“But I doubt you have the talent to succeed there.”

Royals always appreciate humility—don’t they?—so I responded, “Even a tiny spark of talent can burst into a mighty flame, Your Excellency.”

“The problem is,” the duke sneered, “I doubt you have even a spark.”

I kept my features calm as I flipped through my sketchbook, searching for a drawing good enough to convince the duke of my ability to make a raging fire.

“Your portrait of me . . .” The duke’s throat sounded tight.

I stopped flipping. So that was the problem . . .

“It’s terrible!” he exclaimed.

I turned toward him with shoulders square. “I was only twenty, but unlike you, not so capable so early.”

His eyes narrowed. “If you become famous, that wretched portrait will become famous.”

I almost told him that no matter how famous I became no one would ever care about that wretched portrait, but, instead, I said, “That portrait will be famous regardless of me, Your Excellency, for you are its subject, and people will always care about you.”

“That’s true,” he sniffed. “I could get over the no-talent thing . . .”

I smiled hard enough to show off both dimples.

“. . . if I thought you could represent me properly in my uncle’s court.”

Palm over my heart, I said, “Your reputation is safe. My contemporaries hold me up as the ideal courtier, perfect countenance, perfect politeness, perfect . . .”

“I don’t care about your manners.” He said the word as though speaking of something as trivial as girls rolling hoops in a garden. “I need to know if you’re loyal to Urbino. To me.”

“Sì certo, your Excellen—”

“If I send you to Rome, you must make me a promise.” He took a clanging step forward. His armor gleamed; had he polished it that morning?

And I replied, “Anything.”

He opened his armored fist to reveal a vial.

I picked it up and held it to the light. The powder inside was white. “Is it gypsum or . . . ?”

“Arsenic.”

I dropped the vial of poison to the floorboards.

“Pick it up.” He clanged his fist on the top of his helmet, sitting on a stool, underscoring that he had an entire army of soldiers at his command, while I only had an army of brushes.

I did as ordered but dropped the vial onto the table and rubbed my shaking hand against my pants. Was my leg burning? Could poison eat through pants?

“I want you to finish the job Bramante couldn’t,” the duke said. “Michelangelo.”

I may have taken a step backward or run my fingers through my hair, I don’t remember, except that I felt very confused. “I don’t understand, you want me to finish one of Michelangelo’s sculpting jobs or . . . ?”