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fountain was topped with a cross.
    At the base of each circular column, however, was the inevitable lion, broad and muscular, with a tawny mane tipped in black. Still, the sound of water splashing was soothing, and the intricate carvings of kindly figures around the top of the fountain provided more assurance.
    Isabella wanted to linger and examine the large sculpture, but Sarina was halfway up one of the winding staircases. As Isabella hurried up the seemingly endless stairs, she gazed at the array of portraits on the wall. One, the face of a man, was so beautiful it made her ache inside. His eyes held pain, deep sorrow. She was mesmerized by his eyes, wanting to hold him close and comfort him. The feeling was strong in her that she knew him, that she recognized those eyes. Isabella looked past the portrait to the next one. She recognized that face immediately. Francesca's laughing eyes gazed back at her, mischievous and happy. The painting must have been done fairly recently, as Francesca seemed nearly the same age as she was now. Who, exactly, was she, Isabella wondered. A young cousin of the don? The artist had captured the essence of her, her warmth and sunny disposition. Isabella took courage just looking at the sweet face. She squared her shoulders and hurried after Sarina.
    They took many twists and turns through numerous hallways and darkened alcoves, passing more stained-glass windows and intricately carved arches. Isabella wanted to explore everything. The castello in the daylight seemed more open and airy and far less of a threat than it had the night before. She no longer sensed the thick, oily impression of evil.
    Finally they reached the far end of the palazzo, a distance from the main rooms. She caught glimpses of rooms filled with books and sculptures and all sorts of intriguing things she would have liked to examine, but Sarina continued to hurry through the maze of corridors. Isabella was truly lost as they made their way up a third flight of wide, curving steps to a balcony and a double door straight ahead. Isabella stopped abruptly in front of it, not needing Sarina to tell her she was in Don DeMarco's private lair.
    "This entire wing of the house is the Master's. No one is allowed entrance unless he has issued an invitation."
    "What of the servants?" Isabella asked, curious. She was staring at the huge, intricately carved double door graced with a lion's head complete with shaggy mane and piercing eyes.
    The muzzle seemed to come right out of the carving, open mouth displaying sharpened teeth. But there was something different about this lion, something very different from the others. This lion looked intelligent, cunning, menacing. It was almost as if the portrait of a man had been made into the carving of a lion. She could almost see the human beneath the frightful mask.
    "You must go in," Sarina prompted.
    Isabella continued to stare at the carving, scarcely hearing the older woman. She reached out and touched the ferocious muzzle with a gentle fingertip, almost caressing it, something inside her responding to the look in those eyes.
    "Signorina, take hold of the handle and go inside," Sarina urged her in a soft hiss.
    Isabella's heart began to pound as she gazed in horror at the doorknob—another snarling lion's head. She was afraid, now that she was actually here, that the don would turn her down and she would have nowhere else to go. "Come in with me," she whispered softly to the housekeeper, a plea that cost her a great deal in pride.
    "You must go in alone, piccola." Sarina patted her shoulder encouragingly. "He is expecting you. Have courage." She began to walk away.
    Isabella reached out to her before she could stop herself, clutching desperately at the woman's dress. "Is he as they whisper of him?"
    "He is both terrible and kind," Sarina answered. "We are accustomed to his ways, to his appearance. Others are not. Be one he can be kind to. He has not much patience, so go in quickly. You look