The Witch in the Lake (11 page)

Marco suddenly sat up and leaned over the bucket again. The dry coughing, the shuddering for breath. Leo sat by, not touching him, holding the blue cloth.

The morning light shone in through the high window, making a square of gold on the wooden table. It drew a line across Leo's wrist, warming his head that lay resting on his arms.

He stirred and blinked at the light. Then the sinking feeling in his stomach returned as he remembered. He got up and crept over to his father's bed. Marco was sleeping now, but his breathing was heavy and he moaned a little as Leo wiped his lips and forehead with the cloth.

‘Is it all my fault?' Leo whispered, bending over his father. Dread clutched at his stomach. All my stupid fault, he thought. Why did I have to go to the lake—hurl those insults, throw the stone? ‘Leave it alone!' his father had told him. ‘You don't know what you're dealing with.'

He pictured himself at the market that day, full of silly pride. How he'd danced round the kitchen, certain he could do anything. But he'd always been like this, hadn't he—getting carried away, not thinking. Why did he have to go against the order of things, disobey his father? Leo banged his fist against his knee.
This
is what happened when you did that. This terrible thing. This punishment.

Leo stood up. He couldn't bear it. If he could go back in time and snatch away his words, his silly dare, he'd give anything. Even his power. Marco had known his own limits. Why hadn't
he?

Leo had lit the lamp during the night and prised open Marco's box of papers. He'd looked under F for Fever in
The Fabric
. But he'd found nothing. In Marco's notebooks there were a mountain of sketches and notes about bones and infected wounds and torn muscles, but nothing helpful to him. Towards dawn he discovered another notebook—it had been at the bottom of the pile—and the papers were tied together with a special ribbon.

‘
The fever is the most vital element to cure. To reduce fever try tepid bath with infusion of Bergamot and Lavender. If necessary force her to drink water. She can't swallow. Her throat is too sore—she says there are needles in her throat. What to do? Cloves? She's crying, oh my love, don't cry, she won't stop crying. What should I do do DO
. . .'

The writing grew big and black on the page and the rest was covered by an ink spot. After that there was just his mother's name scrawled all over the pages—Rosa, Rosa.

Leo had found it hard to read any more because the pages kept blurring.

With the morning light, Leo got up from the mess of papers on the table. He shuffled them into some sort of order, then filled the cooking pot with water. While it was heating he washed his face and dressed in his long hose and tunic. All these things he did silently, hoping not to wake his father.

As he moved about the house his father's handwriting was always just behind his eyes. He could hear the scream in the words, the loneliness. ‘
What should I do?
' It was no wonder that his father spent his life trying to understand the human body. His magic had failed him: perhaps the answers lay in this new knowledge of medicine. Leo had only been six months old when his mother died. He hadn't been able to help. But now he was older. Old enough to get help.

Before he left the house, Leo soaked towels and rags in cool water, and sponged his father's body again. Marco woke briefly and smiled at his son.

‘Papà,' said Leo, feeling heartened by the smile, ‘I'm just going out for a short while. You rest, and I'll be back soon with some medicine.'

But Marco had fallen asleep again, the smile still lifting a corner of his mouth.

Signor Eco, the apothecary, was at the back of the shop making a supply of lavender bags. Leo had to walk past the long bench at the front, lined with little bottles of oils and aromatic waters, and shelves fragrant with bouquets of herbs. The shop smelled busy and rich with all its complicated ingredients, and Leo's spirits lifted.

‘Firstly, I'd burn rosemary and thyme in the room, to prevent further infection,' Signor Eco advised when Leo had told him the story. ‘I'll make you up a sachet right away.'

The apothecary was reaching for neatly labelled bottles of herbs, bustling around as he talked. He had a large belly and big plump fingers and it always surprised Leo to see him handling the little jars and spoons and sachets so delicately.

‘What about the vomiting?' asked Leo. ‘It didn't stop all night.'

Signor Eco frowned. Leo had described very serious symptoms, and although he didn't want to show it, he was worried. He almost wished Beatrice was here.

‘Look, Leo,' he began, ‘we'll try these methods but we can also get some special advice. I have to go to Fiesole tomorrow—'

‘Where the Wise Women are—'

‘That's right. I need some more chamomile, the German kind, and Beatrice was able to get some for me. I told her I'd pick it up tomorrow, so I can ask her at the same time what her Order would do for a fever. You know, this chamomile could be good—'

Leo gave a little jump of excitement. He never thought he'd be so happy to hear Beatrice's name. The advice of a whole company of Wise Women! But then he stopped. ‘Signor Eco, don't tell her who the advice is for, if you don't mind. She's not particularly fond of my father—she might prescribe deadly nightshade or something!'

Signor Eco gave a hoot of laughter and his chins wobbled. ‘She may be a bossy bit of work, but she's not evil, Leo. I won't be back for a few days though, I'm afraid. I've got appointments all over Tuscany.'

‘All right, I understand. But when you go,' Leo picked nervously at a scab on his thumb, ‘well, could you take a message for me to Merilee?'

Signor Eco scratched his belly. ‘I don't think Beatrice would like that. Aren't you two supposed to be—'

‘Merilee would want to know about my father, Signor,' Leo cut in, looking wounded.

‘All right,
va bene
,' Signor Eco sighed. ‘But if Beatrice ever finds out, I'll be a dead man.'

‘She's not evil, though, is she, Signor?' Leo asked him innocently.

Signor Eco snorted. But he gave him an ink pot and a quill and carried on making up the herbs for Marco. Hastily, Leo scratched a note to Merilee.

Dear You
, he wrote,
When are you coming home? Are you a prisoner? I miss you all the time. My father is very ill with fever. Is there anything you can suggest? Write and tell me if you want to escape. Or maybe you've become so Wise you don't want to talk with the Unwise. Beware of Beatrice, Merilee. She's a snake—she speaks with a forked tongue. Don't believe what she tells you
.

L.

Leo blew on the ink to help it dry, then folded the letter into a tiny square. ‘There,' he said, putting it into the apothecary's hand. ‘You won't forget it, will you?'

Signor Eco winked at him. ‘I'll put it with my money. I never forget that!' He handed Leo the packets of herbs and wished him luck. ‘I may be able to get a message to you sooner. Otherwise, I'll visit when I return.'

Leo thanked him heartily, and almost skipped out of the shop.

As he walked home he felt the sun like a warm hand on the back of his neck. The rain had cleared, leaving the streets shiny clean. Just writing to Merilee made him miss her less. It was almost like talking to her. There was just a gap in time until he had her reply.

But when he opened the door to his house and found his father lying on the floor, drenched in sweat, a cold terror swept any other thought from his mind.

Merilee only found Workshop 4 by accident. Beatrice had hurried off—'Heavens, is that the time!'—without giving Merilee the slightest clue where she was to go, and the room emptied as suddenly as if it were tipped up like a jar of rice and turned on its head.

Merilee found herself alone at the table. At the far end of the room was Consuela, stacking plates for washing. She was helped by two other servants who seemed to be arguing with her. Merilee felt silly sitting all alone like a stranded sheep, and stumbled outside.

She walked along a corridor until she came to another spacious room. The door was ajar, just inches open, but through it wafted a perfume of rose and jasmine so overpowering that tears started in her eyes. It seemed that just behind the door, so close, her mother must be waiting.

Shyly, she pushed the door open. She put her head in. There was no one.

She sat down on a low wooden bench. Shelves above her were crammed with jars of herbs and little pottery vessels filled with fragrance. Merilee let the aroma drift over her. She could have almost fallen asleep. But her mind kept flicking over to that strange, tiered structure in the corner of the room.

She'd never seen anything like it. Glass sheets were stacked one on top of the other in wooden frames. When she looked closely she saw that the glass was covered with some kind of greasy substance, and sprinkled over it were fresh petals. Merilee bent to take a great sniff.

Suddenly, behind her, she heard a footstep. She swung around and found herself face to face with the friendly young girl of the night before.

Merilee laughed with relief.

The girl was wearing a red silk headdress that sat, heart-shaped, above her forehead. Deep navy blue eyes smiled at Merilee.

‘The aroma of love, wouldn't you say?' The girl nodded at the wooden structure next to Merilee. ‘What does that perfume make you think of?'

‘My mother,' said Merilee quickly.

‘My Alessandro,' said the girl. She stood next to Merilee and breathed in deeply. ‘I met him on the day I made my first pomade—from this very same contraption, you know.'

Merilee was about to say no, she didn't know, and how did this greasy business they were bending over end up as a perfume? And where were the usual introductions, and was this girl a student too, and what was her name? But she didn't get a chance.

‘I wore the pomade in my hair, and he said I smelled like a rose from the garden of paradise.'

‘Excuse me,' Merilee began cautiously, ‘but are you here for Essential Oils?'

‘Yes, I'm your teacher—Isabella Innamorata at your service. At least that's what I call myself.'

‘So it's just us two?'

Isabella smiled at her, nodding. ‘Tell me, niece of the great Beatrice, who will come bursting in here like gunshot any minute to see what I
haven't
taught you—‘They both looked up then as a clatter of feet passed the door and stopped, a long shadow snaking through the gap, along the floor. ‘Tell me, do you know anything about the essential oils?'

‘Well, I—'

The feet went on their way and both girls grinned.

‘Of course
love
is an essential oil, if you want my opinion.'

‘But excuse me,
is
this Workshop 4, where I'm supposed to be?'

Isabella laughed. ‘Workshop 4? Yes, my sweet, here you'll learn how we extract the finest quality essences from our most delicate plants.'

‘But how does it work—I mean, with this “contraption”?'

Isabella raised her eyebrows in surprise. ‘The glass is coated with lard, and the essence of these flowers is absorbed into the fat.'

Merilee picked up a petal and sniffed it closely. ‘Is the pomade made from this?'

‘Yes, from the perfumed fat—'

‘And the essential oil?'

‘Merilee darling, where have you been all your life? Separating the essential oil from the fat is one of the first experiments our students attempt at the Academy.' She looked at Merilee closely. ‘Don't you know anything, sweetness? Aren't you the niece of Beatrice the Burrweed?'

‘Burrweed?'

‘Of course
I'm
far more interested in Love Potions than medicines, I have to admit. Try a drop or two of sandalwood or rose and your young man will want to carry you away on a tide of romance!' She gave a noisy sigh.

‘
I'd
like to be carried away in a carriage all the way home, actually,' Merilee confided impulsively. She looked down at the floor. She hoped she hadn't been rude, but then Isabella was so, well, unusual, so frank, and the habit was catching.

Isabella didn't seem to notice. ‘Once you've been in love, you'll know what I mean. In a couple of years you'll be asking for my recipes—Evergreen Love Potion, by the way, is one of my best. Do you have someone special at home then?'

‘Oh, well, he's really just my best friend. Leo—'

‘
Si, si
, there was talk of him last year. Dangerous type, they said.'

‘Dangerous?'

Isabella waved a hand. ‘That's only a description from our dear Beatrice. I didn't put too much faith in it, don't you worry. No, perhaps “adventurous” is a better word for the young man, wouldn't you say? That's the word I'd use for Alessandro.'

Merilee sighed. She knew she was going to hear a lot of other words about Alessandro, and she wished she could get back to the topic that really interested her.

‘Courageous, defiant—except with his father—recklessly handsome. You should see his eyes! Mind you, there have been others—the boy who used to deliver the lard—ah, he was delicious, sweet as a peach. But then they found me and another girl making eyes at him, and they stopped him coming.'

‘They?'

‘Her, you know, Burrweed and her allies. Still, maybe it was for the best because I do love Alessandro del Sarto, and I always will—even if they won't let me marry him.'

Isabella's voice dropped mysteriously at this last announcement, and Merilee could hear the girl willing her to ask more.

‘Why can't you marry him—does he love you?'

Isabella smiled. ‘Yes,' she said simply. ‘But his father happens to be a duke—so of course, I'm not good enough for his precious son.'