The Book of Speculation: A Novel

He did not see Nat close his door, leaving Evangeline outside, nor her trip to her tub. He felt a fool for not having gone and removed the cards, returning them to Ryzhkova and declaring himself finished with them. He curled up against the clapboard wall, closing his eyes. He breathed deeply, listening to the evening around him, slowed his heartbeat and tried to disappear into the wagon walls. Even with his eyes squeezed shut he saw her handing a dark bottle to Nat, how their fingers had touched. His heart panged.

He heard his name. First by Ryzhkova’s wagon, then Susanna’s. Evangeline calling him. He heard Melina but could not hear the words. His name mixed with cracking from the fire. If he stayed with Sugar Nip she might not find him. He would steal the cards back. He was light with his fingers, still quiet on his feet, and if he moved quickly enough he wouldn’t wake her.

But Evangeline would know. Sugar Nip chewed the end of his scarf and he brushed her away. He couldn’t bear more days of hanging his head, knowing that she thought him ridiculous. He felt ill enough already. He heard Susanna speaking with Evangeline; she was close now. If he did nothing, she would see the cards as the rambling of a mad mute. The small horse nuzzled his arm. If he showed her, if he tried, she might understand. She did not have to love him, but she had to understand. He would be the lion.

He faced the wagon door and struck his fist against the boards. He rattled the door until he saw her turn, searching out the source of the noise. He waited and watched, legs folded, as they would be if he were reading cards. Evangeline spotted him, but her expression was one Peabody had not schooled him on. He saw the cards in her hand, the familiar orange backs, and wondered what it was he’d thought to gain from them.

“There you are,” she said when she reached him. “Were you hiding from me?”

He shook his head and gestured to Sugar Nip.

“You’re good with her. Friends, I would venture.”

He shrugged, shifting uneasily.

Evangeline looked down to the cards in her hand. “Did you leave these for me?” Her voice was firm, but not unkind.

He nodded. Unable to meet her eyes, he stared instead at the Queen of Swords. His mouth was dry, his tongue leaden.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “They’re quite beautiful, but I cannot keep them. I’m certain Madame Ryzhkova would miss them.” When Amos made no move to take the cards, she said, “I would not like to see her angry with you. She’s rather terrifying.” He remained still. “You’ve been kind to me,” she ventured, bending to place the cards beside him.

He looked at the cards and saw their meanings, all the days and nights his fingers had spent touching them, learning them better than he knew himself. Amos laid his hand over hers, trapping the cards beneath. He shook his head.

“Amos, I won’t keep them.”

He gently took the cards from her, careful not to touch her again, lest he lose his nerve. Before she could leave, he raised the Queen of Swords, holding it for her to see. He pointed to the dark hair of the painted woman then touched the black of Evangeline’s. Though he willed them not to, his fingers trembled. Her hair was as smooth as he remembered.

“I look like her to you?”

It was more than that, but he nodded. He showed her the second card, Strength. He pointed to the woman who held the lion subservient, tracing the finely painted hand with a fingertip. Steadier now. She had not run. He bit his cheek and then touched Evangeline’s hand, brushing her knuckles. He showed her the orange brown of the lion’s mane and pressed his hand to his chest.

“I don’t understand.” Still, she did not run. How glad he was that she did not run.

He set the card on the floor of the wagon and hopped to the ground. Evangeline jumped at his sudden movement. He held up his hand, open-palmed, gesturing for her to wait. She did. He dropped to his knees in the soft dirt before her, lifting his eyes to meet hers. He took her hands in his, then placed them on his head.

How long they stayed that way—silent, still—neither could have said.

When Evangeline took her hands away, he stood.

“You are the lion?”

He touched his forehead to her shoulder and she held him in the comforting way of women. “And I…”

When she stated her understanding, a simple oh, it little mattered. The gesture had already spoken.

Later, in the dark of the mermaid’s empty tub, they unwound his hair from its binding. Evangeline marveled at its sleekness and color. Amos did not realize she found it beautiful; his thoughts were disjointed, so taken was he by the curve between her hip and waist; the sweet, salty taste of the skin on her wrist, the inside of her arm; the flutter of her pulse at the base of her neck. Where he had known bodies were made to hunger, to labor, to run and work, he had not known they were meant to feel such sensation from another. Where before he’d held her to comfort and to quiet, she now held him to sate and slake. He feared that he would cry out, would make the awful sound as he had in the woods but, mercifully, he stayed silent.