The Book of Speculation: A Novel

“Here now,” Peabody said, rising from his seat. “The girl’s been a draw since the day she appeared. If she makes Amos happy I am of the inclination to keep her.”


Ryzhkova charged forward, placing a knobbed finger on Peabody’s chest, marking each word with a stab. “He, who I have shown my secrets, he who I have loved like my son. He has lied to me. She will drink him, drown him. It has already begun.”

Peabody removed her finger from his waistcoat, pausing to right the pile. He attempted reason. “You might establish rules with him, perhaps. Give the boy latitude, a bit of forgiveness, Madame. Do remember that Amos was not always civilized. As for Evangeline,” he continued, “you might do well to try and know her. The girl has been nothing but amicable. Amos is not alone; I believe most of our men are half in love with her.”

“Tongue speaks, but head does not know,” Ryzhkova sneered. “You brought her to us, you must send her away. Or I will leave. I will go to my Katya.” Her smile was predatory. “I will take the boy with me. Without me, he has no work. No words. Without me, he is nothing. He will come.”

The ire clouding Madame Ryzhkova’s vision prevented her from seeing a hard look pass over Peabody’s face. “My dear Madame,” he said, “I believe you underestimate my concern for Amos. I am aware of both his strengths and his shortcomings. Though you named him, that does not give you claim. It was me whom he came to, I who first clothed him, from my son’s possessions.” He leaned close to Ryzhkova, using his size, until her back was pressed to the wagon’s wall. “Be certain that the lad is valued most highly and I, as ever, intend to look after his interests, romantic or otherwise—they are aligned with my own. While it would be unpleasant to continue without your esteemed services, I have discovered over the years that I am an intrepid soul and would assuredly make do.” He turned to take up his quill once more. “Madame, I find that I am no longer desirous of your presence.”

Ryzhkova backed away, taking the awkward step down from the cart. As she walked to her wagon to wait for Amos, she remembered a piece of something she’d heard as a child, when she’d still been Yelena. To Peabody, the words she muttered sounded like a madwoman’s gibberish; they were in fact the beginnings of a prayer, the prayer for deliverance her mother had whispered, rocking on her knees, while Stepan drowned.





15

JULY 20TH


“Wake up.”

I open my eyes to a pile of papers, some of which are stuck to my cheek, and Enola staring down at me.

I fell asleep at my desk, having spent the last day teaching myself about curses and searching for Ryzhkova. The National Archives were lacking in ship manifests pre-1800, but allowed me to track bibliographies that led to the New York Public Library’s archives and manifests from 1600 on. Access is by appointment only. I put in a begging call, asking for professional courtesy, though I’m no longer in the profession. I mentioned that I’m from Grainger, which is still almost true, and that we’d happily lend some of the whaling archive in trade. I’m a liar now; it doesn’t bother me as much as it might because five hours later I had the name Yelena Ryzhkova. A name that stuck out as a woman traveling alone in the mid-1700s, and because that name was Russian on a ship full of Englishmen. Going on that name I was able to find a daughter, Katerina Ryzhkova. From there things became difficult to track. Understandable; a revolution might have triggered an immigrant’s need to blend in and disappear. Genealogy sites have a way of making the eyes bleed, and so the rest of the day was spent on curses, hexes, and jinxed objects—printing articles, reading. Churchwarry’s title, Binding Charms and Defixione, is detailed and beautiful, and I’ve half a mind to keep it. I won’t, not when he’s been so kind. I spent the evening on curse tablets—words etched into stone and dedicated to a god to pray for an enemy’s demise. Interesting, but not immediately relevant, nothing to do with drowning or felling an entire matriarchal line. I moved to cursed jewels: the Hope Diamond, the Koh-I-Noor Diamond, the Delhi Purple Sapphire, things revolving around theft, homicide, and power. But there’s nothing in the book about jewels or theft, no suggestion of foul play in anything about the drowned. Most modern curses seem to be centered on holy objects, murder, or robbery, none of which seem to be a factor in the drownings. In the heavy night hours I delved deep into the 130s, the occult, and jinxed places. Lake Ronkonkoma—all my life living on this island and I never knew that the lake in the middle of it is cursed.

“Simon.” Enola stretches and pops her knuckles.

“So, Lake Ronkonkoma is haunted by the ghost of a Native American princess who drowns white guys.” My voice is thick with morning.