Page 36 of The Muse (Beautiful Magic 1)
“It’s complicated.”
“But is it interesting?” Lucy’s voice is a purr, and her green eyes are the perfect complement to the emerald streaks that curve like streams down her cascade of dark hair. “Complicated can be dull. Or complicated can be fascinating.”
“More of the latter,” I tell her.
Simon slaps a hand on the table, decreeing, “Well? Let’s hear it.”
Where should I start? Muses. Dust. Paintings that come alive. The voices I heard in Remy’s cellar. Voices that sounded like poetry, like history, like music, like art.
“Do you believe in Muses?” I ask Simon and Lucy.
He pulls her closer, which I didn’t think was possible. “I believe Lucy is my muse,” he says, then ducks in for a quick kiss.
“And what does she inspire you to do?” I ask, ignoring their sappy grins.
“To order falafels,” Simon says. “Want one?”
“Sure.”
He raises a hand, and the waiter appears as if by magic.
Magic. The word rolls through my brain like a marble in a tilting maze. There is magic in Paris. Magic in art, magic in dust, magic in my hands. I can’t help the grin that spreads, big and wide, over my face. These things are real, and they’re magic, and they’re happening to me.
Clio is real, and she is happening to me.
But there are also curses, and art getting sick at the Louvre, and Renoirs fading from sunlight they never see. If there’s good magic, wouldn’t there be bad magic too?
After we order, Simon returns to the question. “So, Muses. You mean the nine ladies who inspire artists, writers, musicians, and so on?”
“Yes. Those Muses.”
“Sure, I believe in them,” he says, surprising me a little.
“As you should,” Lucy offers. “The Muses are powerful women.”
I chuckle silently. Not all muses are women. “No argument from me.”
There’s a pause while I tap my fingers on the table, wondering how much of the truth I can share. The thing is, I have to tell somebody something, even just part of it, or I’ll burst.
“So,” I begin, “there’s this guy who came into the museum claiming to own the Renoir painting we just hung, when he clearly doesn’t. So I followed him out of the museum, and, long story short, I found these documents.” I put my hand on top of them on the table. “They’re versions of the fake papers he offered Adaline as proof that he owns the painting.”
“Look at you.” Simon grins as if he’s proud of my cunning. “You’ve gone from cat burglar to detective.”
“I’m just full of special skills. Speaking of,” I say, “can you put yours to good use and research someone for me?”
“Anything for a cat-burgling detective.”
I give him Max’s full name and ask him to research his family, who they are, where they’ve lived, what they’ve done, and any notable details about them.
“Do you want us to follow him too?” Lucy asks, and her eyes light up, mischief in full bloom. She turns to Simon. “Wouldn’t that be fun?”
“What I did for my summer vacation,” Simon quips, narrowing his eyes and shifting them back and forth. “Espionage.”
“Actually,” I say, my thoughts racing, “that’s not a bad idea.” Sophie seems to be doing Remy’s legwork. Simon can help me with mine. “That would be great if you would.”
The waiter brings our food, and we eat. Then I remember the hat, and on impulse, I ask, “Lucy, would you like a purple hat?”
“I would love a purple hat,” she says, and then coos when I hand it to her. She models it, tilting her head just so.
“That hat is turning me on,” Simon says, which is my cue to leave. I place some euros on the table, and the pair of them barely seem to notice.
Walking back across the city, I rehearse a slightly more detailed version of what I told Simon about my discovery of these papers, because obviously I’m going to have to tell Adaline something, even if it’s half-truth and half-fable.
But overall, I count the day a win.
Especially since Clio isn’t going anywhere.
14
I spread the desserts out on a bench in one of the galleries. Using it as our table, Clio and I sit on the floor in front of Monet’s picnickers. They have their own alfresco meal inside their frame but watch us with smiling eyes.
“This apricot tart is pretty much the best thing I’ve ever had,” I tell Clio as I show her everything I’ve bought.
“Better than chocolate? I don’t know, Julien. That’s a tall order. Chocolate is pretty decadent.”
“Mark my words. You’ll be moaning in pleasure once you try it.”
She arches a most flirty eyebrow. “Moaning in pleasure? All from a tart?”
And this is an opportunity if I ever saw one. “Take a bite, then, Clio,” I say, my voice lower, a little smokier.
With her gorgeous eyes on me the whole time, Clio tastes it. “Mmm,” she says, murmuring around the fork, then handing it to me when she’s done. “That is decadent. I can’t resist sweets.”
