“By orders of the duke,” a servant said and kept walking.

Another servant carrying a garish gold mirror into the palace said, “He’s looking for you.”

“Where?”

“The workshop.”

“Grazie mille.” I dusted off my tawny breeches (I’d changed into mourning browns before entering the city) and set off to present myself to the new duke.

I’d known Francesco Maria for years. When I was twenty (he must’ve been—what? Fourteen?), I was hired to paint his portrait in honor of him being named the duke’s successor. At the time, I was proud of that commission, but now . . . ? The figure is flat and awkward, the composition static, and that fur-lined coat is so lackluster it makes me cringe. But do you know what annoys me most about that painting? That apple. Francesco Maria insisted on holding it, even though it had nothing to do with Urbino, his family, or any dukedom. I tried to get him to hold an acorn to represent the della Rovere family crest, but no. “I like apples!” I was in no position to argue with a future duke, so I smiled and dutifully added the nonsensical fruit. When Duke Guidobaldo asked me about it later, I made up some tale about how it represented his nephew growing into a fruitful leader. He liked the story, so it stuck, but after that I didn’t much trust Francesco Maria’s judgment. Five years later, was he still the kind of man who illogically demanded apples?

I found Evangelista, who still ran my father’s workshop— scusa, my workshop—in Urbino while I was away, pacing in the courtyard outside of the studio while a crowd of worried-looking, young assistants watched on. One glance at Evangelista told me something was wrong. I always know when he has a hard truth to tell; he’ll look anywhere—floor, sky, black hair on his arms—to avoid looking at me. It’s only when he’s lying that he looks me in the eye. That day, he stared at his shuffling feet when he said, “He won’t let me in. He has our tools, our paintings. Everything is in there. Everything.”

The crowd of assistants looked to me.

Trying to sound unconcerned, I answered, “What’s he going to do? Declare our paintings the property of the duchy and send us away?”

Evangelista rubbed his beard. He didn’t have to respond. The duke was a duke; he could do anything he liked.