The Book of Speculation by Erika Swyler

Author:Erika Swyler [Swyler, Erika]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, Literary
ISBN: 9781466857797
Google: rEbABQAAQBAJ
Amazon: 125005480X
Publisher: St. Martin's Press
Published: 2015-06-22T16:00:00+00:00

16

Though Burlington, New Jersey, was bustling and an excellent place to restock, it was not expected to be a financial boon. “Friends,” Peabody muttered while writing. “Fiscally responsible teetotalers. A difficult lot for any showman.” Amos’s brows raised in question. “The Quakers, my boy. Fine persons with whom to conduct business, but they do not indulge. How I wish purse strings were not so reliant upon the flow of liquor. You’ll find your work with Madame Ryzhkova to be lighter here than you’re accustomed. Perhaps you’ll enjoy a rest. Spend a bit of time with our mermaid, yes?” In his book, next to Burlington, Peabody had written, Witch trials here before war. Shall take care with Amos.

Peabody’s words proved accurate. For the first time in many months Amos was at loose ends. There was still work to be done, supplies to be purchased, horses to be reshod, smudge-charred cloth to be replaced, all of which Burlington could provide. Amos liked Burlington. A patchwork of buildings ran along High Street, some brick and peaked like New Castle, others wood with squared barnlike roofs. There was also a firehouse with a towering steeple almost like a church. A mix of people filled the streets; dark-skinned men walked freely here—Amos had even spied one working in a bakery. Wandering the town, he began to picture a small house, brick perhaps, with a chimney, and a bed that didn’t rattle over wagon ruts, a place he might share.

He’d been helping Meixel haul feed sacks—a bit of white ribbon tucked away in his pocket for Evangeline—when Madame Ryzhkova snatched his ear and twisted it painfully. “Come,” she barked. Amos’s face turned hot at Meixel’s laughter.

The seer pulled him into the wagon with such ferocity that he tore his pant leg on an exposed nail. As Ryzhkova berated him, he worried the frayed threads with his thumb, comparing their softness to Evangeline’s hair.

The angrier Ryzhkova became, the harder it was to glean her meaning; she slipped into the other language, clunking syllables like falling rocks. He knew she railed about Evangeline. Ryzhkova waved the cards at him, disgust carving deep lines in her face. It was too much to see Evangeline and not touch her, not talk with her, but he’d known that they’d become reckless, and suspected they’d been seen trading kisses. Ryzhkova knew. Her skin grew mottled and purple, and Amos became afraid, for himself and for his teacher; bodies were not meant to work in such a way. He took her hand, brown fingers closing around the cards and her crooked knuckles.

At his touch Ryzhkova’s voice dropped to a whisper. Amos felt the portraits watching, begging him to listen. When he looked in her eyes he found them tired and sad.

Amos had learned much from Evangeline, how a smile did not always mean happiness, that crying might mean sadness or joy, and that women could be much comforted by an embrace. He put his arms around Ryzhkova, resting his cheek by her breastbone in the curved space where women held their children.

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