“No.” The painter had a glitter in his eye, and not the fire of inspiration I’d seen as his chalk flew in the papal apartments and Giulia-as-Persephone emerged on the page. “I have prayed upon it, Madonna Giulia, and I cannot ignore the dictates of conscience. Even for the Holy Father, I cannot sully my paints upon”—looking at her fur-lined robe, the hair she had packed into a net so it could be easily shaken down for her sitting—“lewd subjects,” the painter finished.

“Now, really,” Giulia said, exasperated. “Why am I suddenly the lewd one? I didn’t want to be painted at all, much less with my clothes off, but now suddenly it’s all my fault?”

“I do apologize,” Maestro Botticelli mumbled. “I will write to the Holy Father in explanation—excuse me—” And he shut the door in our faces.

“Artists,” Giulia huffed, and kicked her robe out in a swirl as she stamped away from the rickety overhanging apartments with their crooked rooflines and the gutters with a dirty crust of old snow. “It’s a very fine line with them, isn’t it? Either you’re a great artistic inspiration, or you’re a tempting menace!”

“Why the pique?” I didn’t bother speeding my steps to keep up with her stamping; Madonna Giulia always slowed without being asked when she realized she was outpacing me. Two stolid guards tramped behind us, looking quite disconsolate that they weren’t to see the Bride of Christ shed her clothes this afternoon after all. “You didn’t want to finish the painting in the first place, after all.”

“There is that,” she conceded, and paused to let me catch up, smiling. Her fits of exasperation never lasted long. “Goodness, a free afternoon instead of sitting naked in a cold studio. Shall we go buy some of those tasty little roast pigeon things from the vendor by the old bridge? I always eat when I’m at loose ends. Or shall we catch a look at this pyre they’re building in the Piazza della Signoria? I hear it’s going to be twice as tall as a man!”