The Book of Speculation: A Novel

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.