"Jane, will you read me a bedtime story?" Tracey asked, handing her a book.
Jane shook her head, and then took the book from Tracey, and handed it to their mother. "Sorry Tracey," Jane said. A moment later, she realized that she had just spoken. "Or maybe I can."
Her mother was giving her a weird look. "Jane, sweetie, you're speaking parseltongue."
Jane was surprised. In the past, she could not speak parseltongue without a snake around, unless she imagined that Mrs. Snake was there.
Jane tried to speak again. "What about now," she asked?
Her mother shook her head.
Jane trembled.
"It's okay. It's not your fault. It's probably just temporary."
After putting Tracey to bed, Jane's mother handed her a pencil and a piece of paper, with one line written on it.
Can you write?
Jane took the pencil and tried writing.
I think so.
Yes, I can.
I'm sorry I can't speak English. I don't know why.
Her mother sighed. "I don't know either. Maybe this is some state in-between being too upset to speak, and being able to speak. Or maybe this is a sign that too many horrible things have happened in your life, and that I should never let you out of my sight again."
Jane cringed, feeling smothered by the mere suggestion of that, and started rocking back and forth.
"Sorry, Jane. I'm not actually going to do that."