As the pope walked away, two guards stepped on either side of me, and I blurted at Michelangelo, “Why did he call this your ceiling? Are you putting the pope’s tomb on the ceiling?”

“You’re a fool,” Bramante grumbled and trudged away.

Michelangelo called up, “How long before it’s ready for paint?”

“Two, three days?” called down a voice.

“Maria Vergine,” I said, my stomach dropping like Icarus, my own wax wings melting in the sun. “You’re not putting marble on that ceiling. You’re painting it.”

As the guards hauled me away, Michelangelo said, “I am.” Then he tucked my sketchbook into his satchel and fastened the flap over it.

“My sketchbook,” I said, but the guards were already dragging me out. My heart ached, not only at being escorted out of the Vatican or the loss of my sketches or even my failure to secure the ceiling commission for myself, but with the awful realization that Michelangelo was once again to be a painter.

Chapter XI

Chapter XI

I just don’t understand how he got the Sistine,” I said, following Bramante through his humming construction site.

“I made sure of it,” he replied, flicking his hand to send workers this way and that, like a conductor directing a chorus.

“But why?” I was twirling my father’s old paintbrush furiously.

“To get him off the tomb.”

“But why?”

“So I can have his marble.”

“Why do you want his marble?”

“For my church.” Bramante extended his arms, gesturing to the bustling construction site of new St. Peter’s Basilica.