wooden table. It drew a line across Leoâs 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 fatherâs 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.
âIs it all my fault?â 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 lakeâhurl those insults, throw the stone? âLeave it alone!â his father had told him. âYou donât know what youâre dealing with.â
He pictured himself at the market that day, full of silly pride. How heâd danced round the kitchen, certain he could do anything. But heâd always been like this, hadnât heâgetting 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 couldnât bear it. If he could go back in time and snatch away his words, his silly dare, heâd give anything. Even his power. Marco had known his own limits. Why hadnât
he?
Leo had lit the lamp during the night and prised open Marcoâs box of papers. Heâd looked under F for Fever in
The Fabric
. But heâd found nothing. In Marcoâs 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 notebookâit had been at the bottom of the pileâand 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 canât swallow. Her throat is too soreâshe says there are needles in her throat. What to do? Cloves? Sheâs crying, oh my love, donât cry, she wonât stop crying. What should I do do DO
. . .â
The writing grew big and black on the page and the rest was covered by an ink spot. After that there was just his motherâs name scrawled all over the pagesâRosa, 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 fatherâs handwriting was always just behind his eyes. He could hear the scream in the words, the loneliness. â
What should I do?
â 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 hadnât 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 fatherâs body again. Marco woke briefly and smiled at his son.
âPapà ,â said Leo, feeling heartened by the smile, âIâm just going out for a short while. You rest, and Iâll be back soon with some medicine.â
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 Leoâs spirits lifted.
âFirstly, Iâd burn
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