She grabbed one end of the portrait. “Cardinal Alidosi should’ve kept his distance from my father, their relationship was too dangerous, and this portrait made it possible for us to . . .”

I let go of the portrait. “Keep it if you must, but I don’t ever want to see it again.” I slumped back down on the floor and poured wine out of the spout of my flagon and into my mouth. It splashed down my chin. I didn’t bother to mop up the mess.

“I wish you understood what you’ve done for my father and for the papacy.”

“I’m not as naive as you assume,” I said with a resigned shrug. “You and the duke wanted Alidosi gone because of his cozy relationship with your father, and you used me and my painting to help force the pope into forgiving the duke. My little portrait may not have delivered a fatal blow, but I helped the duke get away with the deed.”

Scraps of moonlight reflected off her dark eyes. “You think you’re clever.”

“Cleverness is a detriment to any courtier, my lady, lest we outshine our ruler; however, attentiveness to humans and their relationships is necessary for keeping your head. It’s also helpful as a portrait painter, although in this case”—I waved my hand at the Alidosi portrait—“that talent has tied my noose.” I took another drink and stared up at my Philosophy. “I create the world’s first perfect painting, and yet . . . I work harder than everyone else, I’m nicer than everyone else, I’m more gracious, more polite, more perfect, perfect, perfect . . .”

She slid down the wall next to me. “You and I are more alike than I thought. I do everything right. To protect my father, I sacrifice my own happiness, my own safety, my first husband . . .” She picked up the flagon in two hands and took a drink. “Too bad. He was almost as handsome as you.”

I was feeling fearless—that’s what believing you’re meant for the noose will do—so I said, “According to rumors, you’re the one who delivered the poison to that handsome husband.”

“Like I said. Sacrifices.” She took another drink and passed the flagon to me.

I drank, too. “Michelangelo puts up a mess on that ceiling— acts like a mess, is a mess—and yet people love him, hire him, choose him. Why?”

“Does my father thank me for keeping the peace between my husband’s family and the Colonna? No. He gives all the credit to this cardinal or that cardinal for their ‘talks’ when all the real thanks should go to the time I spend in my own bedchamber.”

“When Michelangelo rips down these paintings, it’ll wipe me from history. Who will ever remember a nameless, faceless Urbinite painter of pretty little Madonnas?”