Starry Nights

by Daisy Whitney

  Chapter 35

  Write Me Anew

  Thalia is prompt. She waits on the Louvre side of the bridge, one hand resting on the links with the padlocks, the other on her waist. She wears slacks and a blouse. Her red hair hangs loose.

  “Thank you for meeting me,” she says.

  “Well, it’s not often I’m requested to meet with the head of the Muses.”

  She manages a small smile, the kind that doesn’t show any teeth. “I wanted to thank you. For all you did for the paintings. We couldn’t have done it without you, and I’ve been remiss in not extending my gratitude.”

  “What else was there to be done? It was the only way.”

  “No. There was another way. You could have let the art die. But you didn’t. You saved it. You lost yourself to save it.”

  “Yeah,” I say and look at the water, gray and murky, floating by under the bridge. The Seine reminds me of me. “Yeah.”

  Neither one of us says anything for another minute. Thalia breaks the silence. “You really loved her, didn’t you?”

  “Yes,” I say with a huff. “Isn’t it obvious?”

  “How? How do you love her?”

  “You asked me that before,” I point out, because I’d rather not flay myself anymore. I’ve already been splintered a thousand times. I’ve somehow got to find a way to put myself back together, and I’m finally starting to, thanks to my friends. I don’t want to just keep rewinding to Clio.

  “Would you mind, though, telling me one more time what it was like?”

  “What it was like,” I repeat.

  It was my everything. It was all my days and nights, and I am ruined for anyone else. Because there is only her. She was a revolution and she staged a coup d’état in my heart. “It all seemed possible with her, even though I knew it was impossible. She made me feel that way, like the stars were ours.”

  Thalia nods and she seems peaceful, the corners of her lips turning up.

  “Thank you for your sacrifice. I cannot thank you enough, Julien.”

  I nod. I have nothing to say.

  “You have good friends,” she says, and I raise an eyebrow to ask what she means, but she keeps talking. “I have a gift for you. Just something to say thank you.”

  “I could use some more silver dust. I’m all out. I used the last bit drawing a stupid door that didn’t work.”

  “I’ll be right back.”

  I stare at the water, this snake of a river that washes away all the promises, all the keys to all the hearts. Thalia’s gone for a few minutes, and a part of me figures she’s not coming back. She’s said her piece. She’s probably moving on to her next assignment—a violin somewhere is weeping away notes, a poem is drowning in the tears of its words.

  She returns and she’s not alone. She’s walking with Clio, who’s wearing jeans and green flats. Her dress is gone. She’s so beautiful it makes my chest hurt. It feels like a cruel game to bring her to me when I know she doesn’t feel the same. But I can’t look away. Maybe that’s my curse now. I will always see her. I will always want to see her. They stop when they reach me.

  “Hi,” Clio says.

  “Hi.”

  “How are you?”

  “Um, fine. You?”

  “Good.”

  Thalia speaks. “Clio and I had a long talk last night. I asked her about her time at the Musée d’Orsay.”

  “Oh?” I ask carefully, because I feel as if I’m in trouble, though for what I don’t know.

  “I asked her to tell me what she did during those days. Or nights, rather. The things that the two of you did. The reasons why she didn’t come home right away.”

  “Okay.”

  “And they are not things Muses usually do,” Thalia continues in that commanding, teacherly tone she has. “Actually, they are not things Muses ever do. Hanging out. Going to the beach. Rowing boats. Dancing. Picnics. That made me think that I had an opportunity to right a wrong from years ago.”

  Thalia looks to Clio and nods.

  Clio holds up her hands, letting the sleeves of her shirt fall to her elbows. Her wrists are naked. “No more bracelets,” she says to me.

  “You’re not a …”

  Clio shakes her head.

  “It was my decision,” Thalia says. “I can’t keep making the wrong choices, so I took off her bracelets. I made her a Muse, and now I have unmade her. She’s a girl.” Thalia turns to Clio. “I will miss you so, so much.”

  “I’ll miss you too. But you’ll take good care of the art, right?”

  “You know me. It’s on my to-do list forevermore,” Thalia says, and taps her heart, then her own bracelets. She has a set of two on each wrist, double the number she had before.

  “You’re not going to see each other again?” I ask.

  Thalia shakes her head, and her voice breaks. “Not often. I’m quite busy, and I’m even busier now that I have nearly all the painting preservation work on my plate. But I don’t mind. I love the work, and I’ve had more than a century to get used to not seeing my Clio. We had to get along without her then, and now we have help, thanks to a human muse.”

  “Right, of course. I’m on it.”

  “Will you take care of her now?” Thalia asks me.

  “Yes,” I say, but I don’t know if Clio wants me to. Whatever Clio told Thalia last night was surely just a clinical account. Thalia clasps Clio in an embrace and then lets her go. The redheaded Muse walks away.

  I turn back to Clio. She looks nervous, and so am I.

  “How did it work? She just took them off?”

  “It was incredible. She didn’t need pliers or a crowbar or anything. She just took them off, and she put them on her own wrists.”

  “So all the paintings you inspired? They’re fine? She’s going to hold them up now?”

  Clio nods. “It’s like she let me go on permanent vacation and took all over all my chores and now here I am. Look,” she says and flicks her fingers. No silver dust comes out.

  “Wow. But how do you …,” I start to say, but then I stop. I don’t know how to ask, or even if I should. Just because she’s human doesn’t mean she’s fallen back in love with me. She fell out.

  She swallows. “But how do I feel? Is that what you were going to ask?”

  I nod.

  She looks at me, those sapphire eyes as fiery as the first night I met her, but soft too. Like she always was with me. She takes my hand and traces a jagged line across my palm. Her touch sends shivers through me, then she whispers, “Sing in me, Muse, and through me tell the story. Of a new way back to you.”

  My heart bursts from my chest. “Really? You really … ?”

  “I feel like I’m dancing at the Moulin Rouge, like I’m on the beach in the South of France, like I’m spending a thousand starry nights with you. I want to spend all my days with you.”

  I can’t speak. I am overwhelmed with all I want becoming real.

  “But mostly I feel like a girl who’s in love with a boy,” she says.

  I run my thumbs along her naked wrists. “You look so good without bracelets,” I say. “You look so good in the sun. In the daylight.”

  She is no longer for my eyes only, and I am so glad that anyone can see us as we kiss on the bridge over the river. But hardly anyone is looking because this is what we do in Paris. I place my hand on her cheek, then down to her neck. We are just another pair of young lovers becoming another set of ornaments in this city.

  We kiss all through the morning.

  Sometime later, I ask a practical question. “So what do we do now? Where are you going to live? Maybe that sounds silly.”

  “I don’t know,” she says and laughs.

  “You should stay with Bonheur. His family would love to have you. He has tons of room. He’s going to be so excited to meet you. And Simon, he’s great. You met him at the museum that night. But you can meet his girlfriend, Lucy, and we can all do stuff together. You have to meet my friend Emilie too,” I say, and I’m rushing
because all these ideas are coming to me now of how amazing it will be to just hang out with her.

  “I can’t wait to meet all your friends. And you know, I also thought I might try my hand at painting. I have quite a good eye, and lots of ideas about what to make,” she says, and that sly smile of hers is back. “The only thing missing is … a muse.”

  “Oh, that’s right. You’ll need a muse. Wherever would you find one?”

  “I wonder, wonder, wonder. Maybe you would be mine?”

  I pretend to think about it. “Let’s see. Do I have the time? Yes, I think I could fit you in. It’s binding though. You can’t have any other muse.”

  “I could never want any other one.”

  “Are you hungry? Because I could really go for a chocolate croissant. Funny thing, I know this great bakery and I’d love to take you there.”

  “Take me there, Julien.”

  We walk along the river to the best bakery in Paris.

  Acknowledgments

  In many ways this book began more than twenty years ago, not so much as a story but as a moment of inspiration. From the second I set foot in Professor Kermit Champa’s Survey of Art History class my sophomore year of college I was enthralled. I have never loved a class more nor been so enchanted by a subject. Professor Champa’s knowledge of art was limitless; his passion for the beauty in a painting immense. Thank you, Professor Champa, for inspiring me to study art.

  As for the book itself, I am indebted and awed by the brilliance of my two editors, Caroline Abbey and Michelle Nagler, who had so much vision for what this story could become. My agent Michelle Wolfson found the absolutely perfect home for this book. Thank you, Michelle, for being a dedicated, driven, and most entertaining advocate.

  Theresa Shaw is my best friend in the universe, and having her on my side makes me feel invincible at times, and simply happy at others.

  Courtney Summers helped me replot the novel in one weekend, and offered so many incisive suggestions on twists and turns, big and small. Courtney, you have mad plotting skills. Cynthia Jaynes is the best type of critique partner—she gives great feedback, and she cheers you on. Cheryl Herbsman helped guide me through an early draft. Love you madly, girls! Big hugs as always to Stephanie Perkins, Kiersten White, and Malinda Lo.

  I also must extend my gratitude to Cammi Bell, Kelli Anderson, Jill Ciambriello, Marylee George, Ilene Braff, and Ingrid and Eric Kettunen. Cammi, in particular, shared useful medical input on sewing up a wound. Thanks, Nurse Cammi!

  Stéphanie Ngo served as my on-the-ground eyes and ears of Paris, sharing stories of high school life, of teens, and of young love on display every day in the city. She also assisted me with French phrases and has been a wonderful friend. Translation help also came from my French teacher, Anne-andrée.

  None of this would have happened without the generous support of my mother-in-law, Barbara, who has taken me to Paris the last three years. We do have fun in our favorite city, don’t we? Thanks to Paul, as well. I love our times at the markets and restaurants and shops.

  My parents have always supported and encouraged me in all my endeavors, from studying art to writing books, and the biggest thanks I owe them is this—THANKS FOR SENDING ME TO COLLEGE, MOM AND DAD!

  I relied on many books to inform this story including Planting Schemes from Monet’s Garden by Vivian Russell, The Judgment of Paris by Ross King, Alias Olympia by Eunice Lipton, Daily Life of French Artists in the Nineteenth Century by Jacques Letheve, catalogues from the Musée d’Orsay and the Louvre, as well as the websites of the museums featured in the story. I must also give credit to two movies that inspired me—Night at the Museum for its playfulness and Shakespeare in Love for its beautiful heart.

  My son and daughter are the lights of my life and my greatest joys, and they are always encouraging and loving. My daughter accompanied me on a trip to the Musée d’Orsay, where I shared secrets of what the paintings are up to at night. Her response: “When you describe it like that, I really do think the paintings come alive at night.”

  I believe in the magic of art too.

  Then there is my wonderful husband, who manages to put up with me. Oh, and he also found me another dog! So big love and kisses to Violet Delia and Flipper McDoodle, my four-legged coworkers!

  Author’s Note

  While some aspects of the history of art were altered for the purposes of this novel, many are rooted in fact. The following information is based on research into art and history.

  • All the paintings cited in the story as hanging in the Musée d’Orsay do hang in the Musée d’Orsay, such as Van Gogh’s The Portrait of Dr. Gachet, Manet’s Olympia, Van Gogh’s Starry Night, Toulouse-Lautrec’s Dancing at the Moulin-Rouge, Cézanne’s View of the Gulf at Marseille, Renoir’s The Swing, as well as all the other Monets and Renoirs mentioned.

  • All the paintings in the Musée d’Orsay, Louvre, Hermitage, Art Institute of Chicago, Metropolitan Museum of Art, Boston’s Museum of Fine Arts, and the National Gallery of London are actual paintings and are described accurately, and the dates and stories surrounding these paintings and their history are described accurately. There are two exceptions to this. The first is the missing Renoir, known as The Girl in the Garden. This painting was made up for the story. The second is the character of Emmanuelle. While she is based on a Degas painting that hangs in the Musée d’Orsay, her heritage and relationship to the dancer Emilie are made up.

  • All the details Julien imparts on his tours as to the history surrounding certain paintings, the prices they have commanded at auctions, and the style and technique of certain paintings is accurate. This includes Julien’s description of Renoir’s hands near the end of the artist’s life.

  • Suzanne Valadon was the first female painter admitted into the Ecole des Beaux-Arts. She and Renoir were contemporaries, and she appeared as a model in three of his paintings.

  • Rosa Bonheur dressed in men’s clothes when she painted The Horse Fair. She also kept a pet goat on her balcony.

  • Many French families hid paintings in cellars during the Siege of Paris in the Franco-Prussian War and during the Nazi occupation.

  • During the Nazi era, Nazis looted countless pieces of art across Europe. Today, reputable museums and dealers are expected to research and know the provenance of European paintings that changed hands during this time to ensure that restitution of any once-looted ones has been made.

  • Renoir reportedly likened female painters to five-legged calves in a quote attributed to him as: “I consider women writers, lawyers, and politicians as monsters and nothing but five-legged calves. The woman artist is merely ridiculous, but I am in favor of the female singer and dancer.”

  • As for paintings that come alive, well, that is for you to decide.

  Copyright © 2013 by Daisy Whitney

  All rights reserved

  You may not copy, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means (including without limitation electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying, printing, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages

  First published in the United States of America in September 2013

  by Bloomsbury Children’s Books

  www.bloomsbury.com

  This electronic edition published in September 2013

  For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to

  Permissions, Bloomsbury Children’s Books, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, New York 10010

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Whitney, Daisy.

  Starry nights / by Daisy Whitney.

  pages cm

  Summary: Seventeen-year-old Julien discovers that the Musée d’Orsay’s Impressionist art is reacting to a curse set by Renoir that
trapped the Muse Clio in his painting, and Julien falls in love with Clio as he tries to save her and the world’s greatest art.

  [1. Art—Fiction. 2. Blessing and cursing—Fiction. 3. Musée d’Orsay—Fiction. 4. Art museums—Fiction. 5. Museums—Fiction. 6. Love—Fiction. 7. Paris (France)—Fiction. 8. France—Fiction.] I. Title.

  PZ7.W6142St 2013 [Fic]—dc23 2013009610

  eISBN: 978-1-6196-3134-2

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