“Ironic,” said Reine-Marie. “But none for art? Why not?”

“How the hell should I know? There’s at least one muse for poetry, that’s all I care about.”

“Do you have a muse?”

“Do I look like a lunatic?”

“Well, you have a duck. It seemed possible you also have a muse.”

Ruth smiled. “Fair play. But no, I have no muse.”

“Why not?”

“Too much power. Suppose it left? Where would I be then? No, I prefer to rely on my own meager talents.”

They walked in silence for a few paces, until Ruth gave a long, low guttural prompt.

“But, Ruth, your talent is legendary. Mammoth,” said Reine-Marie. “The only thing that’s meager is your ego.”

“You mean that?” said Ruth, with a smile.

“Can we get back to the Muses?” asked Reine-Marie. They were at the car, and after getting Ruth settled, she sat in the driver’s seat, thinking. “Nine Muses. So where does this tenth one come in?” Reine-Marie asked.

“There’s a theory that there were actually ten sisters,” said Ruth. “But somewhere along the line, one was dropped. Erased.”

“The one for art?”

Ruth shrugged.

Reine-Marie started up the car and left the parking lot, heading back to Three Pines.

“Muses work all day long,” said Ruth. “And then at night get together and dance.”

Reine-Marie tried to keep her eyes on the road, but she shot Ruth a glance.

“You say that like you’ve seen them.”

The old woman laughed. “It’s a quote from Degas. But sometimes, on moonlit nights on the village green…”

Reine-Marie looked again at Ruth, who had a crooked smile on her crooked face.

“Was the moon lit, or were you?” asked Reine-Marie, and Ruth laughed.

Still, as Reine-Marie drove off the island of Montréal toward the Eastern Townships, she could imagine them. Not on the village green, but deep in the woods. In a copse. Nine young women, sisters, in a circle, dancing. Holding hands, vigorous, healthy, joyous.

“A beautiful image, isn’t it?” asked Ruth, as though she shared Reine-Marie’s vision. “Now, imagine someone else, standing just off to the side. Watching.”

Reine-Marie saw the circle of happy, robust young goddesses. And in the background another young woman was watching. Waiting. To be invited in.

Waiting. Forever.

“The tenth muse,” Reine-Marie said. “But if she existed, if she was one of the sisters, why was she left out?”

“Not just excluded, but erased,” said Ruth. “Her very existence denied.”

“Why?” asked Reine-Marie.

“How the fuck should I know?” And the old woman turned to look at the woods rushing by.

*   *   *