The first signs of spring left the Academia completely empty. Almost all of the students poured out into the grounds when the snow began to melt and they began to discuss Quidditch in excited, expectant voices. Isabella was going to join them, just as soon as she returned a library book.
Placing Spellman's Syllabry upon it's shelf, Isabella heard a small noise, like the rustling of fabric, on the other side of the shelf.
"Hello?" she called quietly. No answer came. "Madam Jacqueline?" she called a little louder. The tiny, pale librarian gave no reply, but the rustle of fabric came again, closer this time and from behind. Isabella turned around and peered through the gaps in the long lines of books.
Something cold passed her shoulder, making her start and look sharply to her left. A woman stood there, but Isabella immediately knew she was a ghost. Despite that, the woman was breathtakingly beautiful with long black hair and sad dark eyes.
Actually, Isabella couldn't be sure the woman was a ghost, because she was more substantial than any ghost Isabella had ever seen and she could almost detect the midnight blue color of the woman's gown.
A crown shone from the woman's hair, bright as a star and lighting her face and its high cheekbones, curving lips, and sharp jaw. The stranger was as intimidating as she was beautiful.
"What do you want?" Isabella whispered, backing away from this ghostly form. "Who are you?"
But the woman made no reply save to stare at Isabella as though she was drinking her in. Her pale, transparent fingers floated towards Isabella's face. The girl automatically jerked away, expecting the ice cold sensation felt when a ghost touched you. The woman paused at this reaction and frowned, as though hurt by her insensitivity. Isabella remained perfectly still as the woman once again reached towards her. The ghost's hands were surprisingly warm and gentle. The fingers traced two lines down Isabella's forehead, lines visible as dark fur when she was in her lion form.
"The lyon notte lyon," the woman said. Her voice, silvery and echoing as though through the ages, sent shivers down Isabella's spine. "The stone awakenth. The crowne stirreth. To mine home, to the lande of lyons, go now."
"I don't..."
"The Golde Ravin riseth," the woman said, her voice more urgent. Then she looked over her shoulder, as though some silent voice had called her.
"The stone awakenth," she murmured, more to herself than Isabella this time. "Peace to ye, lyon-notte-lyon." Then she faded and disappeared, leaving the shelves dark after the brilliance of her crown.
Isabella let out the breath she had unconsciously been holding.
"What was - ?"
"Yes? Did you say something?" Madam Jacqueline poked her head around the corner, causing Isabella to jump with fight.
"Um, no. I mean yes. Uh, bye!" Isabella darted out of the library and down the staircase from the ladder.
That was not the last time the woman appeared to Isabella. Sometimes, it seemed the apparition could not speak, but merely smiled sadly at her. Other times, she would reach out a hand and touch Isabella's shoulder, murmuring, "The Golde Ravin riseth," in her ear.
Each time the woman appeared, Isabella became more and more sure she wasn't a ghost. It might have been that the woman's wispy form seemed to define and solidify, but it was more that no one but Isabella seemed to see or hear her. In fact, whenever the specter came to her, it seemed no one could see or hear Isabella either.
"Why?" she asked one time the shade came to her. "Why me?"
"I am parte of ye, lyon-notte-lyon," she had smiled. "The Golde Ravin riseth."
"Who is the Gold Raven?" Isabella demanded. "Why can't you tell me?"
"Ah, the crowne! Ah, the stone!" the woman sighed, shaking her head. "Beware the goblet."
The warnings were always the same, and the woman's name for her, "lyon-notte-lyon", haunting. It reminded Isabella too much of the Oracle's prediction: "the lion who is not a lion".
Isabella might have worried she was crazy, but something stopped her from confiding in Uncle Valentino or even her friends. It was that nagging feeling that the woman was trying to tell her something, to warn her. She didn't have the strength now, but soon. Hadn't she just issued a new warning the other day? "Beware the goblet".