Starry Nights

by Daisy Whitney

  “Never. Never wanted to. Never interested. Never even thought about it.”

  “Not even the tiniest idea? Like, ‘Oh, that Rembrandt is so hot.’”

  She laughs. “One, he’s not. Two, not even the flicker of a thought.”

  “So I’m your first kiss?”

  She nods and blushes. “Am I bad at it?”

  “No, you’re amazing. But to be sure, we should really kiss more.”

  “Just to test things, of course,” she says.

  “Lots of testing.”

  We kiss with the sun warming us, lying on the green slats of Monet’s surreal bridge. As I kiss her neck I tell her all the places I want to kiss her more, the visits I’d make on the treasure map of her body. X marks this spot on her shoulder, then this delicious one on her wrist, then this divine location at the hollow of her throat, as she shudders and pulls me closer with each touch, an intrepid explorer uncovering a new land of kisses. I am only too happy to be her guide, even if time is ticking on the other side.

  Chapter 21

  The Masters

  “I should go. I have no clue what time it is, but I bet it’s the middle of the night and I have to get home at some point.”

  “What a bummer to have a curfew, even a middle-of-the-night one,” she teases.

  We’re still on the bridge, and we both stand up to make our way to the blue irises where the painting opens up. But Clio stumbles at the edge of the bridge, and I reach out for her hand to keep her from falling.

  “I’m a bit clumsy sometimes,” she says, laughing, and our clasped hands are on the railing at the same time. “Can’t even get back to the Musée d’Orsay without tripping.” But when she’s got her footing, we’ve stepped onto another bridge, a mirror of the first, though the light is different. It’s brighter and greener here.

  We’ve somehow walked into another painting in the Musée d’Orsay. We’re in Waterlily Pond: Green Harmony, one of Monet’s many versions of his Japanese bridge. We step off the bridge and into the museum, but we’re nowhere near Clio’s painting.

  We both look at each other, as if the other one has an answer. “Did you know you could do that?” I ask her.

  She shakes her head several times. “I had no idea. And trust me, I searched every corner of my painting. The bridge never went anywhere except across the pond. I don’t think it connected until we touched it at the same time.”

  “Two muses touching it together?”

  “It must be,” she says, but she’s as surprised as I am. It’s as if we’ve found a hidden tunnel.

  “Convenient, you might say, that the Impressionists painted so many versions of that bridge.” The remark comes from Dr. Gachet, Van Gogh’s doctor and the subject of one of our most famous portraits. He speaks in a low, sonorous voice as he points lazily at the image behind me. It’s the first time I’ve seen him corporeal.

  “They connect? The bridges all connect?”

  He holds his hands out wide. “I’m not the one jumping in and out of paintings. I was simply making an educated guess.”

  Then he wanders down the hall, and when he turns the corner I see Olympia alive for the first time too, waving flirtatiously at him. They link hands and walk off.

  Clio whispers. “Olympia and Dr. Gachet have a little something going on.”

  “Paintings hook up. Bridges connect. Girls and boys are muses. Just another night at the museum. You know, we should go to the Hermitage sometime. We have another one of the bridges over there right now as part of a Monet exhibit.”

  “We’ll have to make it a date,” she says.

  I walk her back to her canvas. Before she reenters, I ask her something that’s been tugging at the back of my mind. “Clio, I know you said he loves his art more than anything, but if Renoir wound up cursing you to keep you from ushering in this new art age or something, do you think he’d go to any lengths to stop it from happening now?”

  “He locked me in a painting for more than a century, so I’m sure he’d want to stop it but I don’t know how he could. Why are you asking?”

  “Just thinking about every angle.”

  Only I’m not at all sure if he’s after her or me.

  Simon works on his bike tricks, and I lounge on the steps in Saint-Germain-des-Prés across from two packed cafés the next afternoon, eating an egg-and-cheese crepe. We don’t say much, because he’s practicing some kind of midair twist, and I’m trying to solve the mystery of Renoir’s return. His motive for trapping Clio in the first place was to somehow prevent the arrival of a human muse, but he’s done nothing to hurt me. So I don’t think I’m the one he’s after. He seems to want Clio back, but the question is, what lengths will he go to to get her?

  Simon executes a bizarre half-flip on his bike and lands on two wheels just as my phone buzzes.

  It’s Bonheur.

  “What’s going on? Another message from the Muses?” I joke, but I suppose I understand now why they’ve been wanting to hear from their missing sister.

  “Well, I told you to be at the ready, so if I were you I’d get over to the Marais as fast as you can. Cass has been spending a lot of time in the church behind her store. With paints. With easels. And with canvases.”

  “She’s forging again?”

  “Evidently she’s relapsed.”

  “Do you know what she’s making?”

  “No, but she just came out of the church, so now might be a good time to see what’s inside the house of worship.”

  Bonheur fits in well in the Marais. He wears black leggings, a bright-pink satin apron tied around his waist, and a long brunette wig. His shoes are black flats. Smart guy. They’re probably more comfortable on the cobblestones in this neighborhood.

  “Been cooking?”

  “No, I’m trying to bring back aprons as an accessory,” he says as Simon and I greet him. “Let me show you where Cass has been cavorting.”

  We pass the vintage shop and turn at the end of the block, then turn again, so we’re in an alley that runs along the backside of the shop. The alley is filled with boxes, trash cans, and other garbage from the stores and restaurants. But across from the back door of the shop is a pair of arched brown doors. Bonheur yanks them open. The doors lead down a narrow stone path, and at the end of the path is a church. We walk into the church, musty, cold, and quiet inside. A few candles flicker by the altar, and a pair of painted Madonnas hang high above us, watching over.

  “This is where she’s been coming and going. Maybe she’s making them in another room or a basement?”

  Simon heads for the altar. I grab Bonheur and talk in a low voice. “Do you know why Suzanne Valadon asked your family to keep the painting safe? Do you know what’s in it?”

  He shakes his head and his eyes look so earnest. “No. She only said there was a girl. Why?”

  “She never said anything about a—” I stop myself before I say Muse. If Valadon never even told her family who Renoir had painted, I’m not going to reveal Clio’s identity.

  “She didn’t leave a ton of specifics. She just said Renoir had given it to her and the painting should be kept incredibly safe until the Muses alerted us that a human muse was here,” Bonheur says. “That the girl in the painting was cursed until a human muse came along.”

  That’s what he and Sophie have been passionate about—the idea of human muses, the new age of art. But he doesn’t know there’s an Eternal Muse stuck in the painting. It’s as if everyone has a little piece of the puzzle, but there’s no one who knows everything. Clio doesn’t know what happened to her painting after Renoir’s famous last words to her. Nor does Bonheur. All I’m doing is assembling the clues, and they don’t add up yet.

  “All right, let’s look around.”

  Bonheur and I fan out, hunting across this tiny church, its handful of pews, its vestibule and the nave for an entrance to the basement. Simon, however, leans against the altar, looking amused.

  I don’t find a door, nor does Bonheur. I hold up my han
ds. “Now what?”

  “Maybe you could draw a door,” Bonheur offers with a shrug.

  Laughter booms across the church. “Seriously. I’m all for magic. But not everything is magic. Some things are real,” Simon says, tapping the altar. “You won’t find this in any history book, but I’ve learned that some of these old, alleyway churches hid the secret doors to the basement beneath the altar.”

  “Watch this,” he says, then leans his shoulder against the lecternlike altar, pushing it as a quarryman would a rock blocking the entrance to a cave. The altar groans as Simon shoves it over a few inches to reveal, as promised, a door in the floor.

  “Voilà.”

  “I bow down before you,” Bonheur says, doffing an imaginary top hat.

  Simon holds up a hand. “It’s nothing. But I will gladly accept applause and adulation, and I also insist on being the first one to go down.” Then he gestures to me. “You, my man, are coming along.”

  “Obviously,” I say. Then to Bonheur, “Can you stand guard?”

  He gives a crisp salute, and I think he’s happy that we’re all good again.

  I follow Simon down a loop of uneven stone steps. The stairs are short, and we reach the basement immediately. There are lamps here, so I pull a chain on one and it illuminates a breathtaking and chilling sight.

  Two easels. Two paintings in progress.

  A coldness seeps into my bones as I walk around the easels, considering the fresh canvases from all angles.

  The start of the piano girls is on one canvas, and the beginning of The Boy with the Cat is on the other. Two of the paintings that are sun damaged are being remade.

  I’m filled with icy dread because now I know why Renoir’s ghost came back. To protect his legacy, even if it means remaking his legacy. Renoir wasn’t merely working with Cass to fake the papers and try to get the painting back. He’s working with her to re-create his art, starting with the first two that are fading away before everyone’s eyes. Because Renoir couldn’t remake his art in Max’s body, not when he’s cursed with those gnarled hands. He needed Cass and her quick, young hands. I can picture the scene perfectly—Renoir overseeing Cass, giving her direction and guiding her just like in the days of old when master artists would watch over apprentices making copies. This was how young painters learned to paint, by reproducing the work of their teachers.

  I shake my head, because it’s so subversive to twist a teaching technique and use it to make fakes.

  I scan the basement and see stacks of blank canvases. They must be planning to re-create each work that fades away. I return to Clio’s words—Muse dust is very limited, but very powerful. When he trapped her, could the Muse dust have backfired on his paintings to make their colors leak away?

  But there’s one thing missing from his copies. The special chemical brew that makes every Renoir a Renoir. I hunt around this impromptu workshop, but I don’t see his signature pigment anywhere. Unless he is hiding it someplace else. No one—not a museum, not a private collector—would show or buy a Renoir without the pigment.

  “He’s rebuilding his collection,” I say to Simon. “The ones that are fading away. He’s remaking them.”

  “For what? To sell?”

  “No. The museums are all keeping track of which Renoirs are damaged. I think he’s just trying to save them,” I say, because I’m betting this forgery shop has more to do with preserving what he loves most in the world than with making money. His art, his legacy.

  A door slams above us. Simon and I look at the old musty ceiling at the same time. I’ve never been a fan of lengthy underground stays. “Let’s get out of here,” I say, and we rush up the steps.

  “I told you you should be a detective,” Simon says as we reach the altar. “Screw the magic. You can put two and two together like nobody’s business.”

  “Nobody’s business, indeed,” says a warm British voice.

  A fist knocks me on the chin, and I spin and crumple to the ground. I’m winded from the surprise attack. Then hands are on the neck of my T-shirt, twisting it against my skin, and my breath feels tight. “Shouldn’t you be back in Nebraska by now? Or is your French just so good from your little vacation with Mummy and Sissy that you’re staying behind?”

  My jaw is throbbing, and all my instincts tell me to land one on her, but I manage to resist because she’s a girl. A brute, yes, but still a girl. Cass wipes me of any more thoughts when she reconnects with my cheekbone in a sharp blow. My face stings and my brain feels as if it’s rattling. Simon grabs her by the wrist, but she swings a heavy arm in his direction, her elbow smacking him dangerously near the groin.

  Simon doubles over and groans. I glance around for Bonheur because I could sure use some help.

  “Looking for your other friend? I tied him up by his apron strings.” Cass straddles my stomach with her barrel of a body, pinning me, and now I have no chance of smacking her back. “Now listen, pretty boy. I don’t come around and mess with your business. You don’t mess with mine.”

  “You’re a forger. That’s not a business. It’s a crime.”

  “Oh, is that the pot calling the kettle black? Because I have a feeling the boy from Topeka wasn’t just wandering around my daddy’s store getting lost. Nicked some papers the other day, didn’t you?” She breathes heavily on me, and I can smell cinnamon on her breath.

  I smile and she tilts her head, curiosity taking its hold on her.

  “Those cinnamon rugelach are the best in town, aren’t they?” I say.

  She gives me a look, disarmed by my comment in the midst of a fight. It’s enough for me to wriggle out from under her. I grab Simon by the arm and bolt. I push open the door, and Bonheur’s on the other side, his wrists pinned behind him, his hands tied tightly to the door handle by the apron strings.

  Cass made some serious knots, so it takes a minute to undo them and there are red marks on Bonheur’s skin from trying to slip out. When he’s free, I tie the door handle closed with the strings from his mangled accessory.

  “I’m so pissed. This was my favorite apron,” he says in a huff.

  “Guess we need to go shopping now and get you a new one.”

  Chapter 22

  Falling in Moonlight

  Clio is waiting for me in the corner of the gallery. She’s reading a book. I’m pretty sure it’s from a Cézanne; I’ve seen it on the table in one of his paintings.

  “This is a good book. I’ll return it later. But it kept me—” She stops talking when she sees the cut on my cheek. She rises and reaches her hand to my face but doesn’t touch. “What happened? Are you okay?”

  “I’ve been getting reacquainted with aspirin. And ice too.”

  “Your cheek is all bruised, Julien.”

  “You should see the other guy,” I joke. “Actually, it was a girl, and she’s fine. I just have the mother of all headaches now.”

  She places her hands in my hair and kisses me tenderly on the forehead. I close my eyes and sway toward her.

  “Better now?”

  “Not yet. I need another.”

  I feel her soft lips on my eyelids. “Does that help?”

  “Only a little.”

  There’s a flutter against my bruised cheek.

  “More please.”

  She kisses my jaw where Cass first whacked me. Soon, her lips find mine and she gives me the sweetest kiss I could ever hope to have in my life. Her lips taste like cherries, and all I want is to stop time with her right now.

  “Clio,” I say softly.

  “What is it, Julien?”

  “Nothing. I just like saying your name.”

  I can feel her smiling, and I open my eyes.

  “Let’s get you out of here,” she says.

  “How?”

  “Come with me. Second floor. You said Starry Night was your favorite Van Gogh.”

  “Right,” I say, not sure where she’s going with this. When we reach the painting, she holds out a hand, and I take hers in mine.


  “I had no idea we could go in other paintings.” It is a dream in here, lush blues drip over the water, and banana-yellow stars sparkle in the night sky. They cast long rays of moonlight like gas lamps glimmering across the Rhône.

  “Being a Muse comes with certain privileges,” she says.

  I wince as we hop into one of the sailboats on the water.

  “Lie back,” Clio says, letting me rest my aching head in her lap.

  “This is much better,” I say as she rows out into the Rhône.

  “So what happened to you?”

  I recount my afternoon for her, sharing all the details of the forgery den, the works being re-created, and how a strapping English rugby player knocked me around. “What I really want to know is what’s happening to Renoir’s paintings. It’s like they’re cursed and he knows it, Clio. And it’s spreading. It’s as if all the colors are bleeding out,” I say, explaining to her what’s been happening to the Renoirs for the first time. I’ve never thought to mention it to her before. But now that I know she’s a Muse, I give her all the details. “Have you ever seen anything like that happen? I mean, you’ve seen pretty much all the art in the world, right?”

  She laughs once. “Yes, pretty much. And I’ve never seen anything like this happen.”

  “You said Muse dust was very powerful though, right? Could it be used for a curse? Renoir used it to trap you—that’s like a curse,” I ask, looking up at her.

  She stops rowing. We float lazily over exaggerated ultramarine as she strokes my hair. “That kind of damage to paintings has never happened before. But technically, I suppose it’s possible because Muse dust is the only thing powerful enough to have such great effect. Because art magic is highly specific. It’s for inspiration and creation. It doesn’t work for other things. It’s not like I can snap my fingers and fend off an enemy with Muse dust. Or make a sketchbook appear out of thin air. But it’s also the only thing that can change art. That can transform kernels of ideas into fully realized masterpieces.”