I couldn’t. It was too large.

But would she notice a missing page?

I shuffled papers, making just enough noise to cover the sound of tearing the page out, which wasn’t difficult—it was already loose, the binding weak. Folded it quickly and stuffed it into my backpack, wedging it down behind my laptop. I slid my yellow legal pad on top and let out a breath. I looked up to see Chiara back at her post.

Had she seen me do it?

I glanced up at the ceiling, at the cameras in the corners of the room—I had completely forgotten about them. My back was toward them, but had they recorded my act of thievery?

I closed the journal as casually as possible, put it into the Duccio carton, covered it with folders and papers, and carried it to the front desk, along with Guggliermo’s carton. I offered Chiara my practiced smile, then turned and headed out of the room, backpack under my arm, conscious to walk at a normal pace, but my heart was hammering.

At the door, evil stepsister Griselda stopped me as usual. I handed over the backpack, chatting about the weather and the newest strikes and anything else that came to my mind while she unzipped it and dipped her hand inside. I kept up a steady stream of talk, sweat inching its way down my back.

She seemed to be taking forever.

The other scholar joined the queue behind me, a stack of books in his arms, puffing and sighing with impatience until Griselda finally removed her hand from my backpack to check his books and waved us both through.

I could have kissed the guy. I closed my backpack, careful to steady my shaking hand, went through the X-ray machine and out the door.

There were a few monks in the courtyard, but I didn’t stop to chat. Backpack securely in place, I headed across Piazza San Lorenzo, feeling too much like my teenage self after shoplifting, or worse. I reminded myself to slow down, to act normal.

On the east side of the piazza, I chose the shadowy less-traveled street that led away from the Duomo. Halfway down it, I had a thought, got my cell phone out, and made the call.

“Musée du Louvre,” the operator said.

I asked for the curator of Renaissance painting.

When the curator got on the line, I listed my credentials—degrees, teaching, grants, awards, articles, more than a few embellished and exaggerated, but it worked. The curator agreed to let me into the museum on a day it was closed to tourists, the day after tomorrow. I immediately booked a flight to Paris.

I had done it, stolen the page to study it on my own. In another day, I’d be studying the painting itself. Maybe I’d see something in it that would connect to what I’d been reading. I leaned back against a building, my adrenaline starting to ebb, and had a thought I hadn’t had in years: I need a drink.