“I want . . .” Her voice was shaking. “I wanted to show you that I have someone else to tend to. I can’t give up taking care of my father to take care of a husband. He didn’t give me up after my mother. But if you asked . . . I never want to have to say no to you.”

I wrapped my arms around her and pulled her into me. The weight of her body felt warm. I should’ve felt relieved. Margherita didn’t want to marry me. I didn’t have to give up my career or risk my reputation or position at the Vatican. I didn’t have to trade the needs of my paints for the needs of a wife. We could be free. We could be happy. We could be together. I didn’t have to break her heart. So why did my throat feel so tight when I whispered, “Then, I promise, my dear ’Gita, never to ask you anything to which you must answer no.”

Chapter XXXVI

Chapter XXXVI

On the morning of Epiphany, I arrived at the papal apartments before first light; it seemed like an appropriate holiday for the task at hand, as I felt how those Wise Men must’ve felt arriving at the manger: nervous, excited, wondering what I would find. The pope hadn’t returned from war yet, but I couldn’t bear to wait any longer to view my painting, so I’d had my men remove the scaffolding, and I stood in the middle of the room, eyes on my shoes—I’d put on a fresh pair of honey leather— and waited until dawn broke and golden light filled the room. I’d memorized every hair in my fresco of Philosophy, and yet, looking at it whole and finished would be—in many ways—the first time I would see it. I rubbed my hands on my pants twice, took out my father’s brush and twirled it four times for luck. Then, I looked up.

Over fifty painted teachers and students were gathered on steps in ancient Athens, talking, debating, exchanging ideas. The composition was balanced and harmonious. The perspective lines were delineated in the square tiles of the floor, pushing back through classical arches. The colors of tunics and togas—pine greens and rusty oranges, eggplant purples and yolked yellows— were contrasting, yet complementary. Highlights gleamed contrasting with shadows pooling in folds of draperies. The figures were graceful, yet sculptural; no two figures had the same pose or expression. Every face was an idea; every gesture flowed into the next. I searched for a flaw: an awkward finger, unrealistic shadow, botched foreshortening. Was there a seam of a giornata or a bristle of a brushstroke showing?

I heard my father’s voice: “Do you know what all of this means, Raffaello? It means we might be the ones to reach perfection first. Have we done it?”

I squinted. Had we?

Santa Madonna . . .