Lair of the Lion

it."
    "Do you know him well?" Isabella asked, curiously, suddenly realizing she knew nothing of the DeMarco family. Francesca gave every appearance of being an aristicratica, and she certainly knew all the intrigues of the castello. Isabella had presumed she was family, most likely a cousin.
    Francesca shrugged. "Who can know the don? He rules, and he provides protection, but one does not eat with him or speak with him."
    "Well, of course they do." Isabella was horrified at the total lack of concern in Francesca's voice. "Mio padre was the don, and he certainly ate with us and conversed with us. No one wants to be alone, not even the don."
    Francesca was silent for a time. "But it has always been so. He's in his rooms until night, and then all within the palazzo are confined so he is free to go anywhere, inside or out. He sees no one. His visitors are taken to his rooms to speak with him, but he is never seen. And he certainly does not take food in the presence of others." The young woman sounded shocked.

    "Why? He had tea with me."
    Francesca leapt to her feet. "That cannot be so. He doesn't eat with others. It isn't done."
    Francesca seemed so upset, Isabella chose her words more carefully. "Is it a law of the holding that the don cannot eat with others? I don't understand. What of his madre? Surely the famiglia eats together."
    "No, no, never." Francesca was adamant. "It isn't done." She began to pace the length of the room, clearly agitated.
    The ghostly wails grew louder, and the moans seemed to rise and fall with the outside wind. "I didn't mean to upset you, Francesca," Isabella apologized gently. "The rules are different where I'm from. I'll learn yours."
    "It isn't done," the younger woman repeated. "It is never done."
    "I'm sorry." Isabella stirred, meaning to slide off the bed. The coverlet slipped precariously, and she looked around hastily for her dressing gown. Francesca was upset, and, although Isabella didn't know why, she wanted to comfort her. She located the garment in the darkness and turned back to the young woman. Her heart sank, and she dropped the robe back onto the chair where she had found it.
    That quickly, Francesca had taken the opportunity to escape. Isabella called softly to her, but there was no reply, only the irritating sound of the ghostly wails. She thought about trying to find the secret passageway, but it seemed too much of an effort when she was worried about other matters. She slipped back into bed and lay quietly thinking of the don.
    It made no sense that he was not allowed to dine with another, but then, nothing in the valley made much sense to her.
    Isabella lay staring at the wall, unable to sleep despite the darkness. She tried not to worry about Nicolai DeMarco. No one else seemed to feel he was in danger from the terrible storm or from the wild beasts roaming the valley. Isabella sighed and turned over to stare up at the ceiling. After a time she became aware of a sound, a deep sound, almost cavernous. Air rushing through lungs. She had heard that sound before, and it chilled her.
    Beneath the coverlet, her fingers curled into fists, and her breath nearly stopped.
    Slowly, inch by inch, she turned her head toward the door. It had been locked—now it was open. Something was in the room with her. She strained to see into the darkest recesses of the room. At first she saw nothing, but as she stared, she finally made out a huge bulk crouched a few scant feet from her. The head was enormous, the eyes glowing at her.
    Watching her.
    Isabella watched the beast right back. Now her heart was pounding so loudly, she was certain it could hear. She looked only at the eyes. They stared at one another for endless moments, and then the eleven-foot lion simply padded silently out of her room. She watched the door close. Isabella sat up gingerly and stared at the closed door. It hadn't been her imagination—the lion had been in the room with her. Perhaps someone had deliberately opened the door to allow it in, hoping it would kill her as its ancestors had killed the Christians.
    The wailing was driving her crazy—the sound of chains rattling seemed to fill the hall outside her room. The noise went on and on until Isabella jumped out of bed in exasperation and dragged on her dressing gown. She was annoyed enough at her wayward imagination without the continuous howling of ghosts and ghouls or whatever was making such a fuss.
    Even the thought of lions prowling the halls of the