Virgil! He would’ve been good, too. Since my tongue had apparently decamped for the night, I did the only thing I could: pulled a stub of chalk out of my vest and—no paper available—picked up the round end of the wooden barrel that the lady had used as a shield against those wolves and crouched down to draw. I usually start with the shape of a person’s face, but—as she marched toward me, rage flushing up her cheeks—I started with her eyes: gently curving ovals bulging like eggs peeking out of feathers in a nest; swooping lids; fine bristles of lashes; smoky shadows whispering around the edges of . . .

She snatched the board out of my hands and said, “What’s wrong? Never seen a puttana before?” But then she looked down at my sketch. Her lips parted. (They’re full and pink and tempting as peach meat.) She blinked. (Her irises are the center of a sunflower—rich, warm brown brightened with gold.) The color faded from her cheeks. (Her unblushing skin is alabaster with a thin glaze of amber.) She pushed her wet hair off her forehead. (In that dim light, it was brown as peat, but on a sunny day, it flares bright as bronze.) Her eyes found mine. I didn’t flash an amorous smile. I didn’t raise an eyebrow. I didn’t reach for poets. I held her gaze steady. Silently, she handed the board back to me. She sat down, her yellow skirt floating around her in a pool of cold water. I sat down, too. I took my time capturing every turn of skin, every shadow along every ridge, every strand of hair falling along her face. I caught the ruffle of her yellow dress curving off her shoulders, the folds of her gown, the ribbons, her fingers . . .

Mi dispiace, I’m not supposed to be talking about this; I’ve made promises. She says that my story without her isn’t the way things are, but the way things are supposed to be, and I understand that, but regardless, there is no version in which I’m the hero without her. Basta.

I don’t know when the rain stopped. I don’t know when the blue night turned purple, pink, gold. I don’t know when we heard the first wagon roll past.

“The priests will be here soon.” She gathered up her cloak and the round end of the barrel, bearing my drawing of her face. “I should make sure you get home safely.” She offered her arm, and I took it. “Where shall I escort you?” she asked.

And I answered, “The Vatican.”

I swear she bit her lip. She swears she gave no reaction to my revelation.