The Book of Speculation: A Novel

Peabody was elated at the prospect of Evangeline’s pursuit of fortune-telling; it solved the problem of Amos’s employment and afforded him the opportunity to exercise his creative capabilities. He spent days and nights sketching, searching through chests, and confiscating any errant piece of cloth or bit of ornamentation from other wagons—an intricate piece of ironwork from Melina’s door, a length of muslin Susanna had left out, a tin of silver dust that Nat had held onto from his days as a smith—all snatched, borrowed, wheedled, and cajoled away. He refurbished Ryzhkova’s wagon in what he deemed the highest style. Blue, yellow, and white paint on the exterior, trimmed with flourishes and fleurs-de-lis. Swags of cloth were hung inside the door and the interior was painted an eggshell blue typically reserved for women’s skirts. Peabody painted compasses and stars along the walls, and supplied cushions from his own wagon. When finished, he conceded that he’d transformed Ryzhkova’s lair into a passable replica of an ostentatious French parlor. His book noted the change. A single line scratched through Mme. Ryzhkova, svc. Occult, under which was written M. & Mme. Les Ferez, svc. Oracular. Evangeline became Apprentice Seer, and next to Amos’s name Wild Boy had been emphatically stricken and replaced with Seer; small changes that meant a wholly altered life for Amos and Evangeline. For purposes of record keeping they became Etienne and Cécile Les Ferez.

“Russians are passé,” Peabody explained as he bestowed a costume trunk upon Amos. “Les vêtements,” he said, dropping the box. It thudded to the ground, sending curls of dust into the air. “Think, Amos, all this time you’d been sleeping atop your future. Costumes from my last trip to the Continent.” When neither Amos nor Evangeline took his meaning he elaborated. “France, dear children.” He shook out an age-stained floral scarf. “La France. The very height of civilization, fashion, and art!”

Amos balked when presented with the trunk brimming with stiff white fabric, lace and ruffles. Peabody cleared his throat. “Changes are difficult, but ’tis this or déshabillé. I understood you were not well pleased with being a savage.” He sized a pelisse against Evangeline’s increasing girth. “Most concealing, most concealing,” he murmured. “The French are—how shall it be phrased? Accommodating to ladies of parturient condition.”

The voluminous garb of a Gallic bohemian well disguised Evangeline’s pregnancy when she sat, and she sat a great deal. In her new employment she found that, were it not for the occasional pain and sudden bouts of sickness, pregnancy was not the inconvenience she had feared, and that she liked some of the changes reading cards brought.

Peabody spoke at length on aristocratic attire, the elaborate coiffures, wigs, and powder. “Lice,” he chuckled, “the fiends are rife with lice.” Evangeline took on the task of dressing Amos’s hair in the heavy ringlets Peabody stated were fashionable. Each night she used a fine wooden comb to part his hair into sections, twisting each into a corkscrew, which she then tied with cloth scraps. While she combed, she practiced her accent, pursing her lips. By evening’s end her face grew tired from overuse and Amos looked like a dandelion. While Amos seemed at first embarrassed by the task, after a week’s time she felt him longing for the quiet moments and the simple pleasure of having his hair brushed. She would sit on a chest while he sat cross-legged on the floor, bracketed by her thighs, and gave himself to her ministrations. She watched his breath slow with each pass of the comb. It was good to care for another.

On first inspection of Amos and Evangeline in full costume, Peabody could not contain his delight. “Elegance, my lovely things. You shall be the jewels of our menagerie. Monsieur et Madame Les Ferez, we shall teach the lowly and the unwashed about refinement, their futures, and style.”