Page 63 of The Muse (Beautiful Magic 1)
I look at my watch. I need to give Gabrielle with a Rose more time to heal, and now that Adaline’s mentioned food, I’m ravenous.
“You want me to bring you anything?”
She waves me away. “Go on. We’ll touch base later.” Then she turns to her email, and I turn toward the door.
I stop, though, to ask, “How many museums does this make?”
“The Louvre, the National Gallery in London, the Hermitage in Saint Petersburg, and now the Met.”
If my remedy works can I travel to museums all over the world and convince them to let me grope their paintings?
I text Simon, and we meet at a café down the street, where I order French fries and a croque monsieur with chicken instead of ham, and another one to take back to Adaline. If she doesn’t want it, I’ll have no trouble eating it.
Simon raises an eyebrow. “Hungry?”
“A bit,” I understate, then drink my less-dreadful-than-usual French coffee. “This muse thing really is exhausting.”
He shakes his head. “You know you sound mental, right? I mean, I believe you, because I’ve seen the news today. But it still sounds mad.”
“Come to the museum with me tonight, then, and see for yourself.”
With a gasp, Simon puts his hand on his heart like he might swoon. “The holiest of holies? You’re too good to me, Julien.”
“Now, that is certainly the truth.”
My phone rings, and it’s Adaline. I take a deep breath and mentally cross my fingers before I answer.
“Oh my God, Julien!” she says before I can get in a word. “It’s Gabrielle with a Rose. She’s perfect. Just perfect!”
Yes! I pump my fist as she expounds upon how absolutely perfect the painting is now.
“And that’s not all. The curator in Boston called, and Dance at Bougival is getting its color back. I can’t even . . . I don’t even know . . .”
It sounds like the curse is retreating the way it spread, which is going to save me a lot of trouble—no need to conduct a painting restoration world tour.
Adaline rattles on in blissful relief and confusion for a bit, then rings off. I unwrap the second sandwich and dig in.
“All right,” says Simon. “Now I have to see this. What time tonight?”
As the sun drops below the horizon, Gustave opens the front door for Simon and me. We have a bit of a hike to reach the galleries on the far side of the building, where the paintings I need to repair hang. Clio’s painting is nearby, and I cannot wait to tell her the news.
Footsteps echo across the floor. I know that sound, and it turns my marrow cold.
I sprint forward, adjusting the strap of my messenger bag as it smacks against my back.
A muffled cry comes from Clio’s gallery. I turn the corner and see Max scraping off the paint of the signature.
Clio’s no longer in the picture.
A low moan, laced with pain, draws my horrified gaze to where Clio lies crumpled on the floor as if she fell from her artwork. Blood spreads across her dress, painting her midsection scarlet.
Horror rips through me as the woman I love bleeds.
25
I grab Max first, tearing him away from the painting, and slam him to the ground.
“Hold him down,” I tell Simon, and he does.
I rush to Clio and reach for her. “Clio, are you okay?”
She shakes her head, clutching her stomach. “It hurts. Oh God. It hurts so much.”
She moans like a wounded cat, and Simon stares. He can’t see her, but he can hear her, and his eyes are wide. But his hold on Max doesn’t waver.
“I was coming out to see you,” Clio says. “It happened so fast . . .” Pain contorts her gorgeous features.
I look over at Max. “How did you get in here?”
Max jerks his head away like a petulant child, refusing to answer. Simon twists the collar of Max’s shirt. “He asked you a question. How. Did. You. Get. In. Here?”
“Stairwell,” Max chokes out.
“You were in the stairwell all day?” Simon asks. “Hiding out till the museum closed?”
Max manages a quick nod.
“And to think I was just about to save all your paintings, Mr. Renoir,” I say. With a grotesque kind of happiness, his eyes widen and realization dawns.
I turn to Clio, my pulse hammering with fear. She’s been cut across the stomach. I take off my shirt and press it to her wounds, stemming the flow of blood.
She cries out.
“It’s going to be okay, I promise,” I say, but it feels empty because I don’t know what to do next. “Should I try some of the Muse dust?”
“It won’t work,” she says.
Then what? It’s not as if I can whisk her off to the emergency room to see a doctor.
Wait . . .
A doctor.
There is a doctor in the house.
Excitement trips through me at the possibility, the chance. My pulse spikes as I blurt out, “Clio, I’m going to lay you down for a second so I can get Dr. Gachet, okay?”
