As Bramante bounced on his toes obliviously, I wished I could disappear into one of the chapel’s frescoes, perhaps become an onlooker in Signorelli’s Testament of Moses. That would be nice. Instead, I had to stand there as Pope Julius wrinkled his nose at my appearance and said, “Are artists today not taught to dress?”

I smiled bright as able and did what any good courtier would do: divert attention away from the social awkwardness and put the focus on something else. “Your Holiness, you must forgive my colleague”—I raised my chin toward Michelangelo—“his temper may offend, but it’s that same spirit that gives his work such life.”

Michelangelo exchanged an incredulous look with Cardinal de’ Medici, and the pope lowered his walking stick and said, “Indeed. And how do you two know each other?”

“I . . . I . . .,” the sculptor stammered, studying my face.

Please don’t remember me, please don’t remember me. Feigning deference, I tucked my head down, hoping to cloak my features in shadow. “The maestro has no reason to remember me, Your Holiness,” I said. “By colleagues, I only mean that we were both artists in Florence at the same time. I was quite young, only managing my bottega then. He had no reason to notice me. I had yet to paint for the d’Este family, nor the Oddi or Colonna, the Baglioni or . . .”

Off that list of credits, the pope held out his bony hand, offering me his holy ring. I knelt, kissed it, and said, “I present myself as a humble servant in hopes that Your Holiness will bestow upon me some wood or wall so that I might make a slice of the world a little more beautiful.” I stood again. “Your Holiness has shown superior taste in hiring the Florentine, so, if you’ll allow the impertinence, I would like very much to show you how I can accomplish in paint what he can do in marble.” I held out my sketchbook.

“We believe we should enjoy such an impertinence,” the pope said.

I averted my eyes—don’t you find that royals always prefer when you look away first?—but as I went to place my notebook into the pope’s long, unfurled fingers, Michelangelo snatched my sketchbook out of the holy hand.

My eyes jerked up to meet the sculptor’s gaze, and there I found one of the most terrifying things I’d ever seen: recognition. “Get out of my chapel.”

The pope said, “We believe we would like to see the lad’s trifles.”

“Your Holiness, this man is a thief.” A blue vein in Michelangelo’s forehead throbbed.

The pope’s eyes flicked to me.

I lowered my lashes. “Only a devoted student.”

“I once had to chase him out of my private workspace with a marble hammer for spying on my designs,” Michelangelo snapped.