Page 67 of The Muse (Beautiful Magic 1)
I pace, feeling stupid for making assumptions. “I think . . .” God, this is hard to say. It’s like ripping off a piece of flesh. It’s like tearing out a part of me. “I think that the art misses you.” I don’t, can’t, voice the rest. The art needs her to keep being its Muse.
Clio rubs her temples the same way Adaline did.
“When did it start? Not the fading of the Renoirs, but the art falling apart? When was that?” Her tone is desperate. “I need to know. You have to tell me.”
I think of the dancers twirling in the halls, of Olympia’s cat coming out to play. But that was just art coming to life. I flash to the first time I saw trouble brewing—the flame, and the feathers, and the transforming of Bathsheba. “A couple of days after Remy’s party. Why?”
Hand pressed to her side, Clio darts into the main hallway, breathing hard. “The sun is rising. I have to go.”
“Right, right. I know.” I follow her quickly. “Let’s set you free from the painting.”
She shakes her head. “No. I can’t go yet.”
“Clio . . . you have a good reason to rest. Thalia will let you take it easy on your Muse jobs.”
Her lip quivers. Her face looks pinched. “I don’t think that’s the problem with the art.”
“Then what is it?”
Her eyes shine with the threat of tears. “It’s daylight. I have to go back or—” She runs to her canvas and slides back inside, cut in her stomach and all.
I call out to her, but she’s gone.
And I have no idea why the art she inspired is crumbling, but I suspect she does.
And I suspect, too, that she doesn’t like the answer.
Which means I probably won’t either.
27
We are not alone.
Around the world, artwork is spitting up.
Vomiting its insides.
A whole new spate of problems.
I clean up under the Cézanne, bagging the sand and leaving it below the frame, as the other museums around the world have done.
I spend my time tracking the art as it falls. A Goya in Saint Petersburg, a handful of Vermeers in the Met, a Morisot at the Art Institute of Chicago. The Renoirs are now all undamaged, that debt settled, but something far more dangerous has infected the other art.
I scroll through my email alerts even as I grab a late-afternoon coffee to go. At least one thing doesn’t have to do with the art implosion. There’s a note from Emilie, with an attachment.
* * *
Hi Julien,
* * *
I’ve been following all these crazy museum reports. How bizarre. I have faith you’ll sort it out though.
* * *
If you’re not too busy doing that, I got a solo in The Sleeping Beauty (it’s fine if you say “I told you so”), and you mentioned you might like to see the ballet. I have two tickets reserved for you and your girlfriend. You can get them at the link I attached.
* * *
Best of luck and see you soon (I hope!),
Emilie
* * *
My girlfriend. In the midst of everything, that word still makes me happy. The thought that Clio will be free by the date of the performance even makes me happy enough to smile.
When night comes, Clio escapes from her painting looking ashen and weary.
“I know what’s going on with the art. I figured it out,” she says in a dead voice. She slumps against the wall and drops her head into her hands. “It is all my fault.”
I sink down beside her, shaking my head, wanting to reassure her. “Clio, it’s not your fault. Even Thalia didn’t make the connection.” I rub her back, encouraging her. “It’s going to be fine. The art you inspired needs you back, so we’ll get you back.”
“That’s not it, Julien. That’s not it at all.” Clio lifts her face and looks at me. Her eyes are rimmed with pain. Her face is stricken. She lowers her voice to a confessional tone, like she’s admitting a terrible crime. She whispers, “I caused it.”
“No, you didn’t,” I say, denying it for her.
She nods. “I did.” She winces, draws a breath, then seems to steel herself. “They’re dying because I love you more than them.”
What?
I sputter. I blink.
I can’t believe that. I refuse to believe that. She has to be wrong.
I start to protest, but words are like sawdust in my mouth. “No” is all I can manage.
She takes my hand, squeezing it. “Yes.” She sounds forlorn. She sounds like she lost a symphony. “It has to be the reason. No Muse has ever been in love before. We only love art, or literature, or music. We love each other, and the art form we’re inspiring. Our magic is for inspiration, and our love is for preservation. That’s it; nothing more. When I started caring about you, all the art I inspired, all the art I loved, got sick. It can’t be any other way, Julien.”
