clio, but he can see a needle stitching up an invisible wound.
“Yeah,” I say ruefully. “This is what I meant by the situation being complicated.”
“You are the master of understatement, mate.”
I turn back to Clio. She reaches feebly for my hand, wraps her fingers around mine, and winces. “The medicine will kick in soon. Just squeeze tighter till it does.”
“It’s coming along. Hang in there,” Dr. Gachet says, his bedside manner calm and reassuring as he makes neat stitches to bring the edges of Clio’s skin together.
Finally, her tight grip loosens, and her knitted eyebrows relax as the medicine takes hold.
Dr. Gachet finishes, making a knot. “There. She’ll need rest, but she’s going to be okay.”
I take my shirt and pull it on, bloodstained and filthy. I turn to Olympia, who’s crept a little closer. “Can you watch over her for a bit?”
“Of course, love,” she says, kneeling to stroke Clio’s hair.
I give Clio a kiss on the forehead. “I’ll be back soon, I promise.”
“I know,” she says, and her eyes flutter closed.
Now it’s time to deal with Max. “Let’s take him to another room,” I tell Simon.
He yanks Max upright and drags him to the next gallery, where I face him, eye to eye. “Do you get it yet? No matter how many paintings you remake, you can’t protect your legacy by replacing all of your originals with replicas.”
“I just wanted the pigment to make my paintings.” He sounds shaken. “I didn’t mean to hurt her.”
I seethe. Grit my teeth. Then speak. “But you did hurt her. You hurt her then, and you hurt her now. Is that what great art is? Hurting others? Is that who you are? Is that why you’re back?”
With a touch of defiance, he lifts his chin. But his voice wavers, a note of contrition coming through as he says, “No.”
“You have to stop then,” I say, holding my ground. “You’re causing more damage. You’re creating nothing but pain. That can’t be your legacy.”
He heaves a sigh, but then nods again.
“And it’s not just your paintings that are ruined. Have you been to the Louvre? Just look around. All that art is dying because of you.”
He winces, like now he’s in pain. Finally, I think I’m getting through.
