The Book of Speculation: A Novel

A day’s travel found the menagerie in New Castle, where houses were brick rather than wood—red clay dug from the Pennsylvania hills. The sturdy structures seemed at odds with transient wagons, but Peabody insisted that bricks meant money, particularly so close to Philadelphia. Benno laughed at this while he and Amos unhooked wagons. “Bricks mean broken masonry. All the more rocks to stone us.”


The horses were fed and watered. Meixel walked the llama on the outside of town to avoid onlookers. Nat took Sugar Nip into one arm and carried the small horse to the river, while Amos and Benno swept out the animal wagons. Clothing and costumes were shaken and hung out to breathe. Evangeline’s tub was checked for leaks, and righted for the arduous process of filling it. While they stretched, cleaned, and stashed away the loose ends of days on the road, Peabody made rounds with his book, surveying the performers as to any needs that might be filled within town—Susanna had worn through her slippers, Melina wanted knives to practice with, Nat needed a sack of buckwheat to sleep on for his sore back—and what cut of the take each would earn. Amos received a fraction of Ryzhkova’s pay, but the amount did not matter, as Ryzhkova dressed him and Peabody provided for him from his own purchases. He needed little, but what he desired seemed increasingly impossible.

Ryzhkova was in a rush to take clients. She had Amos hook the silks inside her wagon almost immediately upon arrival. “Quickly, quickly,” she said. “Town is full of questions. We must answer.”

Amos was not pleased. After his exchange with Evangeline, he’d hoped to assist in setting up the water act, and to apologize. He looked out from the wagon to the line of performers shuttling water. Benno walked alone, a bucket in each hand. For the second time in as many days, Amos wished to be in his place. Instead he prepared for hours of listening and card turning. Long before the tub was finished being filled, he’d had to don his fortune-teller robes, while Peabody drummed up business from taverns and shops lining the Strand. One after another, the inquisitive knocked at the wagon door until the line of those seeking Ryzhkova’s advice wound past the wagons.

They were more talkative than people from farther north, whispering of trysts, thievery, jealousy, and greed. But, as with the northerners, after an hour or two of listening the voices blended into a single aching demand. Amos tried to recall the shape of Evangeline’s mouth, if she had smiled at all when he’d shown her the card. Ryzhkova clucked with appropriate sympathy, laughed when needed, and patted hands. When the time came for answers, she signaled for Amos.

“Young man will show the cards, yes? He has gift, hears fates.” She used her most motherly voice to whisper, “Is why he does not speak. Hears terrible, terrible things.” Ryzhkova’s accent was at its thickest when speaking to customers. Showmanship, Amos thought; not so large as Peabody’s, but there it was. “Secrets,” she said. “They travel to his hand, see? His hand alone makes the cards speak.” The clients watched Amos as if seeing their secrets in his veins.

“Much change. The man here, you see? He is Page. There is obstacle between you and your desire. Ah, I see.” Her singsong voice would have been soothing were Amos not distracted. He’d picked the wrong card; he could have chosen the World, to ask Evangeline to look for possibility, but its meaning was less direct. He’d intended to be clear and instead he suffered for it.

“Three of Swords in past. Poor thing. Heart has broken,” Ryzhkova told a mousy woman.

Three blades piercing a brilliant red heart. An apt image, Amos thought.



Ryzhkova comforted with her ruined hands, touching wrists, calming fears, speaking of future love. Whoever opened her door was told all would be well. It wasn’t true. Amos had seen the cards.

Well into the night, after the last client scurried away, Ryzhkova pulled the drape closed on her cart and shut the door. Amos stood to leave, but she stopped him. “Very important, Amos.” Her eyes were dark with warning. “You must know when to tell truth and when not.” She searched for words. “More money sometimes means less truth. They pay us well,” she shrugged, “we lie a little. Sit with me.”

He sat in a corner and folded his legs, the wood biting into his bare ankles, and watched as Ryzhkova began the lengthy process of unwinding her head scarf. Her hair slid down from the crown of her head, a coarse gray and white rope. Never having seen it out of the scarf, he was surprised at its length. It fell nearly to her waist. He briefly wondered what Madame Ryzhkova had once looked like. He glanced at the portrait of her daughter, searching for similarities that time hadn’t erased.

“I will teach you something,” she said. “Before we begin, you must know you cannot trick me. Only truth between us, yes? No lies. Not for we who tell fortune.” She smacked her palm on the top of a small stool. “You took my cards, yes?”

He nodded.

She laughed. “Good, good. You understand. Do not do this again.”