In whispers outside his door, I told Felice, “Painting scenes of miracles isn’t the same as summoning real ones. My paint can’t turn the tide of the French army.”

“As your rival down the hall says, the danger for most of us isn’t in setting our sights too high and missing them, but in setting them too low and hitting our mark.” She tapped her temple— think about it—then returned to her father’s bedside.

I hardly had time to begin selecting the best paper and chalk for my designs before the world started devolving around me. By cutting a new figure into my perfect Philosophy, it seemed I’d cut into the world. The pope’s fever spiked; he fell unconscious. Felice insisted he’d only caught a cold during a hunt, but there were rumors that he’d been poisoned. Either way, the palace braced for his death: servants swiped silver; cardinals who believed their rears fitted for the papal throne paid out ducats to secure votes; His Holiness’s allies shipped treasure to family in safer lands. Even if the pope did survive, the schismatic cardinals announced a date for their council to depose him. And then Felice brought word that her bedroom diplomacy had failed: her husband’s family, the Orsini, were fearful about losing their hold on power if the pope died, and they’d started rioting in the streets. The other old Roman families had quickly followed their lead. We could smell the smoke even inside the Vatican.

I tried to lose myself in my designs—miracle, miracle, how to create a miracle? Uno, due tre, quattro—but for once, the scratch of my silverpoint couldn’t quiet the noise. The Vatican felt like a pot of boiling oil, every new bubble adding to the pressure, threatening to blow the lid.

“The rioters have taken Imperia’s villa,” said Lorenzo Lotto one day. Outside, the sky was black, not from night, but smoke.

“Imperia’s?” My Margherita . . . I rubbed my face; my hands tasted of chalk. How long had it been since I’d wiped them? When I stood, my legs tingled; how long had I been kneeling? I smoothed down my hair, my vest, my breeches, but everything still felt uneven. My Margherita . . . “Mary in heaven, I have to go.”

“No one is allowed in or out of the Vatican,” Lorenzo said. “This is all rumor.” I tried to push past him, but he grabbed my shoulder. “What did I say? No one is allowed in or out. No one. I just thought you’d want to know.” He patted my arm and walked away.

No matter how hard I begged, the papal guards refused to let me exit. “It’s for your own safety,” they insisted.

“What about the safety of those on the outside?”

“All of Rome can burn, but it’s our duty to safeguard the pope.”