I considered writing to Michelangelo, but he was all the way down in Rome, and why would he read a letter from me? I petitioned the city to post a guard, but while officials debated, the cartoon continued to disappear. When I was there, no one touched it; it was only when I left to sleep, eat, wash, or relieve myself that pieces of the cartoon vanished. Was it one person taking it piece by piece or different artists each pocketing a scrap? (I want you to repeat this next part to Michelangelo, word for word; write it down if you must. When I copy another artist, yes, I replicate the lines, but I do it with the intention of improving upon what they’ve done. Replicating someone else’s work without the intention of adding your own touch is time burnt up as smoke. Only by using it to create something new does practice become creative. Sì, I combine elements from Perugino, Pinturicchio, Leonardo, and Michelangelo to create something closer to perfection, but it’s still mine, so the constant accusation of theft is hurtful. I never would’ve stolen his cartoon. Copies, by me or anyone else, can’t capture his pulsating lines, sinuous rhythms, his soul. No. Those are gone. Forever.)

One day, I entered the Great Hall to find Leonardo standing in front of where Michelangelo’s cartoon once hung. There wasn’t one scrap of jagged paper left. Leonardo said, “You should’ve taken a souvenir when you had the chance.”

“Was it you?” I asked.

“I don’t need his scraps. But the others . . .” Leonardo raised his palms to the sky. “Admiration does strange things to men.”

“This world takes art as thoughtlessly as life,” I muttered and sat down to draw again, this time only copying a memory.

I felt Leonardo watch me pull up both sleeves, roll my wrist, and begin putting careful lines on my page. He crossed to get a closer look. “Try a bit more there . . .,” he said.

“Like this?”

“Fish don’t swim by softly caressing the water. They swim by pushing against it.”

I adored that man, but sometimes his brain was three steps sideways. “Cosa?”

Leonardo took my hand and pressed my chalk firmly against the page. “Delicacy doesn’t always come from a light touch.” He guided my hand for a couple of strokes and then let go.

I imitated his pressure a few times, but . . . “I’m not close, am I?”

“Closer.”

“But not perfect.”

“Not yet.” Leonardo sat down. “What are you still doing here, Young Sparrow? Florence is setting like the moon after a long night, and it’s time for another to rise in its place. Perugino, Pinturicchio, Signorelli, Michelangelo, they’re all working down in Rome . . .”