Next, the pope’s eyes softened—as well they should—when alighting on the beauty of Pinturicchio’s brushwork. With a dark glare, Cardinal Alidosi leaned in to whisper, but the pope waved him away. I was about to exhale—at least Pinturicchio would be spared humiliation—when Felice leaned in to whisper to the pope. This time, His Holiness nodded at her. “Bernardino di Betto?” I’d never heard anyone call Pinturicchio by his given name. Never. “We hear you’ve been frequenting a certain villa owned by that Imperia woman,” the pope said.

My ears perked at that name. Imperia. That was the name my Margherita had dropped.

“A man needs a release at times, Your Holiness,” replied Pinturicchio, trying to give off a feeling of ease, although his cheek reddened. “I am, after all, not a priest.”

We all tittered. Seeing a courtesan certainly wasn’t a reproach-able sin—not in any court I’d ever attended.

“But,” the pope said, his gaze uncomfortably dark. “We heard that you have brought such a lady into the halls of this very palace.”

Perugino’s hand flew up over his mouth. Cardinals shook heads. Lorenzo Lotto dropped his face into his hands. I could imagine how a pope’s painter openly bringing such women into the Vatican could be a scandal, but I didn’t expect what came next: “You’re relieved of papal service,” said the pope. “You’re at liberty to collect your things.”

My heart hiccuped, but I tried my best to keep my face calm. The apartments fell heavily silent. Somehow, Pinturicchio found the will to bow. “Thank you for the opportunity to serve my Church, Your Holiness. Your will be done.”

Felice whispered in her father’s ear again, and the pope added, “On your way out, please remember to reimburse the treasury for all materials used.”

“Yes, Your Holiness,” said Pinturicchio. “It shall be my honor.”

I don’t know what happened to the color of my skin, but at least I refrained from slapping a hand over my mouth in horror. We had to pay back what we’d used in materials if we were fired? How much gold leaf had I slathered on that tiny tondo? A year’s— maybe two years’—salary? I’d heard rumors about merchants who shirked on debts to the pope. A season in the belly of Castel Sant’Angelo was the most promising scenario.