Emma was good at slipping into and out of accents. Her native French, that had brought a young girl so much abuse starting school in the States. The faint Southern drawl she'd picked up as a defense, that had only helped a little at school, but built rapport with the people who crossed her path when she traveled with the carnival. The Cajun echoes of Sister Thérèse and Remy. Hints of Roman Italian, Scots and a generic English, from the places she'd called home. But Sunny's she didn't recognize at all, or what Naija would mean.

One thing she was fairly sure of though. She let a little more Yat into her speech as she said,"Something tells me you don't mean what they call yams down in New Orleans."