Michelangelo? I’d never been in the same room with the sculptor before. Ignoring the advice of Sarto and Ghirlandaio (the day I start listening to Sarto is the day I pick out my own sarcophagus), I’d stopped by Michelangelo’s studio several times to try to cajole him into letting me study his designs, but he wasn’t one to invite people in for soup. Once, I approached him in the market, waving a few drawings Leonardo had lent to me—“you can study the competition,” I tempted—but Michelangelo glared and said he didn’t want anything to do with “the cavolo who stole from Perugino.” Although I found it encouraging that he’d heard of me, I’d made no progress toward seeing his designs.

I shifted behind the tarp to get a better look. The second man was wearing a blue cape with gold stars—the cape belonging to the head of Florence’s Republican government, Gonfaloniere Piero Soderini. Have you met him? Bald, round eyes; picture a pigeon in a cape.

“You don’t understand what you’re asking.” Michelangelo sounded like a wounded boy.

And Soderini replied, “I know you didn’t bring that cartoon down here for nothing.”

I clasped my hand over my mouth to keep from gasping out loud. His cartoon was here? I dropped down silently to the floor, lay on my stomach, and slid forward to peek under the tarp. There were Michelangelo’s shoes: heavy brown work boots covered in mud and marble dust. And sure enough, down by his side was a long roll of paper. Queen of Heaven . . . His designs.

Soderini dropped his voice to a paternal tone. “Son, we’re alone. You can trust me.”

There was more back-and-forth, but Michelangelo’s quarreling always gets a little tedious—doesn’t it?—so let’s skip to when he finally relented and started unrolling his designs. He handled his drawing as carefully as if it were thin gold leaf, and Soderini watched the cartoon unfold as intently as I.

Sofia whispered, “Dai, they aren’t looking, dai, dai.”

I waved her off.

Soderini looked down at the unfurled drawing and murmured, “Miraculous.”

From my position on the floor, I couldn’t see even one line of that drawing, so I hopped up and quickly climbed the scaffolding. Don’t roll it up, don’t roll it up, don’t roll it up. Sofia grabbed my foot, but I kicked off her hand. The wood creaked, but I kept going. The top of the scaffolding wasn’t covered by a tarp, so I had to lie flat to look over the edge.

At first, I could only see one corner of the drawing, done in brown chalk and black ink: bulging calf, grasping hand, twisted knee. Was the figure naked? Was he pushing himself up off the ground? Another naked man was bending over. A third lunged. What was going on?