“Hey,” she says. “You okay?”
“I found something strange. Mom died on July twenty-fourth, and so did her mother. Also, Thom saw our grandmother perform, which is weird, but that’s not even the strange part.” I’m rushing, but I don’t care. “I went through the book Churchwarry sent me, and then a bunch of books and articles that Alice and I found, death registers, newspapers going back — way, way back. I went back until I could find names that were in the book. They die on the twenty-fourth, all the women, Mom’s relatives. They all drowned and they drowned on July twenty-fourth.”
She stops moving. “That’s it. You think we’re all going to drown, don’t you?” She shakes her head. “That’s twisted. That’s you wanting to hear things, fucked-up things. You’ve been alone in that house for too damned long.” She looks down at the table, at her hands, her cards. “You think we’re like her.”
“No,” I say and hope that for one second she believes me.
“You’re the worst bullshitter.” Enola’s chair tips forward and she sighs. “She just got sad, okay? Unbearably sad. I told you that book is messed up. Forget about it. Go get your stuff, come back here, and we’ll set up a place for you tonight. Get the hell out of the house. If Frank wants it, let him have it; it’s filled with dead people and it’s going over.” She reaches out to squeeze my hand, grinding the knuckles together. “Look, I’m sorry if I left you alone too long. I’m sorry, okay? Get your stuff. Bring it back here. Don’t bring the book.”
She looks so earnest, as if I am the problem, as though she didn’t just scare the life out of two teenage girls. “What’s going on with your cards?”
“Nothing,” she says, too quickly. “It happens sometimes when somebody interrupts a reading. Messes up the vibe, taints it. Speaking of which,” she waves a hand, “I need to clear the room.”
“I went through the book. I saw what you did.”
“What did I do?”
“You defaced it. You ripped out every single sketch of tarot cards and I want to know why.”
“I’m not fighting with you.” She adjusts her scarf and wipes at a black eyeliner smudge, making it either worse or better. We stare at each other.
Doyle slips back into the tent. He looks back and forth between us before slinking over to my sister. “Dude, you need to let it go.”
His arms form a mass of dark octopi around her shoulders that looks like it could strangle. She puts her hand on his elbow and it’s this simple touch that makes it clearer than any performance he’s done for her, the miles he’s driven, or whatever she might say about him — she loves him. They have a home, a life, and I’m outside it.
“Okay,” I say.
“Get your things and come back. Promise? Get away from Frank,” she says.
“Camp out in your car. I’ve done it, it’s no big deal,” Doyle says.
They take turns saying things about making a place for me, how everything will be fine. But I look at Enola and see the shimmering ghost of fear; she may lie to herself, lie for Doyle, but she heard me. She’s frightened.
“I’ll be by later,” I say as I leave the tent. I need to figure out what to do about Alice. I need to call Churchwarry.
20
Seer vanished. Possibly deceased. Reconfiguration requires additional sojourn in Burlington. It was difficult to encompass the depth of guilt Peabody felt at Ryzhkova’s departure, if only for the effect that it had on Amos.
Reluctant to leave it, her cart became Amos’s home. He had no wish to spend his days with Peabody, who wore pity like one of his waistcoats. Worst of all was sleep. Amos’s dreams overflowed with visions of Ryzhkova and her cards.
Having given up the search, they departed Burlington, passing the day in mud, rocks, wagon ruts, and loneliness. That night he simply held Evangeline. In the morning she moved all her possessions into the wagon with Amos. When Evangeline’s arms could not comfort him, Amos concentrated on the trace musk of burned sage, and imagined Ryzhkova haggling pay with Peabody or discussing stitch work with Susanna. Gradually he grew to understand the Three of Swords’s pierced heart; Ryzhkova had broken him.
He spent more of his days with Sugar Nip, content to pass hours with a creature who didn’t care whether he spoke or worked, or mourned. Kindness and food were Sugar Nip’s currency, one he deeply understood. On a late evening, Amos went to the small horse’s wagon to feed her wild onions, and found Benno already inside and scratching Sugar Nip’s forelock. Startled, Amos nearly fell from the door, but Benno steadied him.
“Apologies, I did not mean to frighten. I was hoping to speak with you. Something weighs heavily upon me, something perhaps I should have told you.” His voice was a whisper, and his eyes glinted in the shadows.
Sugar Nip snorted and stamped uneasily. Amos fed her the onions and crouched beside Benno, tilting his head in question.
“I saw something I believe I was not meant to. Evangeline. Before Madame Ryzhkova left, I witnessed them quarrel. I thought little of it at the time, but then Ryzhkova departed and I began to wonder.”
Amos started.
“I say this out of care, and because you have been kind to me. Did you never wonder where Evangeline came from before she found us? She worries me. You know me now; I’ve shown you what I was. You trust me, I think. Can you say the same of her?” He put his hand on Amos’s shoulder as if to steady him once more.
Amos felt bile rise. He spat into the straw.
Benno slid forward, poised on the lip of the door. “I think sometimes it is difficult to look after ourselves,” he said, thoughtfully. “We look to friends to do it for us. But perhaps I am mistaken. I thought only to warn you and, selfishly, to ease my mind. I’ve done so. I ask only that you think on why she drowns herself.” He rubbed his thumb over a scratched knuckle on his left hand. “And why Ryzhkova would leave.” Benno hopped down, and left Amos to his thoughts.
It was an hour before Amos felt right enough to leave the wagon.
Peabody granted Amos an amount of time to sort himself out, but after two towns with Amos doing little more than cleaning up after the animals, Peabody pulled him aside. “Work, Amos.” He sat Amos down by the accounts table and mussed his hair, which without the benefit of a head scarf had started to mat.
“Idleness is our enemy and never did fill a man’s purse.” At Amos’s puzzled expression, he added, “Money has a way of changing one’s outlook. We shall find you something. Enterprise, my boy. Nothing leavens the spirit like enterprise.” Beneath the shade of his hat, Peabody’s eyes were tired. Amos knew what would come.
The Wild Boy cage reappeared. Evangeline stood beside him when the velvet curtain was drawn back from the bars. She had only known Amos as the fortune-teller; he’d preferred it that way. He pulled his arm from hers.
Peabody touched a glove to the boy’s shoulder. “For the moment, until we are able to confabulate a vocation for you.”
“Is there truly nothing else?” Evangeline asked.
“Your water act is hardly fit for two,” Peabody coughed. “As it were Amos remains a Wild Boy without compare. He was glorious. It may be enlightening for you to see him at the height of his powers. Quite the thing.”
But desperation made the act fearsome. Women screamed and fainted more than they had before, and the troupe began to give Amos a wide berth. Money came as Peabody had promised, though the draw was less. “The joy has gone,” Peabody said after the closing of a lean show. “The showmanship, my fine fellow, is not what it could be.”