Page 51 of The Muse (Beautiful Magic 1)
“So he did curse your painting. He cursed it with your own powers.”
“It’s ironic because every idea he rejected—human muses, art for everyone—his arrogance put all of that into motion.”
“But here’s the thing. He’s still after the painting,” I say. I hate telling her that Renoir is back, but I can’t keep it from her. I tell her about the haunting of Max, and then what I learned today—that someone had swapped in a fake and taken her actual painting to the house in Montmartre, which would become Remy’s. Where we would eventually meet. There’s no point in hiding it. Whatever we’re in, we’re in it together.
“It’s like he’s trying to get you back. I mean, you’re safe here at the museum. But why now? What is he so worried about?”
“I don’t know. I was cut off from everything when he trapped me.”
“Besides, if he was crazed enough to trap you, you’d think he’d have—” I stop talking, but she can add two and two.
“Destroyed the painting?”
I nod, wincing at that horrible idea. “Well, yeah.”
“He wasn’t violent. He was, oddly enough, a gentleman. And he would never do that to one of his creations. He loved his art more than anything in the world.”
“Art can be a stupid, jealous thing.”
“In a way, I kind of know how he felt. I used to love art more than anything. But then I started thinking more about the process, and it never made sense to me why it was only the nine of us Muses who could bring about true and great inspiration. It didn’t feel right to me. And my beliefs started changing about making art, but also about what I wanted. The only problem is you can’t really want as an eternal Muse. You just do. You just do the work.”
“So let me free you, then.” It’s the least I can do for her. “I mean, that’s what this curse or prophecy or whatever is about, right? A human muse will free you from your painting. You said all I had to do was open the doors of the museum and let you out.”
She looks at me and lays a soft hand on my cheek. “If you did, I’d just have to go back. I’d have to work. The painting is what binds me to the museum, and the museum is what lets me come out at night. Once I leave the museum, I’ll be bound again. Bound to be a Muse all the time.” The weight of that burden darkens her voice. It’s such cruel beauty, the way these traps contain her. “I used to love working all the time. But being in that painting for so many years, I’m not the same. I don’t know what I want anymore.” There is so much sadness in her voice.
I latch onto what she said about family before. “But your sisters—do you want to see them? Do they need you back?”
She shrugs, shooting me a little smile. “I’d like to see them at some point, but I’m rather enjoying where I am this second. Besides, my sisters have obviously filled in for me all those years. I didn’t inspire Toulouse-Lautrec or Seurat. The later Cézannes aren’t mine, and the later Monets aren’t either, not the Water Lilies, not the Rouen Cathedral. Even your favorite Van Gogh was made without me. So my sisters must have taken over for me.”
“Muse sick day,” I joke.
“Extended leave of absence,” she corrects.
“So, you’re going to take a few more days off?” I ask, and I love this idea. I want as much of her as I can get.
“They got by this long without me. So I think I’ll play hooky a little longer,” she says, her lips curving up in a grin. “That is, if you’ll keep having me?”
“I’ll have you any way I can. I’ll give you whatever you want, Clio,” I say, even though my heart is heavy inside because whatever we are will inevitably unwind. It will never be more than an escape into a garden that isn’t real.
She brushes her lips against mine, and I melt into her.
We kiss with the sun warming us, lying on the green slats of Monet’s surreal bridge. As I kiss her neck, I tell her all the places I want to kiss her more, the visits I’d make on the treasure map of her body. X marks this spot on her shoulder, then this delicious one on her wrist, then this divine location at the hollow of her throat, as she shudders and pulls me closer with each touch. I’m an intrepid explorer uncovering a new land and claiming it with kisses. Even if time is ticking on the other side of the painting.
But on this side, the moment feels endless.
The moment feels like everything.
And then it truly feels like another world when she wraps her arms around my neck and whispers in my ear, “I know what I want.”
