Lair of the Lion

malignant, as if the very name of Rivellio summoned what was already twisted.
    Isabella shivered and looked around her, wanting to be out in the open where she could see any enemy approaching. At times, she had discovered, she felt surrounded by enemies.
    Violante shivered visibly, as if she, too, were affected by the very name of Rivellio. In her haste to leave the room, she moved too quickly and knocked a massive tome from the edge of a shelf. It slammed to the floor with a thud. Violante turned crimson and gave a mortified squeak.
    "I've done it more than once," Isabella said hastily, knowing how chagrined Violante became over the slightest social error. She stooped to retrieve the large book. It was heavier than she had anticipated, and it slipped from her fingers to land with a second loud thud.
    She laughed softly, wanting to dispel the tension in the room, but it swirled in her stomach persistently.
    She was more than happy to follow Violante out of the palazzo into the fresh, crisp air.
    Isabella inhaled deeply. The wind rustled through the trees, and the leaves glittered a beautiful silver. Branches swayed gently. The world seemed a dazzling place of silver and white. They followed the well worn path that led from the large castello, a nearly impregnable fortress, past the outer walls to the city of houses and shops. The marketplace felt familiar—the smells and sights, the stalls, the narrow steps and small courtyards where people gathered to talk and to trade items of interest. Rows of buildings sprawled in every direction, creating a tight-knit community of people who lived and worked in or near the castello.
    Isabella wistfully watched some children playing, throwing snow at one another. She had never done such a thing, and it looked like great fun. She stood a moment watching.
    "Where I grew up, we didn't have snow. Did you play like that, Violante, when you were a child?"
    "Sometimes. Mostly mia madre refused to let me go outside with the others. It was important to her to choose my friends." She, too, was watching the children, a look of longing on her face.
    Isabella looked around carefully to ensure no adults stood nearby. Then she stooped and gathered some icy crystals into her hand, shaping and packing them as she had seen the children do.
    Violante backed away from Isabella, shaking her head in warning. "Don't you dare!
    We're hardly little ragamuffins to play at such things."
    "Why should they have all the fun?" Isabella asked with a wicked grin.
    A snowball landed on the back of Isabella's neck, splattering down the back of her dress.
    She squealed, whirling around, expecting to face the children. Theresa, a few feet away from her, was gathering more snow quickly, laughing as she did so. She looked quite at ease with the game, packing the ice crystals with swift, efficient movements.
    Isabella hastily flung her snowball at Theresa, laughing so hard she nearly slipped and fell. Theresa was just straightening up, and the snowball hit her shoulder, the ice clinging to her sleeve. She hurled her compacted sphere back at Isabella, who leapt sideways, ducking as she did so, already reaching to scoop up more snow.
    Violante screamed as snow splattered over her shoulder and neck. She stumbled backward and fell, landing in the wet flakes. "Ooh!" She spluttered for a moment, as if she couldn't make her mind up whether to laugh, be angry, or cry.
    Theresa and Isabella were in an all-out war, hurling snowballs back and forth fast and furiously. Violante determinedly formed several spheres and threw them with unexpected accuracy at the other two women.
    Both tried to retaliate, their gloved hands bringing up fistfuls of snow and flinging it back at Violante, their carefree laughter rising without inhibition to be carried on the wind.
    "What is going on here, ladies?" The voice was low, amused. Male.
    "Theresa!" The name was hissed in a stunned, embarrassed voice, stiff with disapproval and reprimand.
    "Violante?" The third voice was more shocked than embarrassed.

    All three women ceased instantly, turning to face the speakers. Violante's and Theresa's laughter died, replaced by horror and shame. Isabella's gaze danced with merriment and a hint of mischief as she looked at the don.
    Sergio Drannacia and Rolando Bartolmei stood gaping at their wives in a kind of astounded silence.
    Nicolai spoke first. "Ladies?" He managed a courtly bow, but he couldn't keep the trace of amusement from his voice.
    "A