“Like you said, I’m charming.”

She grabbed the end of my paintbrush to keep me from making another stroke.

I said, “You wouldn’t want me to share all my secrets, would you?”

Her eyebrow arched.

I’m not proud of the lie, but I had to come up with something. “Let me put it this way, Michelangelo is as fond of a handsome smile as any chambermaid.”

And with that she laughed. “That I believe.” She let go of my paintbrush and leaned against the railing. After that, she seemed to take my word as true. “So, you think it’s good. Truly good?”

“I do.” I turned my back on her and continued adding quick strokes of umber. “I don’t believe he’ll defeat me, but he’s a sculptor, so did anyone expect that? But overall, I think it’ll be seen as a victory.”

“A victory?”

“Sì. In comparison to the first half? A victory. Absolutely. Michelangelo will have a victory inside the Vatican.” Flick, flick, flick, flick.

“A victory.”

“A victory!”

“That’s . . . that’s . . .” she stuttered. “That’s terrible.”

I jerked my brush away from the paint and turned to her. Her face was flushed and her eyes flamed with . . . Fury? Protectiveness? Revenge? “Victory is a bad thing?”

“Of course, it’s a bad thing,” she spit.

“Mi dispiace. I thought you’d be happy that your father’s painting would be seen as a triumph. How is that bad?”

“You are so . . .” She exhaled like my mother did that time when I tried to use the bread flour to mix a new pigment. “Michelangelo is a Florentine. His David is a symbol for all those antiestablishment, pro-Republican Florentines who joined with those damnable Pisans to depose my father; that statue is a stick in the eye of anyone who values the papacy. A stick in the eye of my father.” She started pacing. “Now imagine if such a Florentine declared victory inside the papal palace, right under my father’s nose. Imagine how it would be like a rallying cry for my father’s enemies. Imagine.” She bit her bottom lip again—hard—and drew blood. “The only thing worse than Michelangelo putting blasphemy on that ceiling is him triumphing inside the Vatican. The danger my father would face . . .” She sounded panicked as a half-witted nun who’s caught you kissing in the confessional. “I have to stop him. I have to stop the Florentines once and for all.” And with that, she was off the scaffolding with great speed for a woman so pregnant, marching off to Mary-knows-where to launch some new scheme with some new player.