I borrowed a white tunic and pair of tights (worn but not ruined like mine) from Bramante’s steward, who also brought up a bowl for bathing and a bottle of rosewater. It took me the entire length of sunset—from first purpling to full moonlight—to pick all the grime from between my teeth and out from under my fingernails. I went to bed that night without eating. I couldn’t sleep. The bed was small, the wooden frame creaked, the sheet was too thin. Yes, I’d had a couple of victories that day—impressing the pope, landing a job in the papal apartments—but my defeats loomed larger: Michelangelo had the Sistine, Michelangelo was a favorite of the pope, Michelangelo was a painter . . . I rubbed my neck, my arms, my temples, but I couldn’t get those images of Michelangelo’s Florentine City Hall cartoon out of my head. If he put something like that up in the Sistine, how would I ever catch him? I stretched one leg, then the other. I got out of bed to pace. The view from my window was nothing but brick. I straightened a crucifix hanging on the wall, adjusted the room’s only chair to a more pleasing angle, and spent a good long while tidying the sketches in my notebook (Michelangelo had rifled through, even leaving a thumbprint or two behind, so don’t let him tell you that I’m the only one who likes to copy).

I didn’t plan on walking anywhere of import; if I had, I would’ve borrowed something more than a white tunic and tights. At least I might’ve put my shoes back on. I didn’t know my way around the Vatican yet, and even if I had known where to find the Sistine, I wouldn’t have gone—I only wanted a bit of air—but that’s where I ended up. The door wasn’t locked, so it’s not as though I had to break in.

The chapel was empty. The moon was full and the light coming in through those high windows was bright pewter, so I could see the ceiling from the floor. One half was obscured by Michelangelo’s scaffolding, but the other half glowed white in the moonlight. The ceiling wasn’t a clean rectangle or oval, but a wide, unruly spine with awkward triangles fanning out like the legs of a scorpion. Spandrels wedged into negative spaces. Semicircular lunettes capped windows. There was no architectural scheme or logic to the shape.