This was even more frightening than armies or assassins or French generals wielding swords. Because that wasn’t the hum of a man who hated to paint, was it? No. That was the song of a man who loved it. I’d always taken comfort in Michelangelo’s insistence that he hated to paint, because a man who loves his work—me—will always outdo a man who hates it—him—but now . . . I stood up and took a step backward. His humming grew louder. His shadow danced.

Michelangelo had fallen in love with painting.

I backed up, my feet falling over each other, desperate to escape that chapel, to get outside, to breathe, to think, to . . . I tripped over a bucket, sì certo. It made a great clatter as I landed hard against the marble floor. “Uffa!”

“Who’s there?” Michelangelo barked. He leaned over the scaffolding with a torch. I couldn’t see his face. Only the flame.

I cringed at the pain in my backside. I feared he would see me before I could hide, so lying seemed pointless. “Don’t worry, Michelangelo. It’s only me.”

“Me who?”

That stung worse than the fall. If Michelangelo called up my scaffolding, I’d know his voice immediately. I, apparently, am not quite so memorable. I called up, “Raphael.”

And he said, “The one from Urbino?”

“The one from the pope’s apartments.”

“Get out of here. Unless you want me to knock off your head and tell the pope I thought you were an assassin.” He ducked back behind the scaffolding.

I rode the first lie that came to mind. “There’s someone in the apartments,” I called.

“Who?” At least he didn’t throw a plank at my head.

“I don’t know,” I said. “They came in, I ran. Soldiers, maybe? Everyone else is gone, I didn’t know where else to go and . . .”

His torch leaned over the scaffolding again. “You thought I would protect you?”

“I thought two was better than one. Besides, you have a high scaffolding and . . .”

He snorted—snorted—at that. “I’m not putting my ladders down for anyone.”

I shrugged. I hadn’t really expected it to be that easy. But at least I had him talking. “Will you at least throw down a tarp for me to hide under?”

He didn’t answer, but there was shuffling, and a few moments later a tarp fluttered down. That was good. If you can get someone to do one favor, it’s easier to extract another and another. “Grazie mille,” I said, grabbing the tarp. “I hope you don’t mind if I hide down here.”