Page 69 of The Muse (Beautiful Magic 1)
When I look into her eyes, I know what she’s going to say will slaughter my heart.
She squares her shoulders. Draws a deep breath. “The thing is, it’s not enough for me to love the art. I have to put the love I feel for you into the paintings.” She takes a beat, then deals the punishing blow. “To save the art, I have to stop loving you.”
28
She is the poison, and she is the cure.
“It’s like a debt,” she says in an even voice. She taps her chest. “One I have to repay.”
She sounds resigned, but resolute.
Meanwhile, I feel like I’ve been pummeled. Cut off at the knees.
I always knew that Clio and I had met in a strange and wonderful otherness that couldn’t last forever. I thought we’d simply have to part, and that would have been hard enough. But this is worse, far worse.
Loving her unrequited.
Loving a woman who no longer loves me.
Tears streak down her cheeks, and even though I feel so heavy I could sink to the ocean floor, I wrap her in my arms so she can muffle her sadness against my shirt. I want to take her pain away. Even though I know I’ll be wearing all her pain soon.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “I’m so sorry. That only took a tiny bit away.” She touches my cheek, so soft and tender that I have to close my eyes just to contain all the feelings that threaten to burst out of my heart. “I’m still crazy about you now, Julien.”
Now. But soon, not at all.
“So I guess I should let you out the door. To do the repairs.” My voice is empty.
“No. As long as I’m part of the painting, no one can see me except you. But once I leave the museum, I’m no longer bound, and anyone can see me then. Which makes doors and security guards a problem.”
She keeps talking, thinking out loud. “I need time to focus, and to put my hands on the art. I’ll have to be there when no one else is.” I know what she’s about to say, and I want to stop her, but I can’t. “To repair the art, I need your help.”
It’s a sucker punch.
And I’m winded, doubled over.
“Because with me, you can go at night and travel through the paintings.” My voice is flat. I’ll help her, but I can’t make myself excited about losing her love. “We can cross Monet’s bridges when we touch them at the same time.”
“Exactly. Most of the museums we need have Monets with bridges, don’t they? He made all those paintings after I was trapped, so we know they’ll be intact. We can travel through them almost instantly.”
She’s put those details together fast. She’s brilliant, and breaking into a museum through a painting should be the coolest thing I’ve ever done, but it means I’ll have to witness my own execution. I’ll have to watch her fall out of love with me.
“Let’s go now,” I say, walking to the nearest bridge painting. I want to get this over with. The longer I have to think about it, the harder it will be.
Clio shakes her head. “There’s a problem with now.”
“What’s that?”
“The Louvre doesn’t have any Monets, or any other Impressionist paintings of the bridge. We can’t get in that way. And I think we need to start where the problem started.”
There is logic to that, but I don’t feel logical. I want to rip off the Band-Aid.
As if she can read my thoughts, she wipes a hand across her face to dry her tears and steels herself. “Look, this is my problem. I can do it myself during the day after you free me. It’s riskier but not impossible.”
“Clio . . .” Now I feel like an asshole.
Probably because I’m being an asshole.
She shakes her head. “I should never have asked you. It’s not fair.”
“That’s true,” I say, and she blinks in surprise. “It sucks in every way imaginable. But I’m in this with you, and we have to fix it together. I want to protect you, and I will. The trouble is anyone can see me anytime. We have to come up with a way that I won’t be spotted on security cameras roaming about foreign museums in the middle of the night.”
“I actually have a few ideas,” she says with a grin. “But what about the Louvre?” She looks over at the nearest Monet. “Can we somehow get one of these Japanese bridges into the Louvre?”
“Seriously?”
“Yes, seriously,” she says. “Maybe . . . one from a private collection?”
“Sure. All my friends have a Monet or two lying around—”
Hang on.
Hang the hell on.
I grin, and this is the first time I’ve felt anything good since she told me the news.
I picture dusky-blue light on the slatted bridge, and I look at Clio and smile. “As a matter of fact . . . I do know someone.”
