The Book of Speculation: A Novel

Peabody coughed. “Yes, well. Quite right.”


Amos pulled the deck from his shirt and nimbly moved through the cards. One following on top of another, he showed Peabody Cups for communication; Pages for a great journey; the High Priestess for her, Ryzhkova, and how they must find her; the Fool for himself, as it was his fault that she’d left.

Peabody’s expression shuttered. He sat at his ciphering chair, looking every one of his years, and smiled with regret. “Darling boy, I cannot glean what you are trying to say.”

Amos cried out, the sound an unnatural grunt. He searched for the Hermit and presented it to Peabody, pushing it to his chest, where buttons pulled at velvet.

“I am sorry,” said Peabody, quieter than Amos had ever heard him. “Deeply sorry, but I’ve no idea what you mean.” He set down his quill, capped the inkpot, and rested his hands on the bulge of his stomach. “I can try,” he gently promised. “But I am old, it will take time.” Seeing Amos’s distress he said, “We’ve managed well enough, have we not?”

Amos began to weep. Peabody patted him, but his ministrations were of little solace. He let the young man curl up on the floor. For long helpless moments he watched as Amos quaked.

“She may yet return. We’ll wait the night and sort out the season. If she does not, well, then we must adapt.” He glanced at his ledger. Ryzhkova’s loss would slow their money; they couldn’t afford to keep a man without trade, no matter how much he liked him. He scratched his beard. The best thing for Amos would be to keep him valuable, to reevaluate him. Yes, Ryzhkova was gone, but where there was money lost there might also be money gained. He pondered a small sketch he’d done earlier of a horse.



“Did you know, Amos, that I was once a student of Philip Astley? When there was less of me I rode horses. In London, though I’m certain the name means nothing to you. I sat a fine seat. Astley was a marvelous man. Powerful voice. In my better moments I fancy myself like him; he taught one to swing from a saddle, stand atop it, and how to balance plates and teacups on one’s fingertips while galloping about a ring. A fine time, surely.” He paused to write a few lines. “But one cannot ride forever. I was vaulted over the front of a disagreeable brown mare—Finest Rosie was her name, though she was quite a tart; threw me flat on my back in the middle of the amphitheater with half of London looking on, kicked me in my stomach and back so I was never to ride again. It might have killed me, but I mended. A ship across the sea finds me here, in this place where they’ve never seen one such as Astley, or one such as me. It would be a lie to say that I don’t miss riding, but in many ways this is better. Here I may be Astley, rather than his paler shadow. You see, my boy? I have adapted. As will you.”

When Amos calmed, Peabody helped him to stand. He straightened Amos’s shirt, picked the straw from his hair, and dusted his shoulders. He looked the boy up and down, eyed the soiled spots on his shirt, the frays in his pant legs—no gentleman, but passable. He gave Amos a solid grin that tipped his moustache.

“There now, young master. Powder or a wig would improve you, but we cannot make silk from flax. It strikes me that you are in need of comfort best provided by the fairer sex. Go to your lady. I’ve always found that the sorrow of a departure is best remedied with a greeting—onward to romance!” Peabody pushed the door open, ushered Amos through, and watched as he shuffled from the wagon. A mute fortune-teller was a draw when working with a partner; alone, therein lay difficulty. Without Ryzhkova the accounts wouldn’t balance; he’d lost not one but two of the troupe. In the interim they could hang curtains in the Wild Boy cage, but the thought troubled Peabody; he could not place the moment when Amos had become his second son, but there it was. He thought of his time with Astley, and how it had not been his back that had pained him most, and for the first time in his long life, Hermelius Peabody felt old.

*

In the wagon with the small horse, Evangeline waited. “It is true then. Ryzhkova is gone,” she said when he climbed in.

She’d been crying, he saw the redness in her eyes, the spots staining her cheeks. When she tried to embrace him he pulled away, reaching for the cards.