“When you change your mind.” He shrugged and departed.

My hand came away from my neck with a spot of blood. Salome! I’d never shaved myself before. Have you? I needed to swipe a sharper knife from Perugino’s toolbox. Too bad Evangelista hadn’t sent one of those. Or food. At least Bramante’s maid had handed me a kerchief of half-eaten cheese and figs that morning. During our first encounter under a table in the kitchen, I’d told her a bit about my financial troubles. She’d been slipping me Bramante’s leftovers ever since. But no matter how generous she was, an unmarried maid living with her parents in a single room couldn’t help me with my most pressing problem: I needed a new place to stay. Over the next several days, I hinted to the other painters that I needed a bed, but no one offered, and since they were already trying to sabotage my plaster mix, I hated to think what they might do to me in my sleep.

On Friday, Bramante was waiting again. “In Rome, landlords troll the streets for tenants.”

I suppose I could’ve admitted the truth of my financial predicament, but during your first weeks in the Vatican, would you admit to such a thing? “Did I neglect to tell you?” I said. “I found a place. I’m leaving tonight. I only need to leave my trunk in your room until I can find a boy to help me move it tomorrow.”

“I’ll expect an invitation to dinner soon.”

“Give me a few days to secure a chef worthy of your palate.”

Moments later, with only the small workbag Evangelista had thankfully sent slung over my shoulder, I was pacing outside the Sistine. I’m small, Michelangelo, I’ll hardly need any space. A simple pallet. I could sleep in a chair. On the scaffolding. I could dust his studio, prepare his meals, help him make preparatory sketches. The best artist among his assistants (he had dozens of them, milling about the chapel, all Florentine) was Francesco Granacci, a middling painter, at best, and his drawing skills are . . . Beh, Granacci’s a nice enough fellow. I’m only saying that Michelangelo could use a strong draughtsman.

The door banged open and out marched Michelangelo. When he saw me, he glared. “If you’re waiting for me to leave so you can sneak up my scaffolding again, I’ve posted guards.”

How did he know about . . . ? Never mind. I didn’t have time to worry about it. “I need a favor.” The whine in my tone must’ve sounded desperate because he paused. “I need . . .” A place to stay, money, help. Say something. Anything. “The recipe for plaster.”

“What?”

“The others won’t give me a recipe for a plaster mix that works well in Rome. I’m accustomed to painting in oils on wood, so . . .”