I should’ve felt relieved—that unruly ceiling wasn’t my problem—but instead, I felt a crushing loss, and not only for me, but also for Michelangelo; he didn’t deserve such an ugly scorpion sting. That ceiling was supposed to be mine. And Michelangelo deserved to lose himself in his marble, same as the cardinals who entered that chapel to pick popes deserved to pray beneath a bloom of beauty. If Michelangelo kept the commission, he would rush the job to return to sculpting. He would ruin that ceiling. He would be lost, his marble would be lost, the ceiling would be lost, the chapel would be lost, the pope, cardinals, paint, perfection, me, all would be lost. But Michelangelo wasn’t going to give up the Sistine—even if it meant the whole world wasted—as long as maybe, possibly, hopefully it saved his marble. So, as I leaned against the wall and sank down to the cold floor, I saw that it was my job—no, my responsibility—to secure that chapel for myself and save us all.

Chapter XV

Chapter XV

I must’ve fallen asleep because I woke to a door creaking open. I rubbed my eyes. Were those footsteps? The light of a fitful torch? Where was I? Ah yes, sitting on the floor of the Sistine in nothing but a white tunic and stockings. I hoped the person entering wasn’t Michelangelo; he’d take my head for spying again. I looked around for a place to hide—a door, table, curtain—but there was nothing, not even a stray tarp. So, I pressed against the wall, held my breath, and looked down at my feet as though, if I didn’t look up, he wouldn’t be able to see me or my white tunic glowing in the moonlight.

Wood scraped against the floor; footsteps up a ladder; groaning scaffolding . . .

Had that worked? I opened my eyes. Yes, the torch and the figure were heading up toward the ceiling. Whoever it was hadn’t seen me. Not yet. Yes, I should’ve ducked out the door to avoid being caught, but there was a problem: that wasn’t Michelangelo. The figure didn’t have the right gait, the right heft, the right smell. If some other artist found an intruder skulking around my work in the middle of the night, I would hope they would investigate. “Michelangelo?” I called up. The figure stopped. “Michelangelo, is that you?” I peered through the scaffolding, but it was too shadowy to see. The person stood there, as if I couldn’t see the torch. “Are you an assistant?” I crossed to the ladder.

“Sì. Un assistente.” His voice was deep; I didn’t recognize it.

“What’s your name?” I called, my foot already on the bottom rung of the ladder.

“Jacopo.” Or at least it sounded like Jacopo; the word was mumbled.

I started climbing. “Did Michelangelo send you?”