Imperia said things like, “He’s too good. Tell the pope to give that man a set of red robes.” (Promoting me to cardinal? Honestly? Yes, it was a nice fantasy with which to rock myself to sleep at night, but it’s not as if I ever believed it would happen. I didn’t. I swear.)

Then, Cardinal Riario took off his own red hat and tossed it to Lorenzo Lotto, who plopped it on my head. “Why stop at cardinal?” Riario cried. “Let’s make him the first painter pope!” (That’s so ridiculous that I can’t even look at you when I say it, but that was the suggestion—not by me, by others—so now perhaps you can start to understand why some of it was going to my head.)

“He can’t be cardinal or pope,” called Cardinal Bibbiena. “He’s marrying my niece.”

“I’m not marrying anyone,” I called over the cacophony. “Not until I achieve perfection.”

And Guillaume grinned. “Mais oui, at this rate, mon ami, that won’t be long.”

Basta. I’m finished. They liked what I was doing. You don’t need more than that.

The only reason I even tell you all of this is so that you understand that, like my mother, I was beginning to suspect that what I had birthed might have been well worth all that pain.

Chapter XXXV

Chapter XXXV

This one time, per favore, mia cara,” I begged, “we can dress you up as a messenger boy and sneak you in and out in under an hour. No one will know you were there.”

“No,” Marghertia replied. Even with her jaw set, she’s beautiful.

“I need the love of my life to see my greatest work.” I flashed a smile that usually moves anyone in my direction.

But she was unwavering as marble. “I won’t risk my life or your career to see some painting.”

“It’s not just some painting.”

“Basta, puppy.”

I tilted my head and said, “There’s this cardinal who’s trying to get me to marry his niece. He said she’d be happy to see my paintings.”

With that, Margherita got up out of bed. “Get dressed.”

I pursed my lips. That tactic had been all wrong, hadn’t it? Ah well. What do you do after stepping into a pile of excrement? You try your best to clean it off, don’t you? “Mi dispiace, I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“We’re going out.” She pulled on her dress.