The Book of Speculation (17 page)

“Why exactly would you steal from the library?”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“Don’t apologize. Just explain. Marci saw you take books and told Janice. I just spent
half an hour
being lectured on theft of property as if I’m responsible for you. Because we’re seeing each other. Everybody knows because there’re no damn secrets in this place. What the hell were you thinking?”

“I don’t know. Shit. I’ll bring them back.”

She’s quiet for a minute.

“Are you still there?”

“You’re not pissed that I still have my job, are you? Because that’s going to be a problem.”

“No. God, no. I’m sorry. I just, I needed the books and I didn’t think.” Enola is giving me the stink eye. “I’m sorry. If I knew you were going to get flak for it—”

“Quit apologizing. Just bring the books back.”

The thought of going to the library after being fired is humiliating, let alone to return stolen materials. “I can bring them to you tonight.”

“It’ll look worse if I bring them in.” A loud sigh. “Just take them to the library, okay? For me. Also, my dad’s been bugging me about having dinner soon.”

The implication is clear. Sitting across from Frank and Leah, holding Alice’s hand underneath the table. I make a noncommittal grunt.

“Yeah, I know. It’ll be weird, but we’ll get through.” She hangs up, which I suppose is good. Anything I could have said would have made things worse.

Enola’s cackle is startling. “Holy shit,” she says between gasps. “Ho-
ly
shit. I know why you won’t ask Frank for money. You can’t. You’re fucking Alice.”

12

Peabody had been right about New Castle. A trade hub, merchants and shippers came up from the river flush with money, and cattlemen tumbled in from Hares Corner, crowding the herringbone streets and Dutch squares. It had been the colony’s capital before the war, but with the influx of British and battles around Philadelphia, those in government fled to Dover, leaving behind a city steeped in melancholy reminiscence—exactly the clientele to seek distraction from a troupe of traveling performers.

Amos and Ryzhkova worked day and night until the tide of patrons ebbed.

“Those who long to live in past dream just as much for the future,” Ryzhkova said, sipping a mug of frothy beer Amos had procured. His mentor had a liking for the bitter drink. “They desire for past and future to be one.” Her eyes grew soft and glassy, and it was not long before she reclined against the mattress and began to snore.

He tucked a blanket over Ryzhkova’s shoulders and set the mug carefully aside so as not to wake her. They’d seen their final clients; for the moment he was without obligation. Evangeline’s tub had been emptied for a morning departure. Amos recognized opportunity.

He did not think about the lie as he searched for the cards, or that the very act was breaking a promise. The card he hunted held a subtle meaning, one he hoped Evangeline would find less frightening than the Lovers. The Strength card. It bore the image of a beautiful woman whose hands rested on the head of a lion. The beast gazed at her in adoration, while she both caressed and subdued him. He pulled it from the deck and began to close the box when he thought better of it and took the Queen of Swords as well—a dark-haired straight-backed woman who bore some resemblance to Evangeline. Best to be thorough. She needed to understand.

In the days since uttering the rasping noise, he had tested his voice, only to find it incapable of producing a satisfactory sound. At first, Peabody was delighted with Amos’s efforts and offered assistance after catching Amos croaking to himself behind the velvet drapes in his wagon. He sat across from Amos and explained the proper way to support sound, using all the stomach’s muscles to push out the air. “Like a bellows to the fire,” he said, patting his belly. Peabody’s gut swelled and emptied, but when Amos tried to duplicate it, all that emerged was a rattling hiss, which practice did not improve. They tried humming, whistling, and buzzing the lips. Peabody was convinced that tightness in Amos’s tongue kept him silent. “It’s trapping the sound down in your chest.” He demonstrated yawning and tongue rolling. Amos recalled the llama making the same expressions before spitting slime. Amos’s tongue would not comply.

Peabody’s enthusiasm for the project waned. “Practice, my boy. Patience as well,” he said before retiring one evening. He rubbed his eyes and hung his hat on a brass hook above his bed. The velvet pile had begun to wear from the brim, and Amos imagined that the inside of his throat looked much the same—raw, thin. “One does not learn an art in a day. Mustn’t be discouraged,” he said as he opened his book and began to note the day’s events.

Ryzhkova’s cards offered Amos his best chance to speak. Chosen cards in hand, he felt purpose rise inside him, stronger than hunger.

Unattended, Evangeline’s tub was drying in preparation for sleep. Amos shimmied the two cards between the stave joints so that they stood on end, and pulled the oiled canvas down so that none but she would see what he had done. He then went to the small horse’s wagon and sat in the doorway to wait for Evangeline’s return. He regretted not having an apple for Sugar Nip, but she was content to have her nose stroked and didn’t mind that he smelled of burned sage. He calmed his nervous hands by combing her mane.

A half an hour had passed when Benno approached Amos’s hideout. New Castle had tired Benno; his normal bouncing gait was replaced by an old man’s shambling. Amos often watched his friend work, flipping from feet to hands and back again in endless circles, walking around on fingertips, or supporting his entire weight with the knuckles of one hand.

Though Benno made it seem effortless, it was not. Benno lifted himself into the wagon to sit beside Amos, dangling his legs over the side.

“I think you occupy too much of your time with bird-watching,” he said. A light accent squared each word, sharpened his vowels. The unscarred corner of Benno’s mouth quirked into a smile.

Amos grinned. There was no way to explain that he was in the midst of a conversation with Evangeline, only she had yet to discover it. He motioned toward Benno’s legs and pantomimed his aching walk.

A short whuff of breath. “Ah well, we aren’t all as young as you. Also, for you every town is the same. For me?” He showed his hands, scraped and raw, with a fingernail black like a sunflower seed. “A brick street is not as nice as a dirt one.”

Amos thought of Ryzhkova’s warped fingers. His profession would have its own punishments. He twisted his thumb to show Benno.

“You have many years before that. That woman has three lifetimes on you, surely. Speaking of women,” he continued, “Melina asks after you. Go to her. See if she’ll share a wagon with you on the road.” He patted Amos’s shoulder gently. “Courage.”

Amos shook his head.

“The Mermaid is not for you,” he said softly. “Melina or Susanna are better suited, happy women. A quiet man needs a happy woman. Evangeline, she pulls sadness behind her like a cat does its tail.”

Amos tapped Benno sharply on the arm, glancing at him from the corner of his eye. A short but telling gesture.

Benno nodded slightly. “I understand. Where I come from some would call her nixie—half fish, half woman.” At Amos’s quiet snort he continued, though more softly. “Silly, I know, but she plays with death, Amos. And she says nothing of where she came from. There is a thread,” he said, tracing a spot on the wagon floor. “A line that runs between the living and the dead. It is thin and likes to break.”

Amos busied his hands to show he didn’t wish to speak any longer. They sat together and watched Nat heave clothing trunks onto a cart, thick muscles pumping, and Melina by the fire, soaking her sore hands in a pot filled with water and salts. Then Nat returned to his cart, and Susanna sat beside Melina and struck up a light conversation. After a time Benno climbed down from the wagon. “You are my friend and you are kind,” he said quietly. “More than is good. I was taught to watch for gentle souls, as they’ve not the wit to look after themselves.” For a moment his eyes took a serious cast, but it vanished quickly with his strange half-torn smile. “I talk too much. Forgive me,” he said and began the painful walk to his wagon. “Be brave. Happy women are good for kind souls.”

Amos waited.

She walked in from town carrying several small bottles in her skirt apron. He remembered her dress as being Susanna’s, though the blue looked brighter on Evangeline. Her skin was pink from the journey and wisps of hair curled around her face; save for when she was underwater in her white dress, Amos had never seen her prettier. He smiled until she crossed the length of the camp, past where he sat, to knock at Nat’s door. Nat answered, leaning out, and Amos strained to hear what was said. Evangeline handed the bottles to the big man—oils, liniments for an aching back. He’d seen Nat use them in the past; menthols, herb oils, sharp-smelling things rubbed hard into the skin. He watched them exchange pleasantries and a sourness gripped his stomach. Nat laughed and Amos forced himself to look away. Sugar Nip nudged his back but the touch brought no comfort.

He did not see Nat close his door, leaving Evangeline outside, nor her trip to her tub. He felt a fool for not having gone and removed the cards, returning them to Ryzhkova and declaring himself finished with them. He curled up against the clapboard wall, closing his eyes. He breathed deeply, listening to the evening around him, slowed his heartbeat and tried to disappear into the wagon walls. Even with his eyes squeezed shut he saw her handing a dark bottle to Nat, how their fingers had touched. His heart panged.

He heard his name. First by Ryzhkova’s wagon, then Susanna’s. Evangeline calling him. He heard Melina but could not hear the words. His name mixed with cracking from the fire. If he stayed with Sugar Nip she might not find him. He would steal the cards back. He was light with his fingers, still quiet on his feet, and if he moved quickly enough he wouldn’t wake her.

But Evangeline would know. Sugar Nip chewed the end of his scarf and he brushed her away. He couldn’t bear more days of hanging his head, knowing that she thought him ridiculous. He felt ill enough already. He heard Susanna speaking with Evangeline; she was close now. If he did nothing, she would see the cards as the rambling of a mad mute. The small horse nuzzled his arm. If he showed her, if he tried, she might understand. She did not have to love him, but she had to understand. He would be the lion.

He faced the wagon door and struck his fist against the boards. He rattled the door until he saw her turn, searching out the source of the noise. He waited and watched, legs folded, as they would be if he were reading cards. Evangeline spotted him, but her expression was one Peabody had not schooled him on. He saw the cards in her hand, the familiar orange backs, and wondered what it was he’d thought to gain from them.

“There you are,” she said when she reached him. “Were you hiding from me?”

He shook his head and gestured to Sugar Nip.

“You’re good with her. Friends, I would venture.”

He shrugged, shifting uneasily.

Evangeline looked down to the cards in her hand. “Did you leave these for me?” Her voice was firm, but not unkind.

He nodded. Unable to meet her eyes, he stared instead at the Queen of Swords. His mouth was dry, his tongue leaden.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “They’re quite beautiful, but I cannot keep them. I’m certain Madame Ryzhkova would miss them.” When Amos made no move to take the cards, she said, “I would not like to see her angry with you. She’s rather terrifying.” He remained still. “You’ve been kind to me,” she ventured, bending to place the cards beside him.

He looked at the cards and saw their meanings, all the days and nights his fingers had spent touching them, learning them better than he knew himself. Amos laid his hand over hers, trapping the cards beneath. He shook his head.

“Amos, I won’t keep them.”

He gently took the cards from her, careful not to touch her again, lest he lose his nerve. Before she could leave, he raised the Queen of Swords, holding it for her to see. He pointed to the dark hair of the painted woman then touched the black of Evangeline’s. Though he willed them not to, his fingers trembled. Her hair was as smooth as he remembered.

“I look like her to you?”

It was more than that, but he nodded. He showed her the second card, Strength. He pointed to the woman who held the lion subservient, tracing the finely painted hand with a fingertip. Steadier now. She had not run. He bit his cheek and then touched Evangeline’s hand, brushing her knuckles. He showed her the orange brown of the lion’s mane and pressed his hand to his chest.

“I don’t understand.” Still, she did not run. How glad he was that she did not run.

He set the card on the floor of the wagon and hopped to the ground. Evangeline jumped at his sudden movement. He held up his hand, open-palmed, gesturing for her to wait. She did. He dropped to his knees in the soft dirt before her, lifting his eyes to meet hers. He took her hands in his, then placed them on his head.

How long they stayed that way—silent, still—neither could have said.