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resisted and they spread the false rumor about her adultery . . . ?”
    â€œShe was brought to trial and convicted because the elders claimed they saw her fornicate with a young man in a garden.” Graziela sat back on a low wooden box and brushed the dirt off her hands. “She was sentenced to death, but at the last minute Daniel demanded to know, of each elder separately, under what tree in the garden had she committed adultery. One of the elders said it was an oak, and the other said it was a mastic. That proved that at least one of them was lying. They were both put to death for false testimony.”
    â€œAnd so Susanna was saved?”
    â€œYes.” Graziela put the weeds in a pile and we rinsed ourhands in the stone water basin. “And you? What has happened for you?”
    â€œThere was no Daniel. I’ll have to wait until my Susanna becomes famous.”
    The tiniest breath of a sigh escaped her, and her dark eyebrows came closer together. Her mouth was puckered in an unpleasant expression, and her jaw protruded from her wimple farther than I’d ever noticed. We walked back through the cloisters, our heads down, thinking.
    I could say it. Right now I could say it—that I felt a calling. I wouldn’t have to go back. Graziela would tell Sister Paola and she would burst into song. I smiled inside at the thought of her excitement. But a life of painting tiny tendrils on the margins of prayer books—without boldness, without interpretation, without drama—that wasn’t for me.
    When the great bell rang for vespers, Graziela stopped and pulled back her shoulders. Her fist clenched the crucifix on her rosary. “Though it would pain me not to have you visit, you might have to leave Rome. If you do, don’t go out of any sense that you’re being hounded out of the city. Go because the city is too small for your genius.”
    â€œHere.” I put the stone in her hand with the crucifix. “I found it on the Via Appia. Maybe near where Peter saw Christ. It’s smooth enough to burnish the gold on the pages of the Psalter for your cardinal.”
    We stood in the darkened anteroom and held each other for a long moment.
    I went directly home.

    â€œI can’t live with you,” I said when I came in the door.
    â€œArtemisia, where have you been? I was worried. You can’t just go wandering around the city by yourself.”
    â€œWhat does it matter now that my reputation’s ruined?”
    He had already hung the painting in the main room and was sitting opposite it, drinking wine, his feet in velvet slippers on mother’s cushioned footstool.
    â€œI can’t live with you as if nothing has happened, the painting back on the wall in a happy household. You betrayed me! My own father. You took away any chance to restore my virtue.”
    He scowled. “No. I—”
    â€œGetting a painting back was more important to you than my honor. To you, I’m a person of no consequence.”
    â€œThat’s not true.” His hand trembled. Some wine spilled on the table.
    â€œAgostino’s free now. How do you think I’ll feel here at home while you go off every day to paint with him for some cardinal who pays no attention to legal judgments?”
    â€œI thought you wanted it to be over.”
    â€œIt won’t be over. Not with Agostino pardoned. That doesn’t exonerate me. It’s impossible for me even to stay in Rome.”
    â€œIn time, Artemisia—”
    â€œDo you think I want to face neighbors and shopkeepers every day who believe that pack of liars in court? What kind of life will I have here being a target for chamber pots being emptied?” He reached out to hold my arm. I pulled away. “You think about that until the food runs out. Don’t assume I’m going to face ridicule and scorn every time I go out to shop for food for my dearest papa.”
    â€œArtemisia,