Cardinal Alidosi seconded, “She’s right. The young Urbinite’s work will stand out too much and destroy the flow of the rooms.”

I should’ve responded, but my tongue refused to parry.

“I’ve taught the boy,” Perugino added. “And I can attest that while he’s good at copying, he’s never been able to adjust to match his collaborators.”

I’m fairly certain that’s when I stopped breathing.

“Adjust how, Perugino,” came a voice over the crowd. “By lowering his work to yours?”

One of the pope’s eyebrows raised, and he turned—with the rest of us—to stare at the latest speaker: Michelangelo.

“That young painter’s too nice to say it,” Michelangelo continued, striding forward, the crowd stepping out of his way like waves before the prow of a galleon. “But the only reason his work stands out is because it’s so much better than the rest of this outdated dribble. Are we to silence those who pull us into modernity? Prize safety over innovation? You can’t fire someone for being too good, Your Holiness.”

Gasps swept through the crowd fast as Hermes. During my lifetime, Florence had always been at the top of the pack culturally, artistically, financially—perhaps not militarily, but everything else. I’d never heard any Florentine give any credit to any citizen of any other city-state, duchy, or kingdom. And why should they? What would they gain by praising such lowly competitors? We were the ones chasing them.

Bramante—the proudest Urbinite in the room—immediately pounced on the Florentine’s misstep. “So, you, Michelangelo Buonarroti of Florence, are willing to admit that the best painter in the Vatican is Raphael Santi of Urbino?”

Michelangelo pulled back his shoulders. “He’s the best in these rooms, but he’ll never be the best in the Vatican. Not as long as I’m here.”

Pope Julius rapped his walking stick against the marble floor and, loud as Zeus’s thunder, declared, “I agree with Cardinal Alidosi.”

Everyone fell silent. I dropped my chin. What good was keeping up appearances now?

“The young man’s work is far too distinctive,” the pope went on. “As long as he’s painting beside the others, there will be no flow, no harmony, and no consistency in these rooms.”

Cardinal Alidosi straightened his collar smugly. Felice flashed a smile.

“Therefore, Raphael Santi of Urbino, I have no choice but to fire . . .”

Bramante shook his head. Perugino widened his shoulders. Michelangelo shoved his hands deep into his pockets.

“Everyone except you,” said the pope.

My breath caught. What?

“Cosa?” Perugino said, echoing my thoughts.

“Raphael,” the pope said, turning his gaze on me. In this light, his eyes no longer looked black as onyx, but a warm tawny brown. “You have put the loveliest woman I’ve ever seen on our ceiling, and we want more. These rooms—all of them . . .” He held out his ring. “Are yours.”