The Muse

by Lauren Blakely

  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?”

  But her eyes are closed, and she barely acknowledges me before I lower her head gently to the floor, with Simon watching me, bewildered. “Don’t let Max move,” I tell him, and race to Dr. Gachet’s frame on the second floor. There, I wipe the blood on my hands off on my jeans before I knock on the frame. “Dr. Gachet!”

  He yawns, and his mouth stretches through first. “Yes?”

  “Come out,” I tell him quickly, my heart racing. “I need a doctor.”

  “Of course,” he says. The rest of him, in his shimmery, shiny royal-blue coat, squeezes out of the painting, and I bring him down to the first floor.

  Clio is curled on the ground, twisted in on herself. Blood trails between her fingers where she has them pressed over her midsection. Dr. Gachet wastes no time bending to examine her wound. Olympia takes notice too, and jumps out of her frame, hovering nearby, watching.

  Dr. Gachet turns to me. “She needs to be stitched up.”

  I shake my head, grabbing and discarding ideas at the speed of thought. “We don’t have a single painting of a hospital to go into. No medical equipment that I can grab.”

  “Julien,” says Dr. Gachet, calm and patient. “This is real blood, not paint. She’s not like us. She needs real stitches.”

  “What do you need, then? To fix her? Tell me, and I’ll get it,” I say in a rush.

  He lists the equipment that will help him help her. Scissors, thread, a needle, and a little painkiller would be ideal.

  I run my hands through my hair. Scissors I can grab from an office, but a needle and painkiller? I’d have to go home, or to a drugstore. “There’s no way I can get all that in time.”

  “Julien.”

  It’s the tiniest whisper. I kneel at Clio’s side and ask softly, “What is it?”

  “Draw them,” she says. “Draw them for me.”

  Yes!

  With blood-covered fingers, she flicks a bit of silver dust into my left palm while I fumble inside my bag for my notebook. I throw it open and listen as Dr. Gachet describes in detail the instruments he’ll need. I draw like a surgeon, fast and precise, then trace the lines with the dust. In seconds, the flat white of the paper takes on shape, turning tangible under my touch. The tools I slide to Dr. Gachet to begin his work, and the painkiller I give to Clio.

  “Holy crap.” Simon sits on Max and watches me while his jaw hangs open. He’s pointing at the scissors Dr. Gachet holds. Simon may not be able to see Dr. Gachet or Clio, but he can see a needle stitching up an invisible wound.

  “Yeah,” I say ruefully. “This is what I meant by the situation being complicated.”

  “You are the master of understatement, mate.”

  I turn back to Clio. She reaches feebly for my hand, wraps her fingers around mine, and winces. “The medicine will kick in soon. Just squeeze tighter till it does.”

  “It’s coming along. Hang in there,” Dr. Gachet says, his bedside manner calm and reassuring as he makes neat stitches to bring the edges of Clio’s skin together.

  Finally, her tight grip loosens, and her knitted eyebrows relax as the medicine takes hold.

  Dr. Gachet finishes, making a knot. “There. She’ll need rest, but she’s going to be okay.”

  I take my shirt and pull it on, bloodstained and filthy. I turn to Olympia, who’s crept a little closer. “Can you watch over her for a bit?”

  “Of course, love,” she says, kneeling to stroke Clio’s hair.

  I give Clio a kiss on the forehead. “I’ll be back soon, I promise.”

  “I know,” she says, and her eyes flutter closed.

  Now it’s time to deal with Max. “Let’s take him to another room,” I tell Simon.

  He yanks Max upright and drags him to the next gallery, where I face him, eye to ey
e. “Do you get it yet? No matter how many paintings you remake, you can’t protect your legacy by replacing all of your originals with replicas.”

  “I just wanted the pigment to make my paintings.” He sounds shaken. “I didn’t mean to hurt her.”

  I seethe. Grit my teeth. Then speak. “But you did hurt her. You hurt her then, and you hurt her now. Is that what great art is? Hurting others? Is that who you are? Is that why you’re back?”

  With a touch of defiance, he lifts his chin. But his voice wavers, a note of contrition coming through as he says, “No.”

  “You have to stop then,” I say, holding my ground. “You’re causing more damage. You’re creating nothing but pain. That can’t be your legacy.”

  He heaves a sigh, but then nods again.

  “And it’s not just your paintings that are ruined. Have you been to the Louvre? Just look around. All that art is dying because of you.”

  He winces, like now he’s in pain. Finally, I think I’m getting through.

  I point to The Swing. “That was fading this morning, and now it’s not. I fixed Gabrielle with a Rose too. I’m not even a great artist or an eternal Muse, but I’m the only one who can fix your paintings. Face it—art isn’t just for the elite. Art belongs to everyone. Get over it.”

  Renoir’s eyes flick from painting to painting and then to me, his pupils flaring with desperation. “You can fix them?”

  “Yes,” I grit out.

  “Will you fix my paintings? Will you save them?”

  “Yes,” I say, exasperated. “Despite what you did to Clio, I’ll save your work. Your legacy will go on, I promise. Under one condition.”

  “Name it,” he says, and he’s begging now.

  “You need to leave us alone, leave Max alone, and get rid of your fake paintings.”

  “I will.” He mutters a strangled “I’m sorry.”

  “Save your apology for the one who deserves it.”

  Simon and I drag him back to Clio’s gallery, where she’s resting on a bench, Dr. Gachet and Olympia on either side of her. Simon is gripping Max’s hands so they’re behind his back, but when he gets close enough, he bends down and speaks in a low, remorseful voice.

  He doesn’t say sorry though.

  But he says something that perhaps matters more.

  “Thank you. For inspiring me.”

  Gustave nearly falls over when he sees Simon and me escorting Max out the front doors. I promise to explain later. Maybe by then I’ll have thought of something to say.

  We hail a cab to take us to the Marais, then the three of us climb into the back seat, Max in the middle. We ride in silence for a bit, and then Simon says, “So. You’re dating a painting?”

  I correct him. “I’m ‘dating’ a Muse who is stuck inside a painting.”

  “Oh, okay, then. That’s not nearly as weird.” After a moment, he asks, “Do you love her?”

  “I do.” The reply comes easily, naturally. “I do love her.”

  Simon nods. “Good. I’m glad about that.”

  At the tiny church where Renoir has set up his studio, I take the knife he used at the museum from my pocket and hand it to him. Then I wait while he slashes through all the forgeries Cass has made for him. Big, unrepairable X’s.

  When he’s done, he looks at me, flexing his knotted fingers. “You promised to fix my art.”

  “Yes, I did. And I will. But you should go.”

  He nods, then stretches his fingers straight. There’s a gust of wind, and it carries the trailing telltale scent of rose perfume. I’ll never smell roses the same way again.

  Max—the real Max—shakes his head as if he just woke from a strange dream, then looks around, dumbfounded.

  “Hey, bud.” Simon claps him on the shoulder. “You’ve been sleepwalking. Let me take you back to your pad.”

  Thank you, I mouth to Simon before they go.

  After a stop to buy an “I LOVE PARIS” T-shirt to replace my ruined shirt and a sandwich at the first vendor I find, I return to the Musée d’Orsay and get started healing the Renoirs like I promised. By the time I finish the first two, the rest have started to restore themselves. So, the curse retreats the way it advanced. Like dominoes falling, all I have to do is touch a few and the rest follow.

  I am calm in a way I haven’t been since the first night the art came alive for me. Now all I have to do is wait to see how the cure affects all the other paintings.

  How it spreads to them.

  How it saves them.

  Because it will.

  Everything is going to be fine. Everything is going to be better. I inhale deeply, relieve Dr. Gachet and Olympia of their bedside watch, and take Clio to the South of France.

  26

  We escape into a beach inside a Cézanne.

  Soft waves lap our feet. Warm sand pillows our heads. It’s the perfect place for rest and relaxation, which is just what the doctor ordered for Clio. I am all too happy to be her companion on a quick trip to the painted seashore in Marseille.

  “Just think right now of all the sick paintings that are starting to feel better. Because of your touch,” Clio says as she squeezes my hand happily. Her other hand rests on her wounded stomach. Her face is still pale, but she’s had some water and some of the sandwich I’d picked up for her.

  “I’m going to hang up a shingle that says ‘ART DOCTOR FOR HIRE, AT YOUR SERVICE.’” I tuck my hands behind my head and let the warm sun of the Mediterranean beat down on my face. “By the time we return, the reports will be pouring in from all the other museums.”

  “I can’t wait to hear the good news,” she says. Then she shifts gears. “What else did Thalia say when you saw her this morning? Did she ask about me?”

  “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.