The Witch in the Lake (15 page)

Francesca pulled him along. ‘It's the fever, Leo. Sometimes he gets delirious, sees things in his mind.'

They were silent as they came into the piazza. Ravens were wheeling black against the fading sky.

‘Beatrice said something once,' Leo rushed in. ‘She said I came from a family of murderers, madmen, a demon—'

‘Oh, Leo, I'm sorry,' Francesca turned to face him.

‘Who is the demon? She said she wouldn't speak his name.'

Francesca glanced away, up at the sky. The moon hung round and dimpled above the church spire, flooding them with silver. ‘Full moon tomorrow night.' She took a deep breath of shining air. ‘It is beautiful, isn't it, Leo. I haven't looked at the moon, properly, for so long.'

Leo stared down at the stones. ‘Moonlight brings the witch,' he muttered. ‘I hate her voice. I hate the moon.'

Francesca put her face near his. ‘You know, when you were born I thought your hair was made of moonlight. It shone—a little spray of silver glistened round your head. The air always seemed lighter, shinier, wherever you'd been. My sister hated it. She thinks all magic belongs to demons. But I knew then that you'd do something special in the world.' She hesitated. ‘Perhaps you should look at the moon. Follow the voice. Maybe it will set you free. But take care, Leo, please. Be careful.'

Leo stood in the middle of the piazza after she'd gone, watching the ravens fly off to roost amongst the eaves. He saw the moon rise, the dark deepen. He held Francesca's words inside him. They danced there in his mind, glittering and sparkling like coins.

But as he gazed into the moonlight another voice came. Like fog it blew in, whispery, cold, empty. It dulled everything else, blunting hope, filling him with dread.

Whoo, Leo
, it moaned,
soon
. . . In a corner of his mind, at the edge of his eye, he saw the mist darken into a shape. It rose up from a pit, blocking light from the sky. It stared at him with hollow eyes. There, in the depths, something flickered.

Suddenly he felt a tugging at his sleeve. The fog whirled and shifted in his head, and he heard his own name, crisp and sharp, right in his ear.

‘What is it, boy? In a trance, are you?'

Leo turned to see Signor Eco looking down at him.

‘Nice to see you back,' grinned Signor Eco. ‘Thought a devil had taken your soul.'

‘I was just coming to see you,' said Leo, ‘and then . . .'

‘Well it's past seven. I hear your father's a little better. Have you tried the juniper oil yet?'

‘Yes, er, thank you—thank you very much. Did you, um, have a chance to see Merilee?'

Signor Eco smiled. ‘I did. Looked well and happy, too. She's made a new friend—funny little thing, looks like a boy. She said to say hello to you, and wishes your father a speedy recovery.'

Leo looked down at his shoes. Was that all? Anybody could have sent that message, the butcher, the barber . . .

‘She gave me a note for you. Said she'd put hemlock in my wine at dinner if I opened it. Look, you can check the seal—I was very obedient!'

Leo couldn't wait any more. He couldn't make small talk, ask Signor Eco how the lady with the infected toes was faring, how his trip had been. He couldn't wait until the man had gone. He tore open the red seal and devoured the words.

As his eyes reached the end of the page it was almost more than he could bear not to race around the piazza, yelling. Joy and pure panic tore through his body like a hurricane.

It was during the second week of her studies that Merilee began to notice the change in herself.

When Isabella told her about the properties of rose oil, coriander or geranium—her mind opened, like the flowers themselves. She remembered names and compounds, made notes after lessons. Devil's claw soothed sore bones, myrrh eased wounds of the skin. Merilee imagined new combinations, studied particular herbs and their effects. She drew flowers of the forest in her book.

When Isabella talked to her, she listened. It was easy. She didn't stare off into space as she'd done with Beatrice. Her new teacher didn't have to call her back from that numb foggy land where nothing could touch her.

She was awake!

It was a miraculous thing, Merilee decided at the end of the second week, how a subject is coloured by the person who's teaching it. When it was Aunt Beatrice talking, the most fascinating idea would turn tasteless and dull. Think! If she hadn't met Isabella, the whole world of Wisdom would have been lost to her.

Merilee hardly saw Beatrice during the week. Sometimes, after dinner, she would come to Merilee's apartment and test her on recipes for infused oils or aromatic waters. But Beatrice seemed so busy herself—holding special lectures at night, writing her own recipes—that she was always a bit distracted. She'd only stay fifteen minutes, then rush off, leaving her sentences trailing. But she did seem pleased with Merilee's improvement.

‘You have got a brain in your head after all,' she'd say. ‘I always knew it was only stubbornness. Just for a moment you remind me of my poor dear Laura.'

On the third day, when Merilee asked her how long they were going to stay at Fiesole, Beatrice suddenly became concerned about something she'd left in her apartment. ‘We'll talk about it tomorrow night,' she called over her shoulder. And when Merilee confronted her again, she turned away to look through her notebook.

‘You told my mother two weeks,' Merilee went on nervously. ‘But I've heard that girls, well, often stay a year.'

‘Yes, yes, some do,' Beatrice said slowly, glancing up briefly from her notebook. ‘And you may stay a little more than originally considered—a
fortnight
, really that's such a ridiculous portion of time, isn't it? I'll write to your mother and let her know how well I think you'll do here. But don't worry,
dear
,' Beatrice gave Merilee a beaming, false smile, ‘I know your mother couldn't bear to be without you too long. Just imagine how pleased she'll be with her wise daughter when you go home!'

Merilee decided to be comforted by these words. It didn't seem that her aunt was planning on a whole year—and Beatrice
had
acknowledged the claims of her mother.

And if she was really honest with herself, Merilee had to admit that she was enjoying her stay. She loved the work and the company and she saw less of Beatrice than she did at home! At night she played the recorder—often for Isabella, who would sigh wistfully throughout the sad songs. Sometimes, when entertainment was organised for the evening, Merilee was the star musician. After her performance the audience clapped and cheered, telling her she was so talented she should play at the court of a duke!

Isabella pouted at that. ‘She's too good for a certain duke that
I
know.'

And Beatrice was amongst the audience, smiling and nodding proudly. ‘Oh, yes,' she'd bow modestly at all the praise, ‘my niece takes after me in music. I've always encouraged her. Such a pity that I never had her opportunities!'

It was only at night, just before Merilee went to sleep, that the empty feeling came. When she closed her eyes Leo's face was there. It would begin small, the size of an acorn on a forest floor, and she'd try to look away. But the acorn always grew, until it was a tree so wide and tall that it blotted out the rest of the forest. She saw every detail of him then, as if he were there in front of her.

The empty feeling would go when she looked into his face: spirals of silver hair, golden eyes lit like suns. While she held his gaze, the landscape of her mind was full, peaceful. But then he'd call her name, and stretch out his hands towards her, and behind him, below him, a watery darkness came creeping. Soon only his head would be above the lake. The tips of his fingers. And then the dark would swallow him, seeping into all the corners of her mind as she fell through it, down into a fathomless cave.

In the morning, when she saw her desk and chair and last night's clothes flung over the arm, busy thoughts for the day began. She'd leap up and get dressed and brush her hair in the mirror. Only a twinge would come then, a splinter from the night, digging in her flesh. Leo, oh, Leo, but what can I do?

In the third week of Merilee's stay, Brigida announced that preparations should begin for the Celebration of Summer. ‘It will fall on the eve of the full moon, in just seven days,' she said when everyone was assembled at dinner in the Green Room. She looked straight at Merilee. ‘The plant we have chosen to celebrate this summer is lavender. So
buon estate
to you all, and
buon lavoro!
' And she made the sign of the Order, directing her gaze at Merilee.

‘It's the best night of the year,' Isabella rushed in to Merilee's apartment later. ‘We have this enormous banquet, and lanterns are put all around the garden. There's music and dancing, and later, the iron gate is opened and we all wander into the hills with baskets, to gather up the summer flower. It's so romantic!'

Merilee was lying on her bed, propped up on her elbow. ‘But why do you think she was looking at me?' ‘Because this will be your night, little sweetmeat, so we'd better get started straightaway!'

Merilee sat up. ‘What do you mean?'

‘Well, the celebration is a time for giving thanks to Mother Earth—for nourishing all her children, the plants and flowers . . . You know, Meri, when I'm a mother, I'm going to call my babies after my favourite flowers, that's if Alessandro agrees, of course. Imagine how lovely—Rose and Jasmine and maybe Violet—'

‘And Mugwort. Isabella, what does this have to do with me in particular?'

‘I'm just getting to that,' Isabella sniffed. She found that Merilee often cut her off when she was right in the middle of describing something really interesting. Like yesterday, when she was talking about the new doublet Alessandro had bought for himself—scarlet, trimmed with gold lace and he looked—

‘Isabella?'

‘Hmm? Oh, yes, well, this night is particularly important for you because as an Initiate,
you
will have to conduct the ceremony.' Isabella giggled at Merilee's gasp of horror. ‘You'll have to list all the qualities of the chosen plant, and describe how it is used. That's the first stage of your training for—'

‘Lavender?' Merilee was standing up now, pacing the room. ‘We haven't even started on lavender. I don't know the first thing about it!'

Isabella watched her pace. She smoothed a wrinkle on the bed. When Merilee came back and sat down she said, ‘You'll be fine. We'll start tomorrow. You're so quick, Merilee, you remember things so well. It must run in the family.'

Merilee looked at her. ‘Beatrice? Oh, don't say I'm like her!'

Isabella shook her head, but said nothing.

‘You mean Laura? Did you ever meet her?'

Isabella nodded. ‘Beatrice brought her here once, just for a week. She was only young then, but everyone said how it was staggering, the way she picked it all up. She even suggested a new use for marjoram, I remember—“for when you're lonely”. I took it for a long while after she'd gone. It helped.'

The two girls sat for a while in silence.

‘So,' Isabella finally stood up. ‘Let's get our beauty sleep—you'll need it much more than me, of course.' She gave Merilee a cheeky grin, mincing across the floor. ‘And we'll start first thing in the morning. Dream of lavender, my sweet!'

But as Merilee climbed into bed she remembered Leo's voice at twilight, down by the lake. ‘Lavender,' he'd said. ‘Say you're late because you were collecting
lavender
.'

So she dreamt of Leo that night; Leo and the lake, the dark coming down, and the smell of lavender everywhere.

As the days passed, Merilee felt more confident about the Celebration of Summer. She was almost looking forward to it. Isabella made the evening sound so special, and the rustle of excitement amongst the women—cooking delicious things, making decorations—was contagious. Every time she walked past the kitchen some wonderful smell made her nostrils quiver, but she was never allowed in.

‘It's a surprise,' the women would say, barring the door with their apronned bellies.

The servants were sworn to secrecy too. ‘We don't even have a hint of the menu,' Consuela complained to Merilee. ‘They won't let us help!' Consuela didn't seem to know whether to be outraged or delighted at having her kitchen kidnapped.

And the studies were going well. Lavender was such a wonderful plant. Soothing, healing—Merilee felt almost affectionate towards it, as if it were a good, reliable friend.

It was strange, she thought, that as her knowledge deepened, she remembered more about Laura, too; what she was like when they were younger, conversations they'd had. She remembered how Laura liked to talk about the forest, her eyes shining when she came back with wild parsley or jasmine. She'd collect the flowers and leaves of plants and press them in her book. When they were dried, she'd sketch them, showing all their parts in brilliant detail. She even listened to Beatrice without fidgeting.

‘How can you
stay
with Aunt Beatrice?' she remembered asking Laura when she was only four or five.

‘I like the plants,' Laura had replied. ‘And Aunty's a bit nicer to me, Meri. I know it's not fair, but when you're older, you'll find her easier to get along with too.'

Once, when Merilee had got into trouble about something, Laura had cuddled her and said, ‘Aunty's just an old bumble bee—buzz buzz. But Mamma and Papà love us to the stars and back, and they're the most important, aren't they?' Merilee had gone to sleep in her sister's bed, warm and safe.

At Fiesole, in just the last few weeks, Merilee felt as if she'd found something of her sister again. But the memories sharpened her loss. ‘Add six drops of marjoram to your soup,' she imagined Laura saying to her. ‘For when you're lonely.'