“No, you fool.” She sighed like I was a two-year-old who wouldn’t stop asking why horses drop manure. “Once Michelangelo is in the Castel with the rest of us, you’ll have free reign in the Vatican. You can get up his scaffolding.” She lowered her lashes. “He won’t let me see the ceiling again. He doesn’t trust me anymore.”

“I can’t imagine why.”

“He won’t even let my father up there. We have no way of knowing whether he’s putting pro-Florentine, antipapacy blather on that ceiling. What if he’s covering my father’s chapel with support for that wretched group of traitorous cardinals trying to depose him? I must know.” She glanced around to make sure no one was looking and then put her hand on my arm. “Per favore, I need you to do this for me.”

“Why do you always pick me for these schemes?”

“I don’t. It’s that you only hear of the ones I ask of you.”

My forehead wrinkled, wondering how many other machinations she’d orchestrated.

“Besides,” she cooed, “you can read the imagery, symbolism, and details better than anyone else.”

“I’d like to see that ceiling, too, but it’s not worth risking my head.”

“My father is desperate for an official portrait,” she said, taking her hand off my arm and straightening her glove. “He’s been thinking of hiring Michelangelo to paint it, but now that the Florentines have forsaken us . . .”

My eyes narrowed. “You can’t get me the pope’s portrait.”

“Can’t I?” Her eyes flicked up to meet mine. “Do this for me, and I guarantee it.”

The pope’s portrait? Such a painting would live forever in the history of the papacy, the Church, the world. Yes, many of us included unofficial images of His Holiness in our work—I was putting up a portrait of him on my Heliodorus wall at that very moment—but an official portrait? My tongue raked the back of my teeth. The last time I’d made an alliance with Felice and her friends over a portrait, it hadn’t turned out well, but how could the pope’s portrait be dangerous? Painting His Holiness could only be seen as an honor. But was I willing to risk my life for such a commission? “Not even for a pope’s portrait.” I lengthened my stride.

“I hear Michelangelo is painting fast as Hermes,” she said. My step slowed. “If you don’t get in there soon, you might not get a chance. Do you want to see his ceiling for the first time with everyone else?” Her stride caught up to mine. “Imagine if he’s doing something new with the second half. Imagine if you’re putting outdated images on your walls, while he’s marching up some new mountain . . .”

I didn’t need to verbally assent. She could see the hunger in my eyes.