Violante patted her hair, looking superior and knowledgeable. It was obvious she easily intimidated Theresa. She leaned closer to Isabella and looked cautiously around the room. "You haven't heard the legend?"
"A fascinating tale. I can't wait to tell my children on a dark and stormy night," Isabella improvised. Which legend? she wondered.
"How can you stand to look at him?" Violante asked, her gaze challenging.
The smile faded from Isabella's dark eyes. She drew herself up, her young face haughty. "Don't make the mistake of forgetting yourself, Signora Drannacia. I may not be mistress here yet, but I will be. I won't have Nicolai maligned in any way. I find him handsome and charming. If you can't bear to look at the scars on his face, scars from a horrifying attack, I would ask you not to visit our home."
Violante paled. She pressed a hand to her chest as if her heart had fluttered at the attack. "Signorina, you misunderstand me completely. It is impossible to notice scars when we've been taught not to look upon him. You're not from this valley." She took a sip of tea, her eyes bright as they examined Isabella's face. "It is ingrained in us not to stare directly at him, of course."
It took a great deal of effort, but Isabella maintained her composure. The women knew things she didn't, but she would not give the advantage to Violante Drannacia by asking her personal questions regarding the don or the palazzo. "How fortunate for me." She kept a smile on her face as she turned to Theresa. "May I ask how long you've been married, Signora Bartolmei?" She was secretly pleased to see the younger woman look appalled at Violante's behavior.
"Theresa," Captain Bartolmei's wife corrected. "Only a short time. I've always lived in the valley, but not in the holding. My famiglia has a large farm. I met Rolando when he was out hunting." A blush stole up her neck at either the memory or the admission.
"The lions didn't bother your farm?" Isabella asked.
Theresa shook her head. "I never saw one until I came here to the palazzo." A shadow crossed her face, and she twisted her fingers together nervously. "We heard them, or course, on the farm, but never once in all the years I was growing up did I ever see one."
"Theresa's afraid one might gobble her up," Violante supplied.
Isabella laughed lightly, shifting closer to Theresa. "I think that shows good sense, Theresa. I, too, would prefer to avoid being gobbled up. Have you seen a lion up close, Violante? I had no idea they were so enormous. Their heads are so massive, I think all three of us would fit into one's mouth."
"Well." Violante shivered. "I saw one up close once. Sergio was making a patrol through the valley, and he stopped near our house to take me for a walk. We thought we were alone. We never heard a sound. We just walked right up on it." She cast a sheepish look at Theresa. "I started to scream, but Sergio put his hand over my mouth so I couldn't make a sound. I was terrified it would eat me right up."
The three women looked at one another, then burst out laughing. Theresa relaxed visibly. Violante took a sip of her tea, managing to look regal. "What are you doing about this wedding of yours, Isabella? May I call you Isabella?"
"Please do. The wedding." Isabella sighed. "I haven't any idea. Don DeMarco announced it, and that was the last I heard. I don't even know when it takes place. What was your wedding like?"
Violante sighed in happy remembrance. "It was the most beautiful day of my life. Everything was perfect. The weather, the dresses, Sergio so handsome. Everyone of importance was there." She hesitated. "Well, with the exception of the Don DeMarco. He met with Sergio beforehand and gave us a magnificent wedding gift. Surely the dressmaker has started on your dress. She must hurry." She patted Isabella's hand. "We would love to help plan it, if tua madre isn't available, right, Theresa?"
Theresa nodded eagerly. "It would be fun."
"Don DeMarco knows I have no famiglia other than mio fratello, Lucca. He is quite ill, though, and could hardly plan a wedding. I've lost both of my parents."
"I'll speak to Sarina and see what is being done," Violante said firmly. "We cannot leave the details to Don DeMarco, as he is very busy. It gives us an excuse to visit you often."
"You'll never need an excuse," Isabella answered. "Our three houses are connected and always will be, bringing our people and the valley prosperity. I hope the three of us become very close friends. What was your wedding like, Theresa?" The young woman seemed perpetually nervous, and Isabella wanted to put her at ease.
Theresa beamed at her. "It was beautiful, and Rolando was most handsome. We were married in the Holy Church, of course, but afterward we danced all evening under the stars."
"Scusi, Signorina Vernaducci," Sarina interrupted with a slight curtsey. "I must take care of a problem in the kitchen."
"We'll manage, Sarina, grazie," Isabella assured her and waved her one ally away. She turned back to the other two women, determined to try to make friends. "It sounds wonderful, Theresa. I suppose your parents planned it for you."
"Yes, with Don DeMarco," Theresa said, looking uneasy again.
Isabella's stomach did a funny little roll, instantly putting her on guard. While the two women continued to chat, she glanced surreptitiously around the room. They were no longer alone; something had joined them. It was subtle, the outpouring of twisted malice flowing into the room.
Isabella sighed. It was a long afternoon. She kept the conversation going, but it was difficult, as Theresa looked faint if Nicolai was mentioned, and Violante seemed to want to sneer at each new subject with contempt. Isabella was secretly relieved when the captains returned to claim their wives.
Theresa eagerly gathered her things, drew on her gloves, and rose with haste, earning her a frown from her husband.
"Shall I escort you back to your room?" Captain Drannacia offered Isabella solicitously, his hand resting on the back of his wife's chair.
Isabella glanced up in time to see the fear and suspicion on Violante's face. The woman covered her reaction by rising gracefully and smiling at Isabella. "It's been such a pleasure. I hope we can do this again soon."
"I hope so, too," Isabella assured her. "Grazie, Captain Drannacia, but I have no need for an escort."
"We'll have to come back soon if we're to help with the wedding," Theresa reminded her. "I've really enjoyed meeting you, Isabella. Please come to my home sometime, too," she added shyly. "For tea."
Isabella smiled at her. "I would enjoy that. Thank you both so much for coming to meet me."
"I have duties here in the castello, Sergio," Rolando Bartolmei announced regretfully. "Will you see Signora Bartolmei safely home for me?"
Theresa looked as though she might protest, but she choked back her objection, staring down at the tips of her shoes instead.
"Perhaps Captain Bartolmei will escort you to your room, Signorina Vernaducci," Violante said with unexpected malice, "just to make certain you don't get lost."
Theresa winced visibly and glanced at Violante, clearly shocked.
"I would be happy to escort you," Captain Bartolmei agreed, bowing gallantly, ignoring his wife's pale features.
"That won't be necessary, signore, but grazie. I know my way around the palazzo fairly well now. Sarina has been helping me. I wouldn't want to keep you from your duties." Isabella smiled, but her insides were trembling, a sign something was very wrong. The surge of power had been unexpectedly strong, preying on Theresa's jealousy. Isabella wanted them all to leave, afraid the malevolence was growing. "I appreciate both of you for bringing your wives to meet me."
Captain Bartolmei touched his wife's hand briefly, bowed to the others, and walked out of the room. Sergio Drannacia took Violante's arm and escorted the two women out, first bowing to Isabella.
Isabella sighed softly and shook her head. Holdings were the same everywhere, filled with petty rivalries, suspicions, jealousies, and intrigue. The palazzo of Don DeMarco, however, was somehow different. Something crouched in wait, watching, listening, preying on human weaknesses. She felt tired and worn out and alarmed. No one else
seemed to notice anything was wrong; they didn't feel the presence of evil as she did.
She waited a few minutes longer for Sarina, but when the housekeeper didn't appear, and shadows began lengthening in the room, Isabella decided to go to her bedchamber. It seemed to be the most restful room in the palazzo. She started through the wide hallways, looking up at the artwork, the carvings of lions in various positions, some snarling, some watching intently. Isabella began to feel as if she were actually being watched, a fanciful feeling in the midst of the carvings, etchings, and sculptures.
"Isabella." She heard her name drifting down the hallway. It was spoken so low she barely caught it. For a moment Isabella stood still, straining to listen. Had it been Francesca? It sounded like her voice, a bit disembodied, but it was something Francesca might do. Hide and call to her. At once her heart lifted a bit at the thought of her friend.
Curious, Isabella turned along the corridor and immediately came to a door she knew led to the servants' corridors. It stood slightly ajar, as if Francesca had deliberately left it open to catch her attention. The voice whispered again, but this time so low Isabella couldn't catch the actual words. Francesca seemed on the move, determined to play an impulsive game.
Finding the voice impossible to resist, Isabella slipped through the door and found herself in one of the narrow corridors used by the servants to get quickly from one end of the palazzo to the other. Even in her own holding Isabella had never explored the network of servant entrances and stairwells. Intrigued, she began to walk along the hallway, following the twists and turns. There were stairways that led up and across and over and led to more staircases. They were steep and uncomfortable, nothing resembling the ornate stairways that spiraled through the palazzo, connecting the various stories and wings together.
There were very few sconces to hold torches, and the shadows lengthened and grew, and a heaviness grew in her heart along with them. She paused for a moment to get her bearings, midway up another steep staircase.
Just as she was going to turn back, Isabella heard the mysterious whisper again. "Isabella." It was somewhere just ahead. She moved quickly up the narrow, curving staircase, following the soft sound. She had been cautioned to stay away from the wing where Don DeMarco kept his residence. Uncertain whether the staircase had twisted back and upward toward his wing, Isabella hesitated, one hand grasping the railing in indecision. She was confused as to precisely where she was heading, which was strange, since she'd always had a remarkable sense of direction. Everything seemed different, and that strange shadow in her heart grew longer and heavier. Surely if she accidentally ended up in the wrong part of the palazzo, she would be forgiven. She was a stranger, and the place was enormous.
The soft whisper came again, a woman's voice beckoning her. Isabella again began to climb the endless staircase. It branched off in many directions, led to wide halls and narrow corridors. She had seen none of this with Sarina and was hopelessly lost. She had no idea which floor she was on or even which direction she faced.
A door was partially opened, cool outside air rushing in. It felt good on her skin. Isabella was hot and sticky and out of breath. She stepped out the side door, staring in awe at the sparkling white landscape. She was definitely up high, on the third story, and the balcony was small, just a crescent-shaped overhang with a wide wall for a railing. As she took a step toward the edge, the door swung closed behind her.
Isabella stared at it in shocked surprise. She tried the handle, but the door didn't budge. Exasperated, she pulled on the door, then pounded senselessly until she remembered no one was likely to be near the entrance. She was locked out in the cold wearing only a thin day gown. The balcony was icy, slippery beneath her shoes. The wind tugged at her clothes, pierced her with its icy breath. She suddenly realized she was on the balcony of one of the rounded towers, and below her was the infamous courtyard where a DeMarco had put his wife to death.
"How do you get yourself into these things?" she asked aloud, taking mincing steps toward the balcony railing and gripping the wall surrounding her tiny prison. Clutching the edge, she leaned out, looking down, hoping someone would be in sight and she'd be able to attract attention.
As she rested her weight against the railing, she felt the surge of power, of glee, flowing around her, the air thick with malice. Without warning the tiling crumbled out from under her. She was tumbling through space, her fingers clawing for something solid, a scream ripping from her throat. She caught at the neck of one of the stone lions guarding the sheer side of the castello. For a moment she nearly slipped, but she managed to circle the statue's mane with her arms.
Isabella screamed again, loud and long, hoping to attract someone to her plight. She couldn't drag her body up onto the sculpted lion, and her arms ached from hanging. Snow had collected on the marble likeness, making it ice cold and very slippery. Isabella locked her fingers together and prayed for help.
The sun had set, and darkness was settling over the mountains. The wind rose and fiercely attacked her dangling body in icy gusts. She was becoming so chilled, her hands and feet were nearly numb.
"Signorina Isabella!" The shocked voice of Rolando Bartolmei came from above her. She looked up to find him leaning out over the balcony, his face pale with concern.
"Be careful." Her warning was a mere croak of sound.
"Can you reach my hand?"
Isabella closed her eyes briefly, afraid that if she looked down she would fall. Looking up was even more frightening. Her heart was pounding, and she tasted terror. Someone, something had arranged her accident. Someone wanted her dead. She had been led right into a trap. Captain Bartolmei was on the balcony. She had to let go of her lion and trust him to pull her up.
"Look at me," he commanded. "Reach up and take my hand right now."
She clutched at the stone lion but managed to look up at her rescuer.
"Are you injured?" Captain Bartolmei's voice bordered on desperation. "Answer me!" This time he used his authority, commanding compliance. His hand was inches from hers as he leaned down to her. "You can do it. Take my hand."
Isabella took a deep breath and let it out. Very slowly she worked at loosening her grip, one finger at a time. Taking a leap of faith, she reached for him. Rolando caught her wrist and dragged her up and over the railing. She collapsed against him, both of them sprawling on the snow-covered balcony.
For a moment he held her tightly, his hands patting her back in a clumsy attempt to comfort her. "Are you injured in any way?" He sat her up with gentle hands.
Isabella was shaking so hard her teeth chattered, but she shook her head firmly. Her skin felt like ice. Rolando removed his jacket and settled it around her shoulders. "Can you walk?"
She nodded. If it got her to her bedchamber, a warm fire, a cup of hot tea, and her bed, she would crawl if need be.
"What happened? How did you come to be in this place?" He helped her to her feet and guided her out of the wind, back into the servants' corridors.
"Grazie, Signor Bartolmei. You saved my life. I don't think I could have held on much longer. I thought I heard someone I know calling to me. The door closed behind me, and I was trapped." Subdued, Isabella followed his lead through the network of stairs and hallways until they were once again in the main section of the palazzo. "Please send Sarina to me," she said as they stopped in front of her door. Her feet were so numb she couldn't feel them. "I would prefer that you not say anything. I shouldn't have been exploring." Before he could protest, Isabella ducked into her room, murmuring her thanks once again.
She closed the door quickly before she humiliated herself by bursting into tears. Isabella flung herself facedown on the bed. The fire was already roaring in the fireplace, but Isabella didn't think she would ever be warm again. She wrapped her hands in the coverlet and shook helplessly, uncertain if it was from sheer terror or from the bitter, piercing cold.
Sarina found Isabella shaking uncontrollably, her hair wet and tangled, her gown soaked and
streaked with dirt. Most alarming was the fact that Captain Bartolmei's jacket covered her.
"My hands and feet are burning now," Isabella said, struggling not to weep.
The housekeeper took charge immediately, drying her young charge, dressing her hair, and tucking her beneath the quilts after a cup of soothing tea. "Captain Bartolmei's coat shouldn't be in your room. Did the servants see you wearing it? Did you run into any of them as you came through the palazzo?"
"Don't you want to know what happened?" Isabella turned her face away, sickened that she had been so close to death, yet all the housekeeper seemed worried about was propriety. "I'm certain someone saw us. We weren't trying to hide."
Sarina patted her gently. "It is necessary to be cautious, given your status, Isabella."
Isabella flinched, having heard the words many times from her father. "I'll try to arrange it so that the next time I'm nearly killed, it won't be food for gossip."
Sarina looked horrified. "I didn't mean--"
Nicolai DeMarco stalked in without warning, interrupting whatever the housekeeper had to say. His amber eyes blazed with heat. "Is she injured?"
Sarina kept her gaze fixed on Isabella, who turned her head toward the sound of the don's voice. "No, signore, just very cold."
"I wish to speak with her alone." Nicolai made it a decree, circumventing any protest Sarina might make.
He waited until his housekeeper had closed the door before taking the chair she had vacated. His palm cradled the back of Isabella's head. "Captain Bartolmei tells me you nearly fell to your death. What were you doing up there, piccola?"
"Certainly not leaping to my death, if that's what you think," Isabella retorted without her usual spirit. "I was lost." Her lashes drifted down. "I followed the voice. The door locked. It was cold." Her words were low, her sentences disjointed, and made no real sense to him. "Aren't you going to ask why Captain Bartolmei's jacket is in my bedchamber? Sarina seemed overly concerned with it." There was distress, hurt in her tone, despite the fact that she tried valiantly to hide it. "I've already had the lecture on being more discreet when I'm falling to my death, so if you don't mind too much, I'll pass on another one."