She’d heard in his voice a trill of almost-laughter, which made her wonder if he was saying what he thought a king would say and not what he truly believed. She searched his face for lies and thought she saw many. Then he smiled cruelly and said, You should believe in magic. You are magic, so if you don’t believe in it, where will you be? Will you not exist? He mockingly put a hand to his lips and made a surprised face. Can a thing exist if we don’t believe it?
She had narrowed her eyes at this, unsure if he was making fun of her.
He hadn’t touched her. At night, he sat cross-legged on his bed with a lantern, gazing at his many books—often with a puzzled expression but always with a singularity of purpose that troubled her. He’d be flayed alive by his constituents, he’d mutter, if he did not have all the answers by the time they arrived at the Cape, but she didn’t know what he meant. He asked her direct questions that made no sense, like Can you see me dying? How do you think I might die if I were to die in, say, two months? Which was how long it was until they broke camp and headed south instead of north, until they broke the law and went forth to meet their destinies with brave hearts. He forced her to predict his death in as many ways as she could dream up, each more horrible than the last, until he sighed with a satisfaction that was nearly sexual and that frightened her because he’d never reached for her physically, never even tried. That troubled her. She began to believe he wanted something much more awful.
* * *
In October, they broke camp and marched over the plain. Fast, too fast, because they’d waited so late in the season, and soon they were riding in cold rain, against the wind, and she was miserable, wet, freezing, even in Mr. Capulatio’s wagon, where his charms hung from the ceiling, tinkling and catching the lamplight and casting prismatic shadows along the walls. She sat wrapped in blankets all day, beside the sack containing the Head of Cosmas, whom she now kept close because she felt like they were in this together, and also because he reminded her of her brother. She watched Mr. Capulatio, who read, took notes, screamed at people, and laughed. Most of all he spent his time writing long tracts on page after page of parchment that he then scrutinized furiously. Often he threw them away and other times he locked them in a trunk.
Water seeped through cracks in the old wagon and she tried to sleep most of the day but the shuddering and bumping kept her awake, and sometimes when she opened her eyes she caught Mr. Capulatio gazing at her intently and perhaps sympathetically, but she could not really tell because she couldn’t understand his face—it was written in a difficult language; the more she heard and saw of him, the less she understood. But forgiveness had been stirring within her a long while, perhaps since the moment he’d executed Argento, and when he looked at her she could not help but look back. He was a moon, pulling on the ocean of her pity. He was afraid, and she sensed that the first act of her womanhood would be to comfort him. Soon she would reach for him, not the other way around, and she knew then that was what he had been waiting for.
At a field of skeletal ruins, they camped for a day and a night. Still everywhere was flat, wide. Gaping holes in rusted cylindrical ruins. Metal scars in the fields. She overheard someone beyond the wagon saying “Arkansas,” and for the first time she wondered what that word meant—our-kansas. She glanced at Mr. Capulatio, in bed with closed eyes. He nevertheless chuckled. “Wrong. Still Missouri. Miserable Missouri. Fools never know where we are. I have a state-sense that’s never failed me.” He rolled over. “Today’s my birthday, did you know that?” He stretched his arms above his head and yawned. “Do you know how old I am? How old are you?”
“Fifteen.”
“Are you sure?”
“My birthday was the day before…” She trailed off and looked around the wagon. The day before you took me.
“That doesn’t mean you know how old you are.”
She stared at him. “I’m fifteen.”
He shrugged. “I was born on the anniversary of the launch of Cassini to Saturn. Today is a very important day, astronomically speaking. The book you have lists it out. It’s all there, it comes together just so, like a fairytale.” He noticed her eyeing him skeptically. “O, I’ve read that book you have, imagine that. It’s about me. Sugarplum, I am one blessed son of a bitch, nothing else you can call me. I can do no wrong.” He thoughtfully fiddled with his collarbone. “But you’ve never read the book, eh? Even though you had it.” Outside people rattled cooking pots and laughed and someone was singing. “Well,” he said at last. “What counts is what we do with our blessings, right?”
She remained quiet.
He took a deep breath. “What I’m saying is, I never get what I really want.”
She drew her knees to her chest. “What do you really want?”
“Ah! Do you really want to know?”
No. No. A drop of sweat fell down the center of her ribcage, between her breasts, and she realized she was trembling, and Mr. Capulatio swung his legs around and
