Chapter 24
24
I stand in front of the painting I touched this morning and consider asking one of the Musée’s visitors to pinch me. The Swing looks perfect.
Absolutely perfect. The woman’s white dress is luminescent again, the blue bows radiant. I did that. While I was out all day, the magic went to work.
Why my touch and not Clio’s or Thalia’s or one of the other eternal Muses?
I answer my own question almost before I finish it. A human muse set the curse into action—ignited it in a way. Logic dictates that a human muse can reel it back in.
Since I can’t very well run around the gallery touching all the Renoirs in front of the visitors, I’ll have to take care of the others tonight.
But then I see that Gabrielle with a Rose has been taken down and a small card placed beside the empty space: Removed for conservation.
That gives me a place to start.
I head for the lowest level of the museum, far below ground. If Gabrielle with a Rose was taken down this morning, it shouldn’t be too hard to find the painting in the storage room. It’ll be near the front—especially since the restorers will be in to look at it. Right now, though, the long hall leading there is deserted. I detour to wash my hands—because it would be a shame to cure magical damage and cause the ordinary kind—and then unlock the door to the storage room via the keypad.
Only a portion of the museum’s collection is on display at any given time. The ones that aren’t on loan spend their sabbatical here, shelved on specialized racks, the lights kept dim and the temperature cool. I find Gabrielle with a Rose easily, carefully slide the frame out, and rest it against a nearby wall.
I’ll have to be quick—anyone with the code can come in, and I won’t be able to hear them approaching. I start where the damage is the worst, spreading my hands and pressing my palm gently against the canvas. I try to remember how long I touched The Swing . It wasn’t very long at all. So, I lift my hands away and wait.
Nothing happens. I stand, walk through the racks to stretch my legs, and try not to check my watch every thirty seconds. The Swing didn’t return to its proper state immediately, and the damage to it was much less extensive than that done to Gabrielle with a Rose .
Instead of pacing, I head back up to the staff offices and tap on Adaline’s door. She’s on the phone, but she motions for me to come in.
“Yes,” she says to the caller. “We’re as baffled as you are.” Adaline rubs her temple as she wraps up the mostly one-sided conversation. When she finally hangs up, she sighs. “That was the Met. The sleeping maid in their Vermeer snores, apparently. Trying to move it made things worse, so they’ve left all the art in place and roped it off from visitors.”
I nod. “That’s only sensible.”
I don’t realize how ridiculous that sounds until Adaline says, “Julien,” like I’ve suggested tea on Mars this afternoon. “ None of this is sensible.”
We stare at each other for a long loaded moment.
Adaline cracks first.
A snort.
A smothered snicker.
We give in to mad, sleep-deprived hilarity so loud I have to shut the door so the staff doesn’t think we’re lunatics or monsters. Once we get ahold of ourselves, Adaline looks better for the release of endorphins, and I feel a bit better too.
She rubs her hand over her face. “You look like crap.”
“You’re one to talk,” I say, since we’re pulling no punches.
“Yes, but this is my job.”
“It’s mine too,” I say, not meaning the internship.
“At least get out of here and get some fresh air and some lunch.”
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.