Midnight Angels by Lorenzo Carcaterra

1494, and ending twenty-four hours later. It was a warm and humid summer afternoon, and she and Professor Edwards walked slowly past the Great Lawn of New York’s Central Park, munching on soft toasted pretzels bought from a Sabrette vendor.
    Michelangelo had been seventeen on the day in question and still mourning the recent death of his benefactor, friend, and the man closest to his heart—Lorenzo the Magnificent. The snowstorm had brought Florence to a halt, thick mounds of white covering every street and rooftop. An emissary from the palace was dispatched to the home of Michelangelo’s father on Via Bentaccordi, sent there by Piero de’ Medici, newlydesignated as Lorenzo’s successor. Michelangelo listened to the messenger’s words and then tossed over his shoulders a thick purple cloak, a gift from Lorenzo, and trudged through the heavy snow to the de’ Medici Palace.
    Forty-five minutes later, he stood before Piero, barely a man himself at twenty, and was asked to go outside and build a statue of a man made of snow in the family’s honor. A sad-eyed Michelangelo stared at Piero in silence for several moments before nodding his head and reluctantly accepting the assignment.
    “Why would Piero ask him to do something so stupid?” Kate asked.
    “It only sounds stupid if we look back on it,” Edwards said. “But in those days, it was an accepted custom to have sculptors design statues in the snow. In much the same way, painters were asked to make banners for the numerous processions and tournaments that took place throughout the country.”
    “But why call Michelangelo to do the job?” she asked. “I mean, you don’t need to be a genius to build a snowman.”
    “There were a number of reasons, and all of them left Michelangelo no choice but to accept the challenge,” Edwards said. “First, he was the family sculptor, which pretty much meant it was his job to do as he was asked. Second, with Lorenzo’s death, Michelangelo was forced to move out of the palace and back in with his father.”
    “And what was so wrong with that?” Kate asked. “Didn’t he love his father?”
    “I’m sure he did,” Edwards said. “But all the same, it would play to Michelangelo’s advantage that he live within the walls of the palace, which meant he would need to design a snowman that would please his new master, Piero.”
    “Did he?”
    “What do you think?” Edwards asked, smiling down at the girl, her cheeks red from the warmth of the day, her eyes bright and brimming with curiosity.
    He marveled at the ways in which her young mind was evolving. She was always questioning, never shy about voicing her opinions, and, rare for a child her age, was not only quick to respond to a good story but also eager to wrap her thoughts around the different meanings it might carry. Edwards did all he could to feed her intellectual hunger, from museumvisits to trips to the local library, where Kate would devour everything from picture books to Nancy Drew novels. She loved stories and art, and he took great pains to nurture that part of her, understanding that by doing so he was also teaching her about her parents. Which is why Kate, above all else, loved to hear stories about Michelangelo. The man known throughout his life as the Divine One was the most direct connection between the young girl and the mother and father she would only know through memory.
    “I think he went outside and did as Piero asked,” Kate said.
    “And then some,” Edwards said. “He designed a statue so large and so magnificent that it brought out thousands of visitors from throughout the city, this despite the clogged streets and blocked trails. It also so pleased Piero that not only was Michelangelo invited back to live in the palace again, he was given an honored seat at the de’ Medici dinner table.”
    “How long did the statue stay up?” she asked.
    “Even the great Michelangelo was no match for a spring thaw,” Edwards said. “His work