The Witch in the Lake by Anna Fienberg Page A

when he finally threw down the axe and brought the night’s logs inside.
    â€˜What have you been doing?’ demanded Marco as Leo trudged inside. ‘I’ve called you twenty times.’
    Leo put the logs next to the fire and went back to close the door. Outside, there was the moon, not yet full, pearling a patch of sky.
    As Leo leaned against the door, gazing out at the night, he asked himself a question. What if the moon had been full, down there by the lake? What then?
    Leo sat at the table to eat with his father. There was a plate of fruit and cheese, and a pitcher of wine.
    Marco gestured at the food and shrugged. ‘I saw that you bought sausages, but they’ll keep for tomorrow. I’m not so hungry tonight—’
    Leo stared at him. ‘But Fabbio chose them for you specially. They’re your favourite kind.’
    Marco shook his head. ‘You got enough for thirty people—what possessed you to buy so many?’
    Leo looked down at his plate.
    â€˜Fabbio gave them to me—as a gift.’
    He expected his father to exclaim at this, and interrogate him. Fabbio was a good friend but a shrewd merchant, and he didn’t often give his best meat away for nothing. But Marco just nodded vaguely.
    Leo watched him. He was relieved that he didn’t have to explain about the day, make conversation. But he wondered at Marco’s lack of curiosity.
    Marco picked a pear from the plate and began to peel it. Leo noticed that his hands were trembling slightly, and his palms were sweaty.
    â€˜Are you feeling all right, Papà?’ he asked. ‘Are you still cold? It’s really quite a mild night.’
    â€˜Yes, yes,’ said Marco. ‘I’m just a bit tired. I don’t think that fish I had at the city market was too good today, that’s all.’
    Leo cleared away the dishes. He helped his father out of his tunic and straightened the sheets on his bed. It was only early evening, and here was Marco getting into bed. Leo couldn’t remember that ever happening before.
    The afternoon’s danger receded to a dull ache in his mind as Leo looked at his father. Alarm filled him. He went to close the shutters.
    He’ll probably leap out of bed in the morning, hungry as a horse, Leo told himself. But Leo took a long time to get to sleep that night. As he lay listening for the sound of Marco’s breathing, the moan from the forest blew in, pulling at him each time he closed his eyes.
    Leo was dreaming of his father standing at the edge of the lake, calling to someone, when a noise woke him. He sat up straight, his heart hammering. ‘Papà?’
    â€˜Leo, get me a bucket, quick.’
    Leo threw the sheets off and went to fetch it. He could hear the rasping of his father’s throat, the raw scraping sound of a heaving stomach. He put a hand on his father’s shoulder. Marco shook it off as he bent over the bucket again.
    Leo sat on his bed, hugging his knees. He put his fingers in his ears. It was so scary, that sound. Scarier, even, than the voice from the lake. Marco shouldn’t be sick—he was never sick. His shoulder had been damp with sweat. Leo had felt it through his nightshirt.
    God, please don’t let him be sick. Make him better now, please. He’s all there is in the world. Please, oh please.
    When Marco lay back on his bed, Leo took the bucket and sloshed it outside. He got a cloth and dipped it in the basin of water they kept for washing. Marco groaned. The sheets were wet beneath him. Leo felt his forehead. It was burning.
    â€˜Here, Papà,’ he whispered, trying to stop his voice shaking. He laid the cool damp cloth on his father’s forehead. In a minute it was warm.
    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