I heard my mother’s voice—“chin up, eyes meet the patron”— but for once I couldn’t heed her advice. “No, Your Holiness. I can’t claim anything so bold.” I bent down so that I was eye to eye with the two winged angels, leaning along the bottom of my Sistine Madonna. “Do you know what inspired those two messy-haired little putti? They’re based on two boys I once saw, leaning in the window of a baker’s shop, watching bread rise. They weren’t the ones baking the bread, and they weren’t even eating it. They were just watching, in awe of its creation. Artists are like those boys in that baker’s shop window—aren’t we?—like the two putti at the bottom of this painting. It’s not our job to make miracles, and we don’t always get to taste them for ourselves. But as artists, it is our job to witness miracles and capture them in paint, so that others can believe. My painting is not a miracle, Your Holiness, but I’ll count myself lucky if you think I’ve captured even the reflection of one.”

Chigi clasped his hands. Leonardo winked. Evangelista was teary-eyed; he looked everywhere except at me. “That was a moving presentation,” said Pope Leo. “And we do always appreciate signor Chigi’s shows. But,”—he shook his head sadly—“we have no intention of making the decision about which artwork survives. Although we do promise to honor Raphael’s request to keep the paintings on these walls”—he spread his arms wide—“as for the rest, we’re going to allow our new papal architect to decide what stays and what goes.”

The room felt as if it lost its air. Chigi’s shoulders dropped. Margherita lowered her tondo. Leonardo shook his head. Michelangelo, on the other hand, seemed to inhale all of that energy. His jaw clenched as his eyes darted from piece to piece— which would he keep? Any of them? I had started to formulate a speech—trying to come up with something to win him over— when his gaze landed on my portrait of his murdered friend, Cardinal Alidosi, and his features darkened. Chigi had miscalculated. Before this show, some of this work might’ve been saved, but now, it was all in the Vatican, open to judgment and destruction. Soon, it would all be gone. I bowed my head and reminded myself to breathe. It didn’t matter, I told myself. I would paint and paint and paint, and no matter how many pieces the world destroyed, I would paint more. Michelangelo couldn’t stop that.

His Holiness said, “All we want to know from our new papal architect is should we keep or cut down . . .”

My throat tightened as I wondered which of my paintings he would name first. The Sistine Madonna? My miracles? My perfect Philosophy?

But pope said, “The Sistine ceiling.”

I looked up.