Page 66 of The Muse (Beautiful Magic 1)
“Yes.”
“Did she want to know when I was coming back?”
“It’s like you can read her mind,” I joke.
“What did you tell her?”
I prop myself up on my elbow and run a finger along her bare arm. “Clio, when you go back is entirely up to you.”
“Do you think I should?”
“If you want to.”
“But will I still see you?”
I laugh. “I’ll see you as much as I possibly can. Meeting Thalia just once makes me appreciate how busy you all must be.”
“Maybe I can convince Thalia to let me work less.”
“Part-time Muse?”
“Why not? Maybe when there are more human muses, it will lighten the load on the eternal Muses so we can do things besides work.” Her voice is wistful. Longing. “I could meet you between assignments. See you here and there. Would that drive you crazy?”
“Totally. But I’d do it happily. Clio, if I could see you for five minutes a day, I would. If I could see you for five minutes a week, I’d sign up for that too. All I want is for this not to end.”
“Good. Because I think I can convince her. After all, I have been trapped for more than a century,” Clio says, and bats her eyes then pushes out her bottom lip so it quivers. “How’s that?”
“Just add a sniffle to the mix, and she won’t be able to resist,” I say.
“Maybe a crocodile tear or two?”
“Go for it. I’ll bet you can work her guilt to your advantage for a good long while.” I’m teasing, even though it’s true. Then I shift gears. “When do you think you’ll leave?”
“I want to rest up for another day or so. It still hurts,” she says, gently pressing her hand to her belly. “But then I guess I’ll go.”
She sounds so sad, and her voice breaks again. “But we’ll see each other,” she adds, and she bends to me, her lips touching mine so gently, so sweetly. The ends of her hair brush my chest, and an intoxicated sigh that becomes her name escapes my lips.
“We have to see each other, Julien. I want more of this world. I want more of you,” she says, and I wrap my arms around her and hold her, inside our faraway painted land.
We fall asleep on the beach, and I dream of nothing but all the possibilities of her.
I blink. There’s sand in my eye. I blink again and scrunch up my nose, because now my eyes are starting to water. I sit up. So does Clio. The sand is blowing, like a breeze is sweeping along the seashore. The wind picks up quickly, and soon it’s hardly a warm breeze, or a welcoming one. Within seconds, it’s a thrashing wind, and Clio’s hair whips across her face. She grasps at strands that lash her, and I fumble for her hand to pull her up. The water from the sea pounds the shore. We run toward the green fields near the edge of the canvas, but the sand swirls and buries the path. The painted grass turns brown and crackly.
The waves pursue us, snapping at our feet. With each step, the ground is looser, crumbling under our feet. “We’re almost out,” I say.
I stick a hand through the paint and out the other side, and then Clio and I slide onto the museum floor. We slip on something, and I stare in disbelief at the wet sand on the museum floor.
Clio coughs and sputters. The beach avalanche has stopped, and the beautiful Cézanne has sloughed off its insides. The rest of the galleries seem quiet, but it’s like waiting for the thunder that’s sure to follow a bolt of lightning.
This wasn’t supposed to happen. I dosed the Renoirs. Why didn’t the cure spread?
“We have to check on the others,” I say. Even with her wounded midsection, Clio hurries with me on a mad hunt through the galleries, surveying all the paintings on the walls, from the far ends of the first floor to the hidden nooks on the second floor.
Everything else is fine, except for a Degas of an orchestra, where the music has become warped and the notes scratchy.
Clio covers her ears for a second. “Oh, that’s not how it sounded when he made that painting.”
“That’s right. Degas was one of yours.” Something clicks, and I stop, swiveling to face her with a hard look. “I need to check something.” The plaque beside the painting lists 1870 as the date it was made.
This hunch involves math.
This painting and the Cézanne that just spat us out were made before 1885. But the Van Goghs, the Matisses, the Toulouse-Lautrecs came after, and they’re unharmed.
The year 1885 is when Clio was cursed into the painting. That’s the dividing line. Before Clio. After Clio.
I place my hands on her shoulders. “I think I know what’s going on. It’s all the art that you inspired that’s having trouble. Everything modern is fine, the later Cézannes are fine. But we were in an earlier one, from when you worked with him.” And I know something too—this is a brand-new problem. This has little to do with Renoir. This is all because of Clio. “The art you inspired is starting to crumble.”
