I sighed. Pacing up and down a windowless staircase hour after hour—uno, due, tre, quattro, twirling paintbrushes, rolling wrists, dreaming up featherbrained ideas—wasn’t helping. I needed to do something. How do I usually charm people? I smile and laugh and get them talking about themselves; people love talking about themselves. “Charming people’s no different than painting a portrait,” I said out loud to absolutely no one. “First, you need to understand your subject.”

By the time I exited the stairway, night had fallen. With everyone in hiding or home protecting their families, the Vatican was eerily quiet, except for irregular creaks of the old building. I imagined rounding a corner and coming across a company of soldiers. I wished I’d at least thought to tie a trowel to the end of a stick. Not that I’d know how to use it.

I paused in front of the Sistine door. I needed all the luck I could get, so I turned around and approached on a perfect count of seven and then meticulously went through my newest routine: tuck hair behind both ears, wipe dust off each shoulder, smooth down my jacket and breeches, and check the ties on my shoes. Twice. Then, I slipped into the Sistine through the back door by the altar. When I was young, I used to sneak into my father’s studio to watch him work, long after I was supposed to be in bed; I know how to be quiet. I hunched down and crept forward. It was dim; the only light was from a silver moon shining in through high windows and distant torches up near the ceiling, casting Michelangelo’s flickering shadow across tarps hanging under the scaffolding: he was standing up, his hand was raised, paintbrush in hand, head bent back. The scaffolding creaked with a familiar, comforting rhythm.

He was painting.

I settled down and waited for the torrent of curses that would surely come soon; didn’t he say he swore by the minute when painting? Sure enough, it didn’t take long to hear something. What was it? Soft, with the resonance of Michelangelo’s voice, but it wasn’t a curse, was it? Was it a prayer? No. It was . . .

Humming?

What was that tune? Ah yes, my mother used to sing it on Easter morning to wake us. What were the lyrics, again? “This glorious morn, the world newborn, in rising beauty shows; How, with her Lord to life restored, her gifts and graces rose.”

Michelangelo was swaying, too, his body moving with his brush and song.

Santa Madonna . . .