The Book of Speculation: A Novel

He pulled back on the braided leather, causing the horse to trip to a halt, and skated his fingers through the deck. Ahead, the yellow door of Benno’s wagon disappeared into the trees. For a moment he thought to pair the card with another, but a tingling in his spine told him the one would be enough. He pressed Strength into Evangeline’s palm.

She contemplated before saying, “I cannot swim much longer. Few will want to see the Atlantis Mermaid and her enormous stomach.”

He squeezed her hand, pressing the card between them, heating it.

“Peabody has said as much. I must find other work during my confinement else my employ will end.”

Amos swallowed. Peabody could not afford to lose two incomes in a season, and there would be another mouth to feed. He snapped the reins. The horse protested but began to move.

“It would be good to work with something that does not pain you,” she said softly. “I think you wouldn’t miss the shrieking and the stares, or the insects and the rain.” She brushed an angry mosquito welt on Amos’s wrist, and his flesh leaned into the scratching. “You looked well before. A fine man who I would like to see again.”

He heard the longing in her voice and remembered how women sighed during card readings; Ryzhkova had said it was the sound of a spirit breaking.

“I believe I would take to it. I confess that I sometimes grow tired of water. It wears at me, like a river does its banks.”

He nodded, but his face grew grim. Their language had been one of double meanings, a weakness of the cards. In giving her Strength, he’d hoped she might see it as comfort, that he would protect her. Abide and all will be well; he would learn to be happier, to take care of her. But she was breaking, and in so had sought an older meaning, one unique to them, from when he had knelt and placed his head in her hands, lion acquiescing to lady.



The wheels bounced and Evangeline tumbled toward the edge of the seat board. Amos caught her and pulled her to his side. Evangeline snuggled into the crook of his arm. After a time, her eyelids drifted closed, light blue veins showing through her skin. He would teach her tarot, if only to keep her with him. On a not-too-distant night they would come to the lesson that had brought him to Evangeline but had cost him Ryzhkova. A knot formed under his ribs. He dreaded the day when, sitting in Ryzhkova’s wagon, he would teach her how to lie.





21

JULY 21ST–JULY 22ND


“Have you come up with anything on Frank McAvoy’s family?”

“Simon, is that you? Where are you? It sounds like a war zone.”

“A carnival parking lot.”

“Oh,” he says.

“Did you get a chance to look into him at all? I’ve been trying to track down another name, the card reader, Ryzhkova. I think there’s a chance that Frank might be a relation. The portraits in the book, the ones Frank has, I’m fairly certain they were hers. I did some digging on genealogy sites. Ryzhkova had a daughter, Katerina, who married one of the circus performers, Benno Koenig. I’ve hit a snag finding their children, but if you’ve started from the present and I’m working from the past, I think we’ll meet up.”

A group of boys shouts as they spill out of the carnival and into the lot. I cover my ear. Though some of the ride noise still filters through, it blocks enough sound that I can hear Churchwarry’s breath hitch.

“I’m afraid I haven’t gotten much done at all. A client took up a great deal of my time. I had to track down a title for his mother’s birthday. Green Jade for Laughter. The closest copy is in Washington State in a library that wasn’t keen to let it go.”

“We’re protective of our archives; they justify funding.”

A dog barks in the background. Churchwarry shouts, “Down, Sheila!” followed by a scuffling noise. “Yes, well, they’re certainly funded now. It was all terribly time-consuming.”

A man passes by with a waddling little boy, sticky and screaming. I duck into my car hoping for more quiet. Inside isn’t much better, but with the windows rolled up I can hear, though it’s boiling inside and the phone slips on my cheek sweat. “I’m running out of time.”

“Do you think perhaps you’re too close to things?” he asks.

“It’s my sister.”

He clears his throat. “I’ve noticed the hours and frequency you’ve called and I can’t help but wonder—I’m sorry there’s no better way to ask, but are you still employed?” When I say nothing he continues. “I mean no offense, but I’ve known slow periods myself, long hours and financial strain do funny things to one’s perspective.”

My mouth goes dry. “My perspective is that I just saw my sister go into a trance and curse two teenage girls to a lifetime of misery, barrenness, and death. Also, I think I’ve just been offered a job as a carnival attraction, so I’m perfectly fine, thanks.”

Churchwarry coughs. I recognize the sound of spluttering tea. He is of course the tea type.

“I—”

“I’m a breath-holder, a swimmer.” Saying it to him is different than saying it to Thom Rose; it’s shucking the mantle of librarian and announcing an intrinsic part of me. “So was my mother, so is my sister and all the women on my mother’s side. Ten minutes, no breathing.”