“Sì.” Without being able to see his face clearly, I couldn’t discern whether he was lying, taunting, testing, or . . .

Whatever bait he was casting, I didn’t bite. I needed to hook him, not be yanked about on his line. So, in a tone fit for schoolboys tossing a small ball on the field, I said, “Have you seen that new knock-kneed cook? I hope she’s safe from the assassins’ swords, don’t you?” I leaned back on my elbows. He didn’t respond, so I tried again. “Do you prefer the almond-eyed daughter of the apothecary? She’s too skinny for my tastes, but maybe you . . .” He still wasn’t responding, so, what can I say, I shot a stray: “Mi dispiace, is it the apothecary’s son that you . . . ?”

“What do you want?”

“What do you mean, I . . .”

“What do you want. Here. With me?” He sounded gruff, and all of a sudden, I could see what he was doing: he’d planted himself on those stairs to block my ascent. He hadn’t fallen for my ruse; he was standing guard.

I tucked my hair behind my ears, but once I get something in my mind I have a hard time letting go—I’m like Dante with Beatrice—so I insisted, “I wanted a place to hide from the assassins and . . .”

“Basta. Try being honest for once in your life.”

My chin pulled back. I thought people saw me as polite, nice, charming . . . Did people think of me as a liar? I smoothed down my jacket. “I did hear strange sounds—truly—creaking and all kinds of . . .”

Even in the dimness I could see him fold his arms.

“I needed an excuse to come in here,” I admitted.

“Why?”

Because I want to look at the ceiling, because I want the pope’s portrait, because I want to copy you and beat you and become the greatest painter in history, but instead of saying any of that, I said, “Because I don’t know how to be alone.” I started picking at a speck of paint on my thumbnail; it was too dark to see the color, maybe ultramarine. “I always surround myself with people: assistants, courtiers, lovers. Any kind of people. Always . . .”

He didn’t move. He didn’t answer.