I shrugged apologetically at Perugino, although I wasn’t altogether upset that he had to witness such a request. I took a piece of chalk from my pocket and said to the lady holding the paper, “Behold, a deity stronger than I, who shall rule over me.” (A Dante quote is always appropriate in any situation, don’t you find?) Keeping my eyes on the lady’s face—I haven’t needed to look at my hand to draw since I was, what? Ten?—I sketched her quickly. “The corner of your eye turns quite nicely here,” I said, using my bit of chalk to point to her face. “Look closely at my next Madonna, and you may find a touch of yourself in her features.”

“Oh . . .” The young woman blushed the color of an oleander bloom. She took the drawing, and they both scampered back to their friends.

With a smile, I turned back to Perugino, whose bulbous nose was flaring. That’s when he spit out a single word: “Thief.”

The other men in his entourage muttered.

Tessa gasped.

I replied, “Scusi?”

Perugino was shorter than I, but his large, round head overshadowed mine. He said, “You stole my painting.”

I willed the hot flush on my neck to cool and descend back down my chest. (Knowing how to defend against a blush is an invaluable skill for any courtier. Thank my mother for teaching me how to breathe properly to maintain a creamy complexion.) “Maestro, my work is—as always—a tribute to you, your talent, your influence, your . . .”

Perugino wagged his finger. “That altarpiece is nothing more than a copy of mine.”