“Michelange . . .” The studio was a mess: carving tools, drawings, chalk, paper, pieces of stone, clay models, all covered in a layer of white marble dust. He wasn’t there—there was no one in there—but I could still feel his pulsating, frustrated energy, a fury of work. The only escape from work was a small wooden crucifix hanging on one wall, but from the looks of those straining muscles, he’d even carved that, too. I started searching for my sketchbook, picking through piles of papers on tables, on shelves, in boxes, on the windowsill. And that’s when I spotted Michelangelo, down in the square below, walking through his forest of marble, headed back toward the studio. If he found me in there, trespassing without permission . . .

I quickly closed and locked the door and then looked for an escape, but all I could see were sculpting hammers—one on the table, another in the chair, two on the floor. My head ached as I imagined them cracking through my skull. One glance out the window told me it was too far up to jump. There was a second door on the other side of the room, but it was locked. I needed a key. Where had he hidden it? Doorjamb, floorboard, windowsill . . . No, no, no. The door below banged, and those unmistakable work boots clomped up the stairs. At least he was slow and deliberate about stair climbing.

This second door was an escape, an escape, an escape . . . Sì certo, an escape! Sure enough, there was a key hanging behind that crucifix. My hands shook as his footsteps came closer and closer, but I turned the lock before he reached the top step. I opened the door to find a dark corridor. No windows, no torches, and I didn’t have time to light one. Where did this hallway lead? Was there any way out the other end? Michelangelo’s key slipped in the front door. I tossed my key under the crucifix, hoping he would think it fell there, and as the front door opened, I pulled the door closed behind me and was encased in darkness. I had no choice but to head down that corridor, blindly, and hope the Fates were still on my side.

Chapter XII

Chapter XII

You know how if you move your eyes all the way to one side, you can see your brow curve into the bridge of your nose? Now, look down and you can see a ghosted outline of the tip of your nose, and beyond that, your chest. That passageway was so dark that I couldn’t see any of that. I raised my arm up . . . Nothing. And that was the arm with the sleeve still attached, a shimmering cream color that I should’ve been able to see . . . Maria Vergine, to go blind and never see color again.