Outside, the sky was so clear it was sea blue, and the air tasted poststorm—crisp and grassy—and a breeze of lavender blew in from some distant hill as children splashed in the freshly flowing Tiber. Half-a-block from the Vatican, she said, “You should be safe from the wolves from here.”

“From the four-legged kind, at least.”

“I would’ve pegged you as a talented shepherd of the two-legged sort.”

“The Roman breed has an unusually sharp bite. Are you sure you don’t want to escort me inside and chase them away?”

“Do you always need someone to rescue you?”

“Ah . . . No?”

“Good. Because you won’t last long in Rome if you wait around for someone else to save you.” She kissed me on the cheek. Even after our night out, she smelled of honeysuckle.

She held out the end of the barrel, but I waved it off. “It’s yours. To remember me by,” I said, and she tucked the board under her arm. “Wait,” I called as she walked away.

She paused and turned her head halfway back to give me the most perfect view of her perfect profile cast against a perfect blue sky.

“I’m Raphael Santi, painter from Urbino.”

“Margherita Luti. Lady from . . . Rome.”

“Where might I pay you a visit? Margherita Luti?” Even her name is splendid, isn’t it?

“Even if I tell Imperia”—she dragged that name out long enough that its meaning became clear—“that you’re my brother, she’ll still demand coin.”

I didn’t let my voice crack with the disappointment that my purse—for now—was empty. No, I kept my tone light and confident when I said, “Tell Imperia that she should demand as much gold as made up the statue of Zeus at Olympia because every visit with you is surely worth more than a Wonder of the World.”

“If I could take that golden tongue of yours as payment, I would.”

I watched her go—amber hair curling halfway down her back—until she disappeared around a corner, and then I marched back into the Vatican. I no longer needed to impress the pope and win a commission and secure a payment and beat Michelangelo for such trivial things as my safety and my career and my ego and my hopes and my promises. No. Now, I needed to win . . . for her.

Chapter XIX

Chapter XIX

Bazzi?” I said, mounting the scaffolding.

He crinkled his nose at my appearance: I hadn’t yet changed into fresh clothes or dug my extra pair of shoes out of my trunk, still in Bramante’s rooms. I was barefoot and no doubt stank. “How many times do I have to tell you, it’s Sodoma. Sodoma, Sodoma, Sodoma.”

“Dai, mio amico, dai. I’ll oblige from here on out, I swear . . . if . . .” I slid closer and whispered, “You take me downstairs, to where no one else ever goes . . .”