“Gesù Cristo! When is anyone going to hear me that this is not a game? Not to me.” He pulled my sketchbook out of his bag and pressed it into my chest. I wrapped my arms around it and squeezed it close. Then, Michelangelo pushed past me and stalked away. We had stopped on the edge of the piazza outside his studio. After flipping through my sketchbook to make sure no drawings were missing, I watched him walk through his forest of marble, fingers slipping along each trunk, and . . . was he talking to the stones? He paused at one tall, gleaming rock and pressed his palm into the white marble flesh. His lips were moving; what was he saying? He leaned his face into the stone—had he kissed it?—and then he slouched over to the door leading up to his studio and shuffled inside. Once he was gone, I closed my eyes and listened carefully, but I couldn’t hear a thing. Only silence.

Chapter XIV

Chapter XIV

Thank the Magdalena that Bramante invited me to stay in his rooms in Vatican palace until I could secure an apartment of my own because I didn’t have a single soldo after those Orsini mercenaries stole my bag. (Have you ever been foolish enough to store all of your money in one place? You only do it once.) I couldn’t bear to write to Evangelista for funds; it only would’ve worried him. So, as Bramante showed me to my room that evening, I asked, as nonchalantly as possible, “When do we get paid, maestro?”

“Please don’t tell me that I’ve encouraged the pope to hire a”— Bramante’s nose scrunched as if whiffing rotten eggs—“struggling artist.”

“Of course not,” I replied. “Struggling. Can you imagine? No. I’m planning for my staff and considering bringing on a chef.”

“Bene,” Bramante shrugged. “When you unveil your work, you’ll get paid. As long as the pope is pleased. I’m going to the tavern for supper. You coming?”

“No. Grazie. Exhausted from the road.”