“Only that Professor Norman was considered unbalanced. He taught art theory. He’s from Québec. She’s waiting to find out where.”

“I’d forgotten about that,” said Clara. “Had a strange accent, though. Hard to place.”

“Just as their flight was called, she asked if I knew anything about the Muses,” said Gamache. “Does that make sense?”

“The brasserie?” asked Myrna.

“No, I think she meant the actual Greek goddesses.”

Clara snorted. “God, I’d forgotten about that too. Professor Norman was obsessed by the Muses. Peter used to laugh about that.”

“But what’s so funny?” Myrna asked. “Don’t most artists have a muse?”

“Absolutely, but Norman turned it into a sort of mania. A prerequisite.”

“A muse is supposed to inspire an artist, right?” said Jean-Guy.

“Oui,” said Chartrand. “There was Manet’s Victorine and Whistler’s Joanna Hiffernan—” He paused. “How odd.”

“How so?” asked Gamache.

“Both those women inspired works that ended up in the first Salon des Refusés.”

“So much for muses,” said Jean-Guy.

“But there’re lots of other examples,” said Chartrand. “And even those two paintings were eventually considered works of genius.”

“Because of the muses?” asked Jean-Guy. “Don’t you think the artists’ talent might’ve had something to do with it?”

“Absolument,” said Chartrand. “But something magical happens when a great artist meets his or her muse.”

There’s that word again, thought Gamache. Magic.

Clara listened but couldn’t bear to look at Beauvoir as Chartrand tried to explain the inexplicable. Jean-Guy was so like Peter, in so many ways.

Peter hadn’t believed in muses. He believed in technique and discipline. He believed in the color wheel and rules of perspective. He believed in hard work. Not in some mythical, magical being who would make him a better artist. It was absurd.

Clara had secretly hoped that, despite what Peter believed, she was his muse. His inspiration. But she’d had to eventually surrender that thought.

“Who’s your muse?” Jean-Guy asked.

“Mine?” asked Clara.

“Yeah. If a muse is so important, who’s yours?”

She wanted to say Peter. Would have said Peter a while ago, if only out of loyalty. It was the easy and obvious answer.

But not the truthful one.

Myrna spared her from having to answer.

“It’s Ruth.”

Clara smiled at her friend, and nodded.

Demented, drunken, delusional Ruth inspired Clara.

Ruth, with the lump in her throat.

“Only successful artists have muses?” Beauvoir asked.

“Oh no,” said Chartrand. “Many artists have one, or a series of them. A muse might inspire them, but it doesn’t make them great artists or guarantee success.”

“Sometimes the magic works?” Jean-Guy looked at Clara, and smiled. Leading her to wonder if he knew more, or understood more, than he let on.

“If the muse is a person,” said Beauvoir, thinking out loud, “what happens to the artist if their muse dies?”