Page 47 of The Muse (Beautiful Magic 1)
“More than a hundred and thirty-five years old.”
“As old as the original painting . . .”
My mind whirls. Remy didn’t say how his great-great-grandmother actually got the painting in the first place. But I bet Suzanne Valadon made the copy to protect Clio. I bet she copied the portrait and swapped it out a hundred and thirty-five years ago, giving Renoir the fake, and keeping the original – the cursed painting with Clio in it – safe with her family over the years.
If Renoir thought he had successfully locked Clio away in a painting for the rest of time, he wouldn’t look for her.
With a shudder I remember what Max said the first time he showed up on my tour—that some women are trouble and they shouldn’t be let out.
Renoir wants Clio to stay trapped. Whatever magic keeps her in the painting can’t be undone if she’s in someone’s attic. That’s where he wants her. Hidden away.
That’s it!
I want to fist-pump and shout, but I’m still in the gallery, and Zola and Simon are looking at me with concern, and I still have more questions because why would Renoir want to trap her? Why would he do this?
That’s the next mystery for me to solve.
I thank Zola profusely, and Simon and I exit to the street.
As soon as we step outside, he says casually, “So, want to let me in on what’s really going on?”
I turn to him. I’m not sure I could ask anyone but Simon this question, but we’ve been friends for a long time. “Do you believe in ghosts?”
“Should I believe in ghosts?” he asks as we set off walking.
I take him through my Ghost of a Great Artist Comes Back to Preserve His Legacy theory as we pass more antique shops and art galleries lining the street by the river. He nods thoughtfully as he follows along.
“And so Renoir’s taken up cohabitation in this street artist Lucy and I have been tailing?” Simon asks when I’m done.
“Yes. And a bunch of Renoir’s paintings are fading. Not just at the Musée d’Orsay, but everywhere. And somehow that’s related to the Woman Wandering in the Irises.”
Simon shakes his head and claps me on the back. “It is truly never a dull moment with you, Garnier.”
I stop walking. “Does that mean you don’t believe me, or you do?”
“Does it matter? I’m your friend, and whatever you need me to do, I’m all in. Whether I believe in ghosts or not.”
“All right. Whenever Remy figures out what’s going on with Cass Middleton, you’re coming with me then, okay?”
“As if I’d miss it.”
“I’d better get back to the museum.”
“To your complicated woman.” His grin is knowing, and my sheepish shrug is an admission. It’s not even a lie. I’m most definitely going to see my complicated, compelling Clio, who has invited me back to her place tonight.
18
Clio gestures to the gardens where she lives, a sly look in her pretty eyes. “Touch my painting.”
I lift an eyebrow. “I thought you’d never ask.”
She nibbles on the corner of her lips. “Right. I’m sure you didn’t at all expect a little naughtiness.”
I lean in, brushing a kiss to her sweet mouth. “I never expect. I always hope.”
“Hope is good.”
I pull back, rubbing my palms together. “All right. Where am I touching this fantastic, gorgeous, sexy, stunning, brilliant, beautiful work of art?”
“Flattery will get you everywhere,” she says, a flirty tone in her voice. “Including in there.” She tips her forehead to the painting.
“Exactly where I want to be,” I say, running my fingertips down her arm, savoring the feel of her warm skin, the way she responds, the goosebumps that arise in my wake.
“This is what I want you to do. Touch the flowers first. The irises. So you know you can go through the painting without flipping out.”
“I’m not going to hurt the art?” I ask, shrinking away a bit, thinking of the other Renoirs. I don’t want to add to the list of art work that’s been damaged around me.
“You’re a muse. You can’t hurt a painting.” Her voice softens, and she takes my hand between both of hers. “Your hands are no ordinary hands. Your eyes are not like the eyes of others. You see things other people can’t see. You can touch things other people can’t touch.”
She uncurls my fingers one by one, kissing the tip of each one softly. I want to do so much more with her, like we did last night, and then more than that too. But I let myself exist in this one achingly magnificent moment, with her velvet-soft lips against my skin.
“Now,” she instructs. “Reach inside.”
I take a breath and stretch my hand out like I’m petting a nervous animal. The canvas feels crackly, the petals on the irises chipped.
“That’s it. Keep going. You can’t hurt it, Julien,” she whispers in my ear, her voice pure poetry. “Close your eyes and just feel.”
