I must’ve been nine or ten—my mother and sister had been gone a good while, but my father had yet to show signs of sick—when a fat-bellied patron filled our doorway with feathers and fussiness. He was dressed like a duke, but he was probably only some new-money merchant putting on airs or else my father never would’ve behaved the way he did. I was hiding behind an altarpiece with only one eye peering out, so my memory of the scene is off-balance, the door pushed to the left of my peripheral vision, while my father’s cluttered studio—wooden shelves sagging under jars, knives, trowels, raw minerals—fills up the right; it’s all on a diagonal, too, the world sliding off to one corner. My father’s shoulders sagged as he declined the man’s request for a commission; he was too busy working for the duke, in the studio, with his son. He recommended Perugino’s workshop, instead. Oh, how I wanted to run after that man and assure him that we could handle his commission—I was not a burden—and that we wouldn’t disappoint anyone. Ever.

I’m still not good at turning down commissions. I’m not certain that I ever have turned one down, as I always make polite excuses and promise to get to it when I have time. But that Carnevale night, in Chigi’s villa, I’d never even attempted to demur before. “Signor Chigi, the commission you’re offering is magnificent,” I said, as he—Imperia on his arm, still nude but pretending not to be—walked me down the empty halls of the upper floor of his villa, giving me a tour of my new dominion, wall after wall, ceiling after ceiling of clean white plaster prepared for paint.

“Why do I hear a ‘nevertheless’ in your tone?” Chigi’s eyes creased with kind.

“I meant what I said, signore. The Vatican project is too important, and as Aristotle said, only pleasure in the job puts perfection in the work, so . . .”

“Working for a pope is prestigious,” Chigi said, leading us outside to a balcony overlooking his gardens and the Tiber beyond. I leaned against the balustrade next to Imperia. I didn’t see how she was standing out there unclothed on such a damp shivery evening.

“There’s also the allure of certain chapels.” Imperia bumped me with her hip.

Blessed Mother, were people talking of my Sistine aspirations? Such rumors would make me seem like a climber. “I wouldn’t dare aspire to such . . .”

“What they say is true,” Imperia said. “You are too nice for Rome.”