The Book of Speculation: A Novel

I rescue my notes from upstairs, where Enola is now fully asleep on Doyle’s lap, her body stretched across two armchairs. I grab my bag and Doyle quirks an eyebrow. “Notes,” I say. He says nothing.

I make the call from Alice’s desk, because her chair is softer and it’s farther away from the whaling collection than mine; it also smells like her, like salt and lemon. Her drawer is filled with purple pens, the caps ever so slightly chewed. Purple pens are for meeting notes. The receiver smells like her. Doyle stands at the stair rail, craning his neck, watching me, his head propped on one inky arm.

I don’t wait for a greeting. “You’re a Ryzhkov.”

“Simon? I’ve been trying to get in touch with you. Where have you been?”

“My phones are out. You’re a Ryzhkov. Did you know? The cards in the book, they were your family’s.”

He clears his throat. “I’m sorry, what?”

“I need to know why you sent me the book,” I say. “It’s important.”

“It’s just what I told you. There was something different about the book, wonderful, but it wasn’t the sort of thing I could sell. Ryzhkova? Truly?”

“Libraries would have wanted it,” I say. “A circus museum, maybe. There’s always a demand for something that old, you just need to know where to look. You’re a bookseller, it’s your job to know where to look.”

He sighs. “There’s a circus museum in Sarasota might have been interested, yes. But haven’t you ever felt connected to a book? My wife has a copy of Treasure Island. It’s stained, missing pages, and it’s in horrendous condition, but she won’t part with it. I’ve given her others, beautiful printings, but she’s not interested. That Treasure Island is her book.” I hear chair legs drag across a floor as Churchwarry sits. “I went to the estate auction for Moby-Dick, but I saw that book in the lot and I needed a better look at it. I overbid terribly, but I needed to be certain I had it. Purely speculation, of course—nobody was allowed to get a good close look before bidding—but I thought there was a chance it was my book. The way Treasure Island is Marie’s. But the moment I touched it I knew it wasn’t mine. I knew it wasn’t for selling, either, not at Churchwarry and Son. I can’t explain it other than to say that it was begging to be given away. I kept it for a little while, looking through it to see if I could find where to send it. Then I saw that name. Verona Bonn.”

“My grandmother,” I say. “Martin, it was your book. Your great-great-grandmother was the fortune-teller in the menagerie, Madame Ryzhkova.”

“You’re absolutely certain?” He coughs for a few moments, not for sickness or age, but to gather his thoughts. “Extraordinary,” he says. “The circumstances are so chance.”

“I don’t think it was chance. Books like this aren’t supposed to leave a show or a family, but this one is different. Enola says she’s never seen one like it. It found its way to you, and you found me. Like it was looking for us.”

“How marvelous,” he says, almost giddy with it. He’s no longer listening to me, lost in his own thoughts. “To think of the time I spend procuring books … How fitting: a book procured me. Utterly fantastic,” he murmurs. “I’d like to look at it again. Would you mind sending it back? Or better, could you bring it here? I’d like to meet you as well. It seems we should meet. It’s as if we’ve been pulled together, haven’t we?”

“I can’t. I burned it.”

“You what?” Behind me, the emergency door rattles, pushing against the encyclopedias. “What was that?” he asks.

“The library is flooding,” I say. Churchwarry makes a startled sound before asking if I’m safe. “For the time being. I destroyed the book and everything from Frank’s. I thought that would take care of it, like smashing a curse tablet—exorcism by fire, but then the storm came. Martin, something’s very wrong. I’m worried.”

“You think you’ve missed something,” he says.

The water pushes forward and it’s time to sacrifice another encyclopedia, and tear out another part of me. “I have to hang up, but I wanted you to know. You should know who your family was. I need to block the doors.” I glance over to the chairs where Enola sleeps and Doyle sits, watching.

“Simon,” he says, with a rasp in his voice that I haven’t heard before. “Please be safe.”

His words are heavy with rare things: care and possibility.





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