The Book of Speculation: A Novel

“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.