Almost in spite of herself, Ilde's unhappy little moue - she'd have liked not to have been wasting his time and hers, with that book - dissipates, replaced by something subtler and warmer and pleased. It is, admittedly, not that difficult to make this happen - though it's fainter than her displeasure was, like disappointment is just more familiar. Everything she does, regardless, comes with a sharp edge.

“ASL,” she confirms, with careful gestures; she's less confident with this than she is lip-reading, less practised, but evidently somebody's quick study. (Remy LeBeau, who has been so good to her.) “I know a little. I'm still learning.”