Page 65 of The Muse (Beautiful Magic 1)
I point to The Swing. “That was fading this morning, and now it’s not. I fixed Gabrielle with a Rose too. I’m not even a great artist or an eternal Muse, but I’m the only one who can fix your paintings. Face it—art isn’t just for the elite. Art belongs to everyone. Get over it.”
Renoir’s eyes flick from painting to painting and then to me, his pupils flaring with desperation. “You can fix them?”
“Yes,” I grit out.
“Will you fix my paintings? Will you save them?”
“Yes,” I say, exasperated. “Despite what you did to Clio, I’ll save your work. Your legacy will go on, I promise. Under one condition.”
“Name it,” he says, and he’s begging now.
“You need to leave us alone, leave Max alone, and get rid of your fake paintings.”
“I will.” He mutters a strangled “I’m sorry.”
“Save your apology for the one who deserves it.”
Simon and I drag him back to Clio’s gallery, where she’s resting on a bench, Dr. Gachet and Olympia on either side of her. Simon is gripping Max’s hands so they’re behind his back, but when he gets close enough, he bends down and speaks in a low, remorseful voice.
He doesn’t say sorry though.
But he says something that perhaps matters more.
“Thank you. For inspiring me.”
Gustave nearly falls over when he sees Simon and me escorting Max out the front doors. I promise to explain later. Maybe by then I’ll have thought of something to say.
We hail a cab to take us to the Marais, then the three of us climb into the back seat, Max in the middle. We ride in silence for a bit, and then Simon says, “So. You’re dating a painting?”
I correct him. “I’m ‘dating’ a Muse who is stuck inside a painting.”
“Oh, okay, then. That’s not nearly as weird.” After a moment, he asks, “Do you love her?”
“I do.” The reply comes easily, naturally. “I do love her.”
Simon nods. “Good. I’m glad about that.”
At the tiny church where Renoir has set up his studio, I take the knife he used at the museum from my pocket and hand it to him. Then I wait while he slashes through all the forgeries Cass has made for him. Big, unrepairable X’s.
When he’s done, he looks at me, flexing his knotted fingers. “You promised to fix my art.”
“Yes, I did. And I will. But you should go.”
He nods, then stretches his fingers straight. There’s a gust of wind, and it carries the trailing telltale scent of rose perfume. I’ll never smell roses the same way again.
Max—the real Max—shakes his head as if he just woke from a strange dream, then looks around, dumbfounded.
“Hey, bud.” Simon claps him on the shoulder. “You’ve been sleepwalking. Let me take you back to your pad.”
Thank you, I mouth to Simon before they go.
After a stop to buy an “I LOVE PARIS” T-shirt to replace my ruined shirt and a sandwich at the first vendor I find, I return to the Musée d’Orsay and get started healing the Renoirs like I promised. By the time I finish the first two, the rest have started to restore themselves. So, the curse retreats the way it advanced. Like dominoes falling, all I have to do is touch a few and the rest follow.
I am calm in a way I haven’t been since the first night the art came alive for me. Now all I have to do is wait to see how the cure affects all the other paintings.
How it spreads to them.
How it saves them.
Because it will.
Everything is going to be fine. Everything is going to be better. I inhale deeply, relieve Dr. Gachet and Olympia of their bedside watch, and take Clio to the South of France.
26
We escape into a beach inside a Cézanne.
Soft waves lap our feet. Warm sand pillows our heads. It’s the perfect place for rest and relaxation, which is just what the doctor ordered for Clio. I am all too happy to be her companion on a quick trip to the painted seashore in Marseille.
“Just think right now of all the sick paintings that are starting to feel better. Because of your touch,” Clio says as she squeezes my hand happily. Her other hand rests on her wounded stomach. Her face is still pale, but she’s had some water and some of the sandwich I’d picked up for her.
“I’m going to hang up a shingle that says ‘ART DOCTOR FOR HIRE, AT YOUR SERVICE.’” I tuck my hands behind my head and let the warm sun of the Mediterranean beat down on my face. “By the time we return, the reports will be pouring in from all the other museums.”
“I can’t wait to hear the good news,” she says. Then she shifts gears. “What else did Thalia say when you saw her this morning? Did she ask about me?”
