Before She Ignites (Fallen Isles Trilogy #1)(25)

“I wish I could learn something like that.”

“Not supposed to teach others.”

That hadn’t been what I’d meant.

“Already in prison.” He turned his head—the tendons in his neck shifted, but that was all I could see—and sighed. His chest moved up and down. “What else can they do?”

Plenty, but suddenly I couldn’t risk him changing his mind. It seemed ridiculous, wanting this code. It would take me ages to learn it. I wasn’t smart. But I’d never gotten to have a secret language with my sister, and learning the quiet code would give me somewhere to put all my anxious energy.

“Allies need communication,” he went on. It was the most I’d ever heard him speak, and it was definitely for my benefit. This was a negotiation. The quiet code in exchange for an alliance.

“That’s true. And we are allies, right?”

He made a short, pleased noise. “We both escape?”

“We both escape.” I didn’t know what he’d done to get here, so maybe this was a huge mistake, but I needed help. I needed an ally. When my parents had me freed, I’d make sure they had Aaru released, too.

“Ready to learn?” he asked.

“Right now?”

“Have something better to do?”

I supposed not. “I’m a terrible student,” I warned.

“I’m a good teacher.”

Hopefully patient, too.

“Taught four little sisters, brother, and neighbor. Can teach you.”

He seemed really sure of himself. “All right,” I said.

“Get comfortable.”

I grabbed my blanket and pillow and scooted toward the hole again. It wasn’t remotely comfortable, but after a day of cleaning, nothing less than my own bed, with its feather mattress, silk sheets, and cloudlike pillow, was going to satisfy my aching body.

“It’s very old. The code.” As he spoke, he thumped his fingers against his chest, using both hands as though his ribs were a drum. But in spite of telling the story in two ways, he seemed to settle into it. Like he’d told it a hundred times. “Older than the Fallen Isles.”

Then it was ancient. People had settled on the Fallen Isles over two thousand years ago—at least, that was what we’d learned in school. The mainland had a much longer history, but it was hard to fathom something so big.

“Two parts: long and short. Drag finger for tapping longs. Combinations make letters. Pause between letters. Long pause between words.”

“One letter at a time?” It seemed like a lot to keep up with, from the first letter to the last of a long sentence. I couldn’t imagine keeping track of all that.

“Seems intimidating?” He almost sounded amused. “Toddlers learn quiet code and spoken words. You can, too.”

“Idrisi toddlers can spell?”

He made a soft, almost chuckling noise, and quickly drummed his fingers against his ribs. Not in the code, but maybe like a laugh. “No. Little ones learn entire quiet code words with corresponding spoken words. When they’re older, they learn to spell. Same as spoken words and reading.”

That made sense, I supposed. Just, reading seemed a lot faster than listening to a series of sounds. But maybe it would be easier with practice. “Why do you use the quiet code?”

He hesitated.

“Do you have to? Is it a rule there?” Why did they even teach spoken language if they had a quiet code? Well, to communicate with the rest of the world, probably, but— Idris is isolated. That was the first thing we learned in school about the Isle of Silence. Most people there—with the exception of political figures and people who worked in shipping—never saw the outside world.

I added prisoners to that list of exceptions.

“Sometimes it’s choice. Communicate without others knowing.” He thumped the words against his chest. “Quiet code doesn’t need sound. Flashes of light. Blinking. Movement. Before my—” His voice caught. The thumping stopped.

I waited.

Nothing.

“Aaru?” If he’d been Ilina or Hristo, I’d have reached through the hole and touched his arm. But we were strangers, so I huddled by our shared wall and whispered, “It’s all right. You can skip it, if you don’t want to talk about it.”

A shiver ran through him. “Sorry.” (Three quick taps.)

“Skip the bad parts.”

He gave a jerky nod. “Parents held hands. Tapped on fingers. Wrists. They talked about my siblings and me. In front of us.”

Had my parents ever held hands? I couldn’t remember. But I imagined what it must be like to share that with someone. What an intimate mode of communication.

“That sounds nice,” I said, not quite smothering the longing in my voice.

“Yes.” (One long, one short, two long.)

“You said sometimes using the code isn’t a choice.”

“Rules. Many rules.”

“Like what?”

“I love Idris. And hate it.” His voice grew even softer. “Rather just teach.”

“All right.” If anyone understood loving and hating something, I did. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to intrude.”

“It’s fine.” He waited a few moments, as though gathering his thoughts. “Ready?”