The Book of Speculation: A Novel

Silence spread between them. Amos gathered his daughter in his arms. They sat for hours until the small lines of sun that sliced through the gaps in the wagon walls stretched then faded into nothing. Bess coughed and sneezed once.

“The child,” Benno muttered. “She has lost too much.” He rose to his feet and opened the wagon door. “There have been lies, so many, and I have been a part of them. I am sorry, friend. I will find Ryzhkova for you. Her daughter, Katerina—Ryzhkova would go to her. I will find her and tell her what has happened. She will come back. You will work again and teach your girl. I will do this for you. You will not be alone.” When he left he pulled the wagon door shut behind him. Benno was gone with the morning.

Amos’s time was filled with secret work. Bess had become silent, had not uttered a sound since the night they’d returned from the ocean. For hours on end Amos sat in front of his daughter, trying to remember what Evangeline’s voice had felt like when he’d pressed his ear against her breast. When he attempted sound all that emerged was a rough scratching. He held Bess to his chest in hope that the resonance of a beating heart might stir her to sound. It did not.

The cards slept in their box, untouched. They were marked by all that had passed between them—Ryzhkova, him, Evangeline. He would have to cleanse the cards repeatedly, how much he could not be certain, and to cleanse the cards would take the last of Evangeline away, the piece of her that still lived in them. It had been his mistake to not clear them once Ryzhkova had left. He’d only wanted to hold on to the woman who had taught him. The remainder, her lingering fear, had mixed with the cards and become a curse that twined with their fate like a braid. He kissed the top of Bess’s head. He would not teach her to speak as he did.

The Wild Boy cage reappeared. Fall turned and they pushed north, hoping to make New York before the weather changed. The Les Ferez cart was painted green and adorned with depictions of a grotesque Wild Man.

*

In a clearing north of Burlington they made camp under the shelter of ancient oaks. The stop was unscheduled but the troupe was weary; being shorthanded made travel more difficult. Peabody approached Amos’s door. It opened a scant crack. A single dark eye looked out.

“My boy, it is time you work. It will be good for your spirit and good for your girl to see you happier. The old act,” here he coughed. “It will be as it was before. I think you will be fine at it.” The door opened no further. Peabody chewed his bottom lip, causing his beard to bristle. “We got on well once, you and I. Please, let’s do so again. We’ll start anew.”

The door slammed shut.

Hours after Peabody had knocked, Amos emerged from the wagon, child in arms. He was wiry like a stray dog and his clothing fell from him. He crossed the camp and eyes followed him, his every move of interest. He rapped at Peabody’s door and was greeted at the first knock. Curly brimmed hat askew, Peabody smiled.

“Fine to see you out, good lad. And with our little girl looking every bit a beauty, she. Quite the—”

Amos thrust Bess at Peabody’s chest. He looked a long moment at his daughter before turning on a rotted boot heel and walking back across the camp. Peabody took Bess in his arms and watched as Amos continued past the last wagon and toward the deep of the woods. By the time he thought to send Meixel after him, Amos had ventured far enough that Peabody lost sight of him. The infant looked up at his crinkled blue eyes, clenched a fist around the pointed tip of his beard, and cooed.

“Well, most wonderful girl,” he said in the softest voice he could manage, “what have we here?”