‘Well,’ Francesca lowered her voice, ‘this is her house. Papà was worried for her, you know, seeing she never married. He wanted to make sure she’d always have a roof over her head.’
‘But your husband—’
‘Oh, Franco,’ Francesca motioned with her head towards her husband’s room, ‘you know what he’s like. He lost all his family’s money gambling. We had nothing. And now, since we lost Laura, the wine has become his only comfort.’
Francesca and Leo sat in silence together.
Leo finished the sweetmeats and looked at the portraits on the wall. Merilee and Laura were sharing a smile, a secret perhaps, their eyes crinkling at each other in recognition. It was a very fine portrait.
Francesca followed his gaze. ‘My girls were always close, thank heaven.’ She smoothed her skirt over her lap.
Leo sat rigid in his chair. He felt confused and angry and overwhelmingly disappointed. Francesca’s situation was difficult, desperate even, he understood that, but why—Leo felt guilty even thinking it. But in God’s name, why couldn’t she be stronger?
‘What are you going to do about Merilee?’ he blurted. ‘Beatrice might be planning to keep her there, in that fortress at Fiesole forever!’
‘Oh, Leo, it’s not a fortress, I’m sure—’
‘Have you ever been there? It might as well be, anyway, if Beatrice is in command.’
Francesca’s cheeks grew pink. Her hand went to her lips. ‘Don’t ask me to go against Beatrice, caro. I’ve told you all this so you’d understand. I’d be frightened, Leo. And all those Wise Women . . . oh no, it’s too much. Let’s wait and see—I’m sure she’ll be back soon.’
Leo watched as Francesca covered her face in her hands. She began to cry, and the tears seeped out between her fingers. Leo suddenly saw how much things had changed, that it was he, Leo, who had to be the strong one now, and he straightened his back in the chair as he made up his mind.
‘Do something for me, then,’ he said, standing up. ‘Come and help me look after my father. He needs a cooling bath, and I can’t lift him alone. The sooner he’s better, please God, the quicker I can attend to Merilee.’
Francesca leaped up in alarm. ‘Oh, Leo, I can’t,’ she cried. ‘How would it look? Franco would be furious. Who would get his supper? And Beatrice—what if she found out?’
Leo hardened his gaze. ‘Beatrice is not living here any more. You don’t have to do what she says. Just come for today, help me, and go home to Franco tonight. He won’t even know.’
Francesca looked towards the door. Then she looked at Leo. Her eyes softened. ‘I’ll come, caro,’ she whispered. ‘I’m sorry I left it so long. Just wait a moment while I change my shoes.’ And she hurried out of the room.
As they walked together along the stony path, Leo’s spirits began to lift. Even though he was loaded up with more sweetmeats (to tempt Marco), a goose liver, six sausages and a bottle of bergamot and lavender, his steps were lighter and quicker than they’d been for weeks. They didn’t talk much as they went. Francesca seemed lost in her own thoughts, but just the feel of her next to him, the soft swish of her skirts, gave him comfort.
He chuckled suddenly, thinking of how Marco’s face would look when he saw her.
‘What is it?’ asked Francesca.
When Leo told her, she frowned slightly. ‘I hope he’ll be pleased. I’ve always been so fond of your father. But I know he didn’t want you near us after—’
Leo kicked the ground. ‘Only because of Beatrice.’
They went on in silence, Francesca stumbling sometimes on a loose stone, Leo glad to give her his arm.
When Leo opened the door to his home and Francesca stepped inside, Marco was sitting up in bed. His mouth dropped open and he pulled up the sheets over his skinny chest. Leo saw him suck in his cheeks with shock.
‘Marco, I didn’t mean to give you a fright, it’s all right,’ Francesca said all in a tumble, coming over to his bed. ‘How are you?’
Marco was still lying there stunned, as if someone had put a freeze spell on him. Francesca laid a hand on his cheek.
‘He’s still got the fever, hasn’t he?’ she called across to Leo. ‘But he’s not burning up. Would you like something to eat, Marco?’
Marco managed to nod and his lips unfroze for a second into an almost-smile.
Francesca went over to the pantry where Leo was sorting the food. She looked into the pot where the soup lay in a congealed mess.
‘Burned it,’ Leo said in a strangled voice. He could hardly speak either. It was so extraordinary to have Francesca there in the house. To see her and his father talking together like they used to. He felt little and big at the same time.
Francesca sniffed the pot. ‘Peacock? I think we can save it. Too good to throw away. Let’s add some water and spices,’ and she busied herself at the cistern, ladling and pouring.
When it was ready she put a bowl on a tray for Marco, adding a plate of goose liver and sweetmeats. While she worked Leo thought how happy she looked, her movements sure and swift, the anxiety gone from her face.
Marco sipped the soup slowly. Sweat broke out on his forehead, and every now and then he had to stop, as if he were exhausted. But he’d drunk more than half of it before he put down his spoon.
‘Now just try the goose liver,’ Francesca urged him. ‘It’ll give you strength.’
Afterwards, when Leo had stripped the bed and changed the sheets and Francesca had washed all the bed linen, Leo went to fetch more water from the well in the courtyard.
‘You’ll need a quantity to fill that bath,’ Francesca marvelled. ‘You’ll certainly need help just emptying the thing.’
But when they came to Marco’s bed, still discussing the best way to lift him, Marco let out a cry of horror.
‘Santo dio,’ he trembled. ‘I’ll not have a lady carrying me!’ And he drew the sheets up to his neck.
‘Well I can’t do it by myself and you can wear your undergarments in the bath if you’re so shy,’ said Leo in a determined tone.
Marco was still muttering, lying straight as a post in bed.
‘Francesca’s come all this way to help us, Papà. Don’t be so ungrateful. She’s brought herbs to put in the bath, to reduce your fever. You know that’s good for you.’
Marco rolled his eyes, but he sat up. ‘Thank you very much for coming, Francesca,’ he said politely. ‘I promise to be good.’
He lifted himself slightly and tried to stand up. But his legs were so weak that he toppled back into Leo’s arms. Leo grasped him under the arms and dragged him a little way across the room, with Francesca supporting his back. Then together they lifted him into the cool bath.
‘Ah!’ Marco was fully immersed in the water, with only his knees and head emerging. ‘Splendido!’
Leo watched him close his eyes, his shoulders relaxing against the rim of the bath.
Marco had said more in the last hour than he had for five days. He’d actually joked! And it was all because of Francesca. Leo felt so proud and relieved he thought he might do a cartwheel right there on the floor.
After the bath, when Marco was lying on fresh sheets, Francesca brought a cup of wine mixed with water to him. She pulled a chair over and talked to him in a low voice. Leo hovered near, sweeping the floor.
‘Do you forgive me?’ he heard Marco whisper.
Leo swept closer.
‘Of course,’ Francesca whispered back. ‘I know how hard you tried.’
Marco was becoming agitated. Leo saw him twisting the sheets with his fingers.
‘Rest, now, Marco,’ Francesca soothed. ‘Don’t think about all that. It’s done, finished. You just need to sleep, and get better.’
But Marco strained towards her. Sweat beaded his upper lip.
‘But do you forgive the sins of my forefathers?’
Leo stopped sweeping. Dio! Did Marco think he was dying? That Francesca was some kind of messenger of God, the Virgin Mary? He went over to his father
and laid a hand on his cheek.
‘What is it, Papà?’ he urged. ‘Do you feel bad?’
Marco waved his hand at Leo, impatient. His eyes were still locked onto Francesca’s face.
‘Your father’s getting himself agitated for no reason,’ she said. ‘Perhaps the bath and the talking were too much. His fever’s climbing again. Leo, go and fetch my lavender oil and bring it to me, please.’
Leo scurried to the bench where she’d left her things. He looked through the pantry, next to the bath. He heard whispers, voices growing louder. Where was the confounded thing?
When he returned to the bed, Marco was lying back on the sheets. He smiled as Leo dabbed his forehead with a cloth soaked in lavender. The sweat had dried and his face was peaceful. He looked profoundly relaxed.
‘What did you say to him?’ Leo asked Francesca.
She just put her finger to her lips and whispered, ‘Let him sleep now. He’ll be all right.’
But as Francesca got up to go, Marco grasped her hand and kissed it.
When they had gathered up her things, Leo and Francesca quietly opened the door and tiptoed outside. Dusk was deepening in the corners of the street, blurring outlines, muffling distances. Only the first star shone above them, sharp and brilliant in the tender sky.
‘It’s late,’ said Francesca. ‘I should be home.’ She gazed the length of the street. There was no one. ‘The law.’
‘I’ll walk with you. We’ll go quickly.’
‘No, no, you stay and see to Marco. I’ll be less visible on my own.’
‘Well, I’ll just walk you to the piazza. I have to see Signor Eco, anyway.’
They began to hurry along the cobbled street. As they threaded their way past the quiet houses, Leo saw the moon rising over the steeple.
‘You’ve done my father so much good,’ Leo began to say.
‘I enjoyed being useful. He liked the sweetmeats, didn’t he? Don’t forget about the sausages for tomorrow.’
‘But just you being there, in the house with him, talking to him—it seemed to make such a difference, Francesca,’ Leo stopped for a moment. ‘What was he saying, you know, about sins, his family?’
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.
Chapter Twelve
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 th
ink 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?
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