“However, we will take your other suggestion,” said the pope with an unnerving lilt. My foot began tapping again.

The duke’s brow knotted. “Which one?”

“That whichever painter proves best will inherit Bramante’s job as papal architect,” said the pope as Bramante nodded. The old architect was nearing seventy by then, so whether because of illness or a more permanent sleep, the pope was being practical in selecting a successor now, instead of waiting for the inevitable. “Maestro Bramante,” the pope continued, “will stay on as an adviser to the new master of our artistic agenda, and—this part of your recommendation we particularly liked, nephew—we will give the winner control over every other painting in the Vatican, future and past. No more locking unwanted paintings behind closed doors. No. Our new master will have the right to keep what he wants and tear down everything else.”

Tear down . . . ? Several people inhaled sharply. Bramante became a student of his shoes. I’m guessing my complexion turned white as a Dark Ages Madonna by Nardo di Cione.

“And since you’ve made clear, nephew”—that word had long ago begun to sound like a curse—“that your countryman, Raphael, will take a chisel to this ceiling and replace it with—how did you describe it, again? ‘A vision worthy of Urbino’?”

Michelangelo’s scruffy head snapped toward me. I should’ve cried out that the duke was lying, that I would keep as many prophets and sibyls as possible, but did I? No. What do you think I did? I smiled. Sì certo. Smiled and smoothed down my vest and my breeches.

The pope turned to Michelangelo. “So, now, we’re interested in knowing what Michelangelo will do with Raphael’s paintings in our private apartments if he wins.”

The master of the Sistine turned his gaze heavily toward me. “When I win, and I will win”—he said darkly—“I’ll carry my sharpest chisel into those rooms and chip every stroke of Raphael Santi’s paint off those walls, erasing it, just like men do to other men. And when I cut it down, I won’t replace it with some easy beauty, some pleasant harmony, some perfection that doesn’t exist.”

My smile dropped. Easy beauty? As if I didn’t have to work at my perfection. As if nice and pleasant and generous made me— what? Simple? My pulse quickened—I counted my heartbeats, too—but I couldn’t find my tongue.

“No,” Michelangelo spit. “I’ll tear it all down and replace it with a miracle.”

That’s when my tongue found me, and I said, “There’s no such thing as miracles.”

And Michelangelo replied, “Maybe not for you, but there are for me.”