Page 48 of Even Angels fall
“How does it work? Do we need to read everything?”
I realize I’ve said “we” only after the words leave my mouth.
That seems to make Cassiopé perk up.
“You want my help?”
I don’t know if I want to share the only piece of Léandre I have with Cassiopé, but at the same time, I feel like I’ve lost enough time to decipher whatever message he sent me, and I count my blessings that Cassiopé knows how to operate that enigma sort of book.
“That would be nice. Thank you.”
28
Angélique
For the next hour, we compile the differences between the pages that have been printed twice in the book. Some are easy to find, like an “e” being replaced by an “a” instead, or an “r” that is missing in a word, but others are trickier.
The French language isn’t the easiest I know, and their accents on letters everywhere makes me doubt what is the right way to write the text I have before my eyes.
I should be used to it. I learned French as a kid. I was even given a French first name, hell, even the Aléan language has accents, but since the collision between Aléa and Earth, English has been the official language for the entire world and accents are now only fancy little additions to words and names.
Once we’ve read the doubling pages—twice each—we finally have something. All I see is letters and punctuation.
Nothing looks like a sentence or even words.
I huff in annoyance. My brain is mush, but next to me, Cassiopé gets a tiny notebook and writes all the vowels on one side and the consonants on the other side.
Then she starts to group them together, and it’s like magic.
She mumbles to herself, and then she looks at me.
“Do you happen to speak French?” she asks with a weird glint in her eyes.
“Yes?” I say tentatively, and it comes out like a question, because it’s been a while, so I’m not even sure I still speak French, after all.
“Look at that and tell me if something rings a bell. I’ve got no idea what I wrote, but it sounds like it’s kinda right,” she says with amusement.
I look at her paper, and it takes a moment to register.
Papa a étè empoisonné. Je suis prisanniers de ton pére tont que tu n’a pas rempli la mission.
Some of the letters aren’t where they’re supposed to be, but it’s all the same. My blood freezes at the sight of what I’m reading. My breathing goes wild, and my hands curl and uncurl at the pressure I’m feeling in my whole body.
I think I tossed the paper on which Cassiopé wrote, but as I open my hand, I realize that I absently corrected the sentence. I have no recollection of doing so.
Papa a été empoisonné. Je suis prisonnier de ton père tant que tu n’as pas rempli la mission.
Dad has been poisoned. I’m your father’s prisoner until you complete the mission.
That can’t be right.
“It’s not good?” Cassiopé asks me, but from the way she looks at me, she already knows something is wrong.
If I had to guess, I’d say that my face has turned paler than it’s ever been.
It’s not possible.
Why would Léandre write that to me? Why would he hide that in something I can barely understand on my own?
