The town of Città di Castello had the same hills, same climate, same accents, same colors as Urbino. Living in a place that reminded me of home usually gave me comfort, but that day, I couldn’t quell my apprehension. As Tessa and I crossed town, I counted every step—uno, due, tre, quattro, uno, due, tre, quattro—but when we arrived at the church of San Francesco, my foot landed on the top stair on a count of three. There wasn’t enough room to squeeze in another step. Not even a small one. On a day as important as that, would you have entered on an ill-fated count of three? “Wait,” I said and turned to walk away from the door.

Tessa exhaled, “Rafa . . .”

“Sevens are luckier than fours.” I walked back toward the entrance. “Uno, due, tre, quattro, cinque, sei, sette.” With the last step, I landed beside Tessa again. I took her hand. “Andiamo.”

Inside the old church of San Francesco, the morning light was warm and bright. Up ahead to the right, a group of men gathered around an ornate chapel. My heart thumped in the side of my neck. Was my teacher Perugino among them?

As I started to hurry up the nave, Tessa admonished, “Rafa, for holy’s sake.”

Dutifully, I backed up, dipped my finger into the font of holy water, crossed myself, genuflected, and then stood to hurry down the aisle.

“Slow down.” She took a ceremoniously long time blessing herself.

“Per favore.” The longing in my voice finally moved her. She took my hand and let me lead her into the church.

As we approached the group of men gathered around the altar, Tessa giggled. I shushed her. She said, “Rafa, let me be excited,” but I wasn’t listening.

I was scanning faces. Was he there? There? No, no, where . . .? Finally, a man turned. He had the ruddy cheeks, ropy brown hair, and determined frown of a face I knew well: Pietro Perugino. He’d come. I’d grown taller and into my shoulders since I’d seen him last, but still felt like a child when he said, “Raffaello Santi of Urbino.”

“Maestro Perugino.” I released Tessa’s hand and bowed. “Whatever successes I have, the credit goes to you.” I breathed slowly. Would he praise me or dismiss me? Would he call me master? Would he hand me the keys to his studio, like Christ giving the keys to St. Peter?

Before Perugino could offer his verdict, two ladies stepped up. I’d already met—all right, more than met—the one with eyes the color of a frozen lake. She curtseyed and said, “Signor Raphael Santi, may I present my sister . . .”

The other shoved a piece of paper at me. “Per favore, may I have a drawing?”