The Book of Speculation: A Novel

When her breath came evenly, she took Amos’s face in her hands. “You must leave her. My own father, one of them stole him from me. Monster. She will kill you.”


When he frowned, she closed her eyes to block his denial. “You would laugh, smile. My Amos, your soul is so good she longs for it, but if you stay with her your end will be drowned in a river. She will find another as if you never were. If you do not break with her, you will die. She has killed. She will again. I see this.” Her palms smoldered with the same unnamable thing that allowed her to touch the cards and see what would come to be.

“Your card,” she croaked, “was the Tower. I saw it all that time ago. The girl will bring this on you. Same reading there is Devil. Not reversed, as you like him. Over and over I read cards for you. Never do they change. She, the girl, she is there in middle.” She took the deck in her hands, and a card’s worn edge called to her. She pressed the Queen of Swords to Amos’s hand, reversed so that the dark-haired woman’s eyes bored into him. A woman—Evangeline—bringing loss.

He shook his head, unbelieving. She had not seen how frightened Evangeline was that night she’d walked from the woods, or felt the desperation when she’d held on to him.

Little knots formed in Ryzhkova’s brow. She pulled another card from the deck in the same blind manner. The Devil, upright, a sneer on his face. Without pause she drew a final card. The skeleton on horseback. Death.

“This is what I saw. Then the girl came. We can leave here,” she said, touching his wrist. “We can go to my daughter. I will take you to her—a beautiful woman. Whole.”

A fine sweat broke over him at the thought of leaving Evangeline. He wrested the cards from Ryzhkova and felt her painted relatives’ condemning eyes. Even the pretty girl glared. He shuffled and let his fingertips slide until he felt a cold pricking beneath his fingernails. He pulled the card from the deck, revealing its broad bright face to his mentor. The Sun.

“Happiness, light,” Ryzhkova shouted. “He speaks to me of happiness. I tell you the girl will be the end of you. Happiness, you tell me.”

Amos searched again until he felt a card speak to his bones. The Hierophant—a powerful figure who ruled over alliances from a throne set between two pillars. A marriage.

“Bah,” said Ryzhkova. “Do not say such a thing. Soulless cannot marry.”

Amos remained intent, flying through the deck, turning card after card, painting the life he saw for himself, a life he dared imagine with a small house and Evangeline. The Wheel of Fortune, the Ten of Pentacles, the Ace of Cups, the Lovers, Two of Cups. Together they spoke of marriage, a love that spilled over so that all would be touched by it, as flows water.

The last image stabbed her, a man and woman, hands joined around a cup, pledging fidelity. She squinted and pointed her crooked finger at Amos. “You see what you want. You taint cards with your hope. You do not read future, you see wishes.” Her hand, weighted by rings, bent-branch thumb pointed outward, slid the cards back into the deck. The ends of her yellowed fingernails made the cards move. Much time had passed since Amos had first witnessed Ryzhkova make the cards dance like butterflies, magic that amazed as much as frightened. Once the cards settled, Ryzhkova placed her hand against the stack and pressed until her knuckles turned white. She closed her eyes, her face wrinkling until her features became indiscernible, forced out three quick breaths, and began to murmur over the deck. Her body swayed like a candle flame.

Something had broken between them; a tie he’d not realized was tenuous.

She spread the cards across the bare crate, a wash of color against dull wood. Four remained uncannily face up. Amos fixed on the pictures that stared up at him, the Tower, Three of Swords, Death, the Devil.

“Just as before. You see? She will wear you, bleed you, as water cuts stone,” she said, her voice a quiet ache. She repeated the ritual. Nine of Swords, a figure crying in anguish, blades looming over his head; Ten of Swords, a body, facedown by a river, run through with blades. The Tower. The Devil. Before she could clear the cards a third time, Amos took hold of her hands. He shook his head.

“Every time is same,” she said.

He felt badly for her anxiousness, but what she asked was impossible. He held Ryzhkova’s hands and thought of Evangeline’s tapered fingers. He knew of no way to apologize, but would repair whatever he could. In time, he hoped the women would grow used to one another. He hoped, foolishly perhaps, but he’d always loved the Fool.