Page 6 of The Muse (Beautiful Magic 1)
Huh. I shake the calf more, but it’s empty now.
Strange. As far as I know, I’ve never met these people. Why would they want me to have a ceramic five-legged calf? It would be more logical to give it to Adaline, as she’s the curator of the museum, as well as the one working on the transfer.
I replace the cap and tuck the calf into my bag, nestled in the sweater I’ve been carrying around since yesterday. Then I take out my notebook, laying it on the table.
As I finish my coffee, I flick through my sketches, stopping at the one of Olympia’s cat from a few nights ago. I’d hoped my drawing of the peach was an anomaly, but seeing the cat, I know it’s not. My sketch is technical and precise, like an illustration for a guidebook. Veterinarians might appreciate its lifelike contours and shapes. But it still leaves me feeling . . . flat.
I study it to see if I could maybe have drawn it a different way, a subtler way, to make the cat seem more . . . I don’t know . . . enchanting. I run my index finger across the cat’s head, but no ideas come to me.
With a sigh, I close the notebook, slide it into my messenger bag, and head to the flat.
But as I unlock the door, strands of black hair shine on my hand, and I raise it to the light filtering in from the street. Sleek hair from a sleek cat.
3
There’s a distinct aroma at the top of the stairs. I look around for the source, and my best guess begs the question: “Is there a petting zoo on that balcony?”
Adaline shushes me, then whispers, “Yes, there is. Well, a sheep.”
“Who keeps a sheep on their balcony?”
“Some people are eccentric,” she says as we arrive at the door of the couple who is donating the Renoir to the museum. They live on the curving corner of a twisting, hilly street in Montmartre. Many artists have walked the cobblestone streets of this neighborhood over the last hundred or more years. Notre Dame might be point zero in Paris, but Montmartre is the epicenter for painters.
“They sent me a five-legged cow,” I say under my breath. “Their eccentricity is not in question.”
My sister chuckles. “Touché.”
As she smooths her hands over her suit, I realize she’s . . . not nervous exactly. More like she’s feeling the weight of this career-making achievement. I know she’s pinned so many hopes on the deal going smoothly. Art may be her personal passion, but she still has to prove the museum made the right decision in trusting her with its greatest pieces.
She presses the buzzer.
“I truly appreciate this, Adaline. The timing is perfect,” I say. “Did I tell you that my professor approved my proposal to do my independent study on this painting?”
I get a sharp sisterly elbow in the side. “You did not tell me that. But I can’t imagine he would disapprove, considering the piece has such a history, plus there’s your personal connection to it.”
The words startle me. Have my thoughts become audible? Or am I just that transparent? Hoping she doesn’t notice my flush, I ask casually, “What do you mean?”
Adaline gives me a curious glance. “You work for the museum that’s going to display it. What did you think I meant?”
I tell an almost truth, shrugging with my hands in my pockets. “Oh, you know. I’ve gotten really interested in the story behind it.”
She glances at the door and smooths her suit jacket again. “Don’t bring up the painting’s background unless they do, all right?”
I nod. I’ve pored over every fact and rumor I could find about Woman Wandering in the Irises. The garden in question was Monet’s—Renoir had painted the portrait during a visit—and the work was exhibited only once, at a gallery show in 1885, then it went missing. The subject of the painting was and is a complete mystery. The rest is hearsay—that there was a whiff of scandal about the woman and the two married artists, and after the single showing, her family hid the painting away to protect her reputation.
“The current owners . . .” I nod to the door. “Are they related to the woman in the painting?”
Adaline shakes her head.
I lower my voice in case the door opens suddenly. “Do you think it’s true that both artists were in love with her?”
She shakes her head again. “That story arose well after the portrait disappeared. No contemporary sources mention it at all, let alone confirm it. And the newspapers of the day would have been all over a scandalous love triangle.”
I don’t consider it a scandal. That’s just life and passion, the things that make art. Whether it’s this story or something else entirely, I know the woman in the painted garden has one, and I’ve found myself wondering about it ever since the portrait came to light. Who was she? Did she live in Montmartre? Was the portrait a commission, or did she model for other artists?
