Page 54 of The Muse (Beautiful Magic 1)
Clio whispers, “I think Olympia and Dr. Gachet have a little something going on.”
Some of the impish humor is back in her eyes, and I shake my head in dazed amazement. “Just another night at the museum,” I say. “If muses and bridges can hook up, why not famous portraits?”
“I don’t blame them one bit,” Clio says, wrapping her arm around my waist.
I drape mine over her shoulders as we head toward her gallery, then I’m struck by a thought. “You know what? We have another one of the bridges on loan to the Hermitage as part of a Monet exhibit. We could go there sometime.”
Clio stops and grabs my arm. “I would love to do that. Do you think we really could?”
Glancing back at the Monet before it’s out of sight, I shrug. “You’ve been a Muse a lot longer than I have. What do you think?”
She stretches onto her toes, twines her arms around my neck, and kisses me like there’s no tomorrow. Breathless, she pulls back enough to say, “I think we have a date.”
I walk her back to her canvas, kissing her again before she reenters. I can’t get enough of her, can’t remember a time when it took so much willpower to let a woman out of my arms.
Once I manage it, I ask her something that’s been lurking in the back of my mind, where I’d pushed it so as not to spoil our time together. It doesn’t seem fair to bring it up and leave her worrying all night and day, so I couch the question carefully.
“Clio, about Renoir . . . if he managed to work a curse to keep you from inspiring ordinary people and starting this new age of artistic enlightenment, what lengths might he go to in order to stop it now?”
Her shrewd and level gaze says I haven’t slipped anything past her. “Do I think that, having failed to get his hands on this painting by forgery, he might try outright theft?” Fists on her hips, she says, “After spending more than a century trapped in here, I’m inclined to think the worst of him.”
As am I.
I can’t resist one last kiss, because she’s as lovely fired up and indignant as she is any other time.
And kissing her distracts me from the rest of my thoughts, the part I don’t want to say. I’m worried about something more destructive than theft. Renoir might not be able to bring himself to destroy the painting of Woman Wandering in the Irises, but if a human muse is the key to this prophesy, well, I don’t think he’ll have any qualms about destroying me.
I have to get to the bottom of this for both our sakes.
Simon and I grab lunch in Saint-Germain-des-Prés the next afternoon and eat outside on the steps of the church, where my friend is happy to give his opinion.
“I don’t know, mate. If it were me, I’d have offed you already.”
He takes a carefree bite of his cheese sandwich, and I give him a look. “How is that helpful exactly?”
“Well, if a human muse is going to usher in the new renaissance for the common folk, those who want to stop it would get rid of you before you can team up with the other Muses. Ipso facto, elitist art snob wins.”
“I figured out that part for myself. I mean, how does it help, you telling me that?”
“Seeing as how you head home well after dark every night since that painting turned up, and nobody’s conked you over the head and dumped you in the Seine yet, that seems to suggest Renoir doesn’t see you as the threat.”
That leaves Clio as the target. I don’t think Renoir has it in him to destroy his own work. But steal it? No question. Make sure it’s lost forever? Certainly.
My phone pings with an incoming text.
* * *
Remy: How fast can you get over to the Marais? Seems one of our forgers has recently found religion.
Remy fits in well in the Marais, with its mix of trendy and vintage, chic and quirky. He greets Simon and me, and we set off toward the vintage place where Cass Middleton has set up shop, literally and figuratively.
“I already figured out that this was about Cass Middleton,” I say as we pass her store. “Want to explain the rest?”
“You’ll see.”
At the corner, we turn into an alley full of boxes and trash cans beside the back doors of shops and restaurants. By counting the doors, I know which goes to Cass’s shop, and directly across from it is an unexpected pair of arched doors. Remy yanks them open, and the three of us head down a stone path that ends at a church.
Remy leads us inside, where it’s musty, cold, and quiet. A few candles flicker by the altar, and a pair of painted Madonnas watch over the nave from high above.
