The old panic was back. Her father was going to bring up marriage now, wasn’t he? I took a deep breath. I would have to say yes. I would have to find a way. I would . . . “And tell me why I’m destined to be here, signore. I shall do as you ask, I swear it.” I crossed one finger over the other in an “x” to seal my promise.

“You can finish this painting,” he said, his eyes gleaming. “You can make my daughter immortal.”

I looked down at the old tondo. He wasn’t asking me to marry her?

“Father, we have to stop now,” Margherita said, again trying to take the board from me, but I refused to let go. “You don’t have the money for such a commission,” Margherita went on. “Raphael is an important painter at the Vatican. He can’t be bought with a round of bread.”

“Signor Luti,” I said, holding his gaze hard as if I were grasping his hand, “I promise to paint your daughter again and again, until I make her immortal. And payment of bread will be quite enough.” I said, picking up a roll covered in a sugary glaze.

It took us I-don’t-know-how-long to extricate ourselves from his shop, and as we walked down the Tiber, Margherita said, “I’m sorry about that, I went home the morning after we met, and . . . I couldn’t keep that tondo at the villa. Imperia would’ve asked. I had to tell him something, but how could I admit . . . And I didn’t want him to . . . I’m gone for days sometimes. He gives away all his bread to widows and orphaned boys in the neighborhood, and if I didn’t bring home money . . . But he would never allow . . . so I tell him . . . I tell him . . .”

“You tell him the story as it should be. Nothing wrong with that.”

“That”—she tapped the wooden tondo under my arm—“is not why I took you there. I had no idea he would bring that out. Although he shows it to most visitors, so I should’ve guessed.”

I looked down at my shoes, splattered with orange and blue. Once again, at an important moment in my life, I’d neglected to put on a fresh pair. “I know why you took me there.”

“You do?” her tone sounded small and unsure.

“’Gita,” I said, and then corrected myself. “Margherita Luti.” Now was a moment for proper names, if there ever was one. “I know, despite what you have to do for your . . . that you’re a proper woman, who deserves to be a wife and . . .”

“No. No.” She pulled away and waved her hands in front of her. “This is what I feared. You can’t start talking of marriage. You can’t.” She dropped her face into her hands.

I took a step forward but didn’t dare touch her.