Benno laughed. “Did I surprise you, Amos? I’d thought that difficult to do.” He leaned against the wagon, stretching so that inside his striped pantaloons his knees appeared to bend backward.
Amos shrugged then nodded. From time to time he’d sat beside Benno at meals and watched him perform, but he knew little about him other than that he was friendly, and seemed well liked among the women.
“Melina spied you leaving Madame Ryzhkova’s wagon,” he continued. Benno said the juggler’s name with an approximation of a smile, as his scar held half his mouth fixed.
Amos warmed at the mention of Melina. He’d watched her too, from across a campfire and through the curtains of the Wild Boy cage as she kept spoons and knives, eggs and pins spinning in flight. She had curling red hair, a sweet face, and a supple way of moving.
“She claimed Madame had worked a change upon you. I quite agree.” Benno tugged at his own brown hair, tied neatly with a piece of black ribbon. “Perhaps if I pull my hair up rather than down, Melina will look at me, too. Do you think?”
Amos’s brows drew together and Benno chuckled. “Worry not. I laugh at myself, not you, my friend. Madame Ryzhkova has afforded you the opportunity to show you are fine of face, whereas I…” He shrugged and touched his scar.
Amos looked at the corded skin, how it made a perpetual grimace, then took Benno by the arm and led him into Sugar Nip’s wagon. He gave Benno the radish to feed her and shared with him the simple peace that came from stroking the little horse’s nose.
They passed an hour in silence, after which Benno said, “I had thought you merely interesting. I was mistaken. You are a friend.”
He clapped Benno lightly on the back, as Peabody had done with him.
* * *
Ryzhkova began teaching Amos how to behave with her clients — most of whom were women. “History is a man,” she said. “Future is a woman; that is why they come.” When women came in, their skirts filled the front half of the wagon with yards of fabric; thick with sage smoke, tallow, and the warmth of three bodies, the space became a dreamlike sanctum. Amos noticed that people stammered when first speaking to Ryzhkova. He’d once felt that unease; Ryzhkova could be terrifying, but he’d learned that she was soft, too. She touched their hands during readings, a reassurance here, an encouragement there.
She urged specificity in questions and excruciating detail. “Truth brings more truth, yes?” Men asked mostly about their businesses, future harvests, or the identity of the fellow who stole a pig. Nearly all the women asked Madame Ryzhkova about love. Amos liked these readings best because Ryzhkova cooed, petted, and praised them. He pictured Melina’s round cheeks, her quick hands, and wondered if she dreamt about love.
Once the women left, Ryzhkova cursed their idiocy. “Can she not see the man is sleeping with other man’s wife? You see this card? Look, look.” She jabbed a finger at the Ace of Cups, which sat firmly in the position ruling the present. “See the water?” Streams of water spilled from a cup held aloft by a mystical hand. “Information. Communication. Rivers of lies he tells.” She laughed.
Amos enjoyed seeing her face move from sweet and kind to disgusted, all of which melted into tired laughter.
Months passed with Amos learning, listening, and at last turning cards for Ryzhkova, clearing them with herb smoke, and taking them from and returning them to their fascinating box. He ate meals with Benno, stole glances at Melina, and spent nights listening to Peabody tut over his books or the occasional correspondence he received from Zachary. Peabody remarked that Amos had begun to smile more. Amos shrugged.
“You’ve grown into your skin,” Peabody said, peering over the top of a letter.
Amos nodded, but he felt empty, like he’d stretched but his insides had remained small. His dreams were scented with curing tobacco.
A year into Amos’s apprenticeship the menagerie stopped on the banks of the Schuylkill as they ventured toward Philadelphia. The fog off the water hung heavy. Amos had been sitting on the hinged steps to Peabody’s wagon, watching Nat haul water from the river in sloshing buckets, when Ryzhkova’s gnarled hands curled around his and pulled him toward her wagon. Her knuckles crushed his fingers and he thought of chicken bones scattered around the fire after a meal.
“Come. It is time to learn who you are,” she said. Amos could do little but follow. From across the wide circle of wagons, he caught Benno’s eye. The acrobat winked. “I will read your cards, and after you’ll be an apprentice no longer.”
They had of late acquired two small stools in Croton, but Ryzhkova’s stare told him to sit on the floor. She tapped his shoulder and urged him down. “More grounded.” She patted the boards. “Good for cards.”
She had draped the walls and ceiling with cloth as she would for their clients, but the portraits looked out from between the folds of fabric. She gestured to the paintings. “It is good for them to watch. I paint them from memory. Except Katerina. My Katya sat for me.” Each portrait was illuminated with gold. “When my hand was steady, before the fingers bent.”
Her eyes trapped him as she began the ritual of cleansing. She produced a bushel of herbs from an unseen apron pocket, lit them with a candle, and began making symbols in smoke.
“Today, you,” she said. “To tell others what will be is to become part of fate.” The popping of hips and back preceded her sitting. She winced, folded her legs, and faced him. He realized the cart must be uncomfortable for a woman of her years. “You must know your own fate to read the cards, so not to mix your tale with others’. You see?”
She smacked a card to the floor. The Page of Pentacles, a young man, dark in skin and hair, holding a single star, would represent Amos in the reading. “Smart, eh? Like you. Stubborn. Scared. Young body, old mind.” She tapped the center of his forehead with a sharp fingernail before turning another card. She moved so quickly Amos could barely follow.
“Queen of Cups. Much water. Change. She dreams, yes? Rules over you.” A fair-skinned woman, dark haired, light eyed. Ryzhkova’s crooked fingers danced and twitched as she spoke. The wagon began to feel small, as though it could not contain them and his body might burst through it. Something was happening. Ryzhkova turned over a card and blanched. A dark card. Lightning cut across its background.
Her stooped spine jolted straight. Her eyes rolled back, unseeing. Amos reached for her and she clamped down on his wrist. A flat, strange voice flowed from her.
“Water comes, strangling what it touches as if made flesh. Father, mother, all will wither. You will wear and break until there is nothing. For you it will be as water cuts stone.”
A whisper crawled up Amos’s neck. He snatched his hand from Ryzhkova. She shrieked.
He jumped, feet skittering on the floor, then leaned in to look at the reading. Ryzhkova quickly covered the cards and cleared them away, muttering in a language that was a hypnotic mix of thumping and lilting. She folded the deck into a scarf and stuffed it back into the box, then closed her eyes and breathed. Amos could not say how much time passed before she moved again, before she said, “Strong future. Much change. Beware of women.”
She departed, leaving him alone in the wagon.
A month passed. Ryzhkova made no mention of the reading, though she took to asking him to spend more time with her at the close of day. He did not pry.
In summer the roads through New Jersey flooded and the wagons became mired, slowing northward travel to the promised prosperity of the Hudson River Valley. Days of backbreaking pulling, pushing, and digging wore on the troupe. Amos and Benno were too tired to stand straight, and even Nat’s strength was exhausted. By the time they reached the Hudson, Amos was unable keep his eyes open to study cards.