Page 44 of The Muse (Beautiful Magic 1)
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Julien: Oh, well, of course. I’m heading in to work right now. That is a hint to get on with telling me the message.
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Remy: Yes, of course. The woman in the painting—they want to know how she is.
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Julien: Tell them she’s fine.
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Remy: Is she?
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Julien: She’s just great. Truly.
* * *
I make it up the stairs and wave to the guard at the reserved entrance. He lowers the rope and lets me through. The exchange gives my thoughts time to catch up, and I add another line, completely without sarcasm.
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Julien: And tell them I do appreciate their concern.
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Remy: I will.
* * *
I bound down the steps to the main floor, but then stop short when I smell that rose perfume, thick and heavy. I turn around and see Max walking to the door with that out-of-sync gait. I get a good look at his hands; they’re curled up into the cuffs of a long-sleeved shirt. My chest tightens—that’s not really Max at all.
What is Renoir up to now?
I suppose he could be up to nothing more sinister than gazing at his own masterpieces and reminiscing.
But I highly doubt it.
My sister is alone in the break room, head propped in her hands over a cup of tea. Even though a teabag still dangles over the rim of the cup, the drink has stopped steaming.
I reach behind me and close the break room door without her asking. “What’s wrong?”
She pinches the bridge of her nose and slumps against the back of the chair. “It’s Gabrielle,” she says, mentioning the Renoir.
“The sun damage?”
“Yes. Her painting has it now too. On her shawl.” I take the seat across from her in wordless sympathy, trying to keep calm, at least on the outside.
“And it’s not just us now.” Adelin’s voice hitches with despair. “The Young Girls at the Piano is fading even more at the Louvre. And I heard from the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston today. Dance at Bougival is having problems too.” Running a hand over her face, she says, “How is this happening? We didn’t find any light coming in, and even if we did, Boston now makes three different locations. It’s like the Renoirs are turning into . . . mall art.”
Could the curse on Clio’s painting be responsible?
Except that, while the problem might have worsened recently, the Young Girls at the Piano started to fade weeks ago, well before Clio’s painting arrived here.
“What can I do to help?” I ask my sister as much as my boss.
“You have such a good eye, Julien. You noticed the problem with the Young Girls at the Piano long before anyone else. If you would go over all the Renoirs now—really fine-tooth comb them—that would give us a clearer picture of where we stand.”
“Of course,” I tell her. I round the table, and even though we’re at work, I bend over and wrap my arms around her shoulders in a brotherly hug. “I’m so sorry you’re having to deal with this.”
She pats my forearm then gives it a squeeze. “I’m just sick about the damage to the art is all.”
“I know. Me too.” I squeeze her back and then straighten. “I’ll get right on it—inspect those Renoirs like an auditor inspects a tax return.”
At least that makes her chuckle.
With the museum’s catalog pulled up on my phone, I start at the far end of the top floor and methodically work my way through the galleries. I know now why I can see the irregularities before anyone else.
On my inspection tour, I find trouble brewing on one more of our Renoirs. I send Adaline an email with the bad news that the masterpiece may soon join its fallen comrades, then let her know I’m going to head over to the Louvre and inspect the pieces over there.
I won’t only be looking for sun damage though. I want to examine the warped paintings I saw the last time I was there, see if they’re sicker.
I have to figure out what’s going on before it hurts Clio.
16
It is August, so the Louvre is crowded everywhere and packed around the usual suspects—the Venus de Milo, works by Italian Renaissance old masters, and of course, the most popular resident of any museum anywhere, the Mona Lisa. It is always a zoo around her, with visitors holding their phones above the crowd to take pictures of the woman behind the glass, like it’s some kind of Paris scavenger hunt.
Fortunately, none of the greatest hits are on my agenda. I head straight for the Interiors exhibit to check out the vanishing act pulled off by de Heem’s lemon.
I locate the small frame quickly because I know what I’m looking for—it’s a pint-size postcard of a painting that’s easy to miss. And Gustave’s buddy told a true tale—the painting is missing a lemon. Usually, it’s perched near the edge of a table, the rind half peeled and the insides glistening tartly. It’s as if it was never there at all.
