As we walked back across town—uno, due, tre, quattro, uno, due, tre—my stomach swirled fast as mixing raw umber with a fresh batch of boiled oil. Romans threw flowers in celebration. Girls sang. Boys played drums. Della Rovere flags unfurled out of windows. But the pope’s step was too buoyant for a man who’d just pardoned his friend’s killer, even if that killer was his nephew. Something was askew. So, as we entered the Vatican and filed into the Sistine—I paused outside the door to add in another small step, tucked my hair, wiped both shoulders, and smoothed down my vest before entering—I didn’t look up at that ceiling but kept my eyes on the pope’s face as he tilted back his head. He squinted. His mouth pursed. I couldn’t read his expression. Did he love it or hate it?

I didn’t need to look up to know my own mind; I’d been up the scaffolding enough to know that the ceiling was a chaotic mess, so I wasn’t surprised to hear the crowd speaking in strained, overly polite tones, as if struggling for something nice to say.

“The colors are . . . are . . . there are lots of them,” said Cardinal Bibbiena.

Cardinal Riario patted the pope on the back and said, “It’s certainly a change from the old blue sky with gold stars.”

“My eye is . . . is . . . not bored.”

“I never would’ve imagined there could be so many figures.”

“It will no doubt have people talking.”

The hollow praise went on and on.

Cardinal de’ Medici—even more desperate than the rest to praise his fellow Florentine—offered an actual truth: “The sibyls and prophets are magnificent.”

I took my eyes off the pope long enough to look at Michelangelo. His face was scarlet. He shook his head. Granacci tried to comfort him, but he pointed angrily at the ceiling. I could read his lips: You can’t see any of it!

“I know that panel there is The Flood,” someone said—I believe Bramante—“but what’s that one?”

Michelangelo’s face pinched. Can you imagine having to explain the subject of your painting? How humiliating. “The Sacrifice of Noah,” he said.

“And that?”

The teal vein in his forehead thumped. “The Drunkenness of Noah.”

I looked back at the pope, but his face was still impossible to read.

Felice leaned over to me and whispered, “You were right about one thing: amongst that mess, no one will ever notice that one little thumb.”