The Witch in the Lake by Anna Fienberg Page B

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.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜
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.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜Firstly, I’d burn