I dismounted my horse and followed her and her pig into town, up one hill and another and another. I hadn’t climbed such hills since my days in Urbino, and the burn in my chest felt like home. We walked past the cathedral—ornate facade of pediments and sculptures, black-and-white striped marble. The girl with the pig asked if I wanted to stop for a prayer, but I urged her on. “I’ll return to draw later.” Up another hill, down a narrow street, around a corner—I don’t know where, I was focused on silently rehearsing my speech—when suddenly we were in front of a tiny storefront, the smell of baking bread hanging in the streets, and the girl was leading me inside, and a bell on the door was tinkling, same as when I’d entered the baker’s shop back in Rome.

Her back was to me, bent over an open oven. When she turned and saw me, Margherita dropped her loaf, and the pig squealed, and the girl tumbled off her feet, and the pig rooted around for the bread, and Margherita scrambled to save it—flour and pans and gowns flailing—while I stood in the doorway, grinning. Margherita eventually sent the girl and the pig away with bread. The bell tinkled again as they passed out the door behind me.

Margherita pushed hair and flour off her forehead and said, “What are you doing here?”