“I don’t know. I left without asking.”

“Then, there’s still a chance.” She flung my traveling bag over her shoulder.

“What about your bakery?”

She put her hands on her hips. “You think a woman can own a bakery?”

“I don’t know. You’re here. Baking . . . so . . .”

“The church owns this shop. They let me bake some of the bread for the convent. Andiamo.” She brushed past me toward the exit.

But I didn’t follow her out the door. “I’ve asked for your hand, ’Gita. I need an answer.”

“You can’t rise in the Vatican with me as your wife.”

“Then, we have a problem, because I’m not going back unless you’re my wife.”

“Rafa . . .”

I crossed my arms.

Her jaw cocked to one side. “Fine,” she said. “We can get married.”

I don’t need to embarrass myself with a description of my uncourtly behavior, do I? Clapping, whooping, picking her up and twirling her around, you can imagine . . . After my immature outburst came to an end, she put her hands on my chest and said, “But I won’t risk my life or yours, so as long as you’re working in the Vatican, we’re keeping our marriage a secret.”

“That shouldn’t be for long.”

“If it’s up to me, it’ll take a lifetime.”

I tucked my arms in tighter around her waist. I made sure my tone was serious when I said, “Margherita, the fight is pointless. I’ve lost. I can’t achieve my destiny.”

“I’m not asking you achieve your destiny, Raphael Santi.” She pushed the tondo into my chest and said, “I’m asking you to achieve mine.”

Chapter LVIII

Chapter LVIII

Margherita Luti and I didn’t have an official “taking of hands” ceremony; there was no bickering between fathers about dowries. We were just two orphans who came together in a simple service in the garden of Chigi’s villa. Chigi served as officiant while his new Venetian lover threw peony petals—symbols of love and discretion. I completed the ceremony by slipping a ruby ring onto my wife’s finger. “There may not be a dowry,” called Chigi, clapping over his head, “but that doesn’t mean we can’t feast.” Servants came out with a large table, chairs, and plates of roasted pheasant, flamingo tongue, and fig tarts, as Margherita fed me a dripping spoonful of truffle sauce. After dinner, we threw our dishes into the Tiber, and Chigi promised that—this time—there were no nets to save them.