Maria Vergine, that’s what I do, isn’t it? All he does is make himself the hero of his own story—can I blame him for that?—but why do I insist on making him the hero of mine? How can I expect anyone else to say I’m the greatest painter in history, if I can’t say so myself? Is there a version where I get to be the hero? Or does he end the victor every time?

Chapter I

Chapter I

February 7, 1497

Florence

The first time I saw Michelangelo, I don’t remember seeing him, but he swears that we saw each other, and we’ve been ’round and ’round about this so many times that I don’t want to argue about it anymore. So, if you’ll do me a kindness, somewhere during this next part, insert his face and, if you get the chance, tell him that’s how I remember it because the only face that I recall clearly from that night is the face of that woman in that portrait landing in that fire.

She was painted in profile with wavy umber hair tied up in blue ribbons. Her dress was the color of opals—lime white softened with hints of indigo and red ocher. She was young, alluring, and so graceful . . . “Is that a Botticelli?” I asked.

“Andiamo,” Perugino said, voice so thick with fear that I would’ve painted it flat black.

“Why are they burning it?”

“Now. We have to go, now.”

“I’m going to save it.” I pulled my arm free and slipped through the crowd. I was only fourteen but already knew that there was no way to bring a thing back once it was destroyed.

It was crowded in Florence’s Piazza della Signoria that night. As I approached the fire, I had to strain to see the top of the flames—yellow with sparks of cinnabar—casting a devilish halo across the night sky. A line of men and women approached the bonfire, holding armfuls of . . . what? It was too smoky to see well, but once they stepped up to the flames, I could see a man tossing a lute into the fire, a boy throwing in a deck of playing cards, and a woman adding a pile of embroidered wool dresses; what would keep her warm come winter? After sacrificing, they dropped to their knees, raised their arms, and wailed as though they could— somehow—throw their voices into the fire, too.