Certainly, the same leader, with the same slashing brows and serious, midnight eyes.
They fill their jugs in a show of muscles and strength, not so much as a conversation between them. It isn’t until they carry the final jug to the final cart that I get up the nerve to do what I’ve been planning all week.
With a deep breath, I push away from the wall, straighten the pack on my back, and step into the square.
The moment my slipper meets the cobblestone, the man at the front stills. Twelve heads swing my way.
How on earth did they hear me? I didn’t make a sound.
When they see me, their spines snap straight, making them even taller and more imposing. I take another step toward them, and another, encouraging my lungs to breathe as they watch me through curious eyes, silent as the cobbles.
Not wanting to frighten—or irritate—them by coming too close, I stop when I reach the well.
The man at the front clasps his hands at his back, and all the others follow suit. The movement pushes their toned chests forward.
Heavens above, I have never seen so many muscles in one place. The deep cuts of their chests, highlighted by the necklaces of white stones ringing their necks. The ridges of their abdomens. The indentations at their hips where those menacing daggers gleam.
Although my smile never falters, my nerves make my voice quake. “Hello.”
The others exchange glances, but the man at the front doesn’t look away.
None of the Unseelie smile or offer greetings of their own.
Perhaps they don’t speak our language.
Why didn’t I think of that possibility sooner?
I press a hand to my chest. “My name is Kerris Dawn. What’s yours?”
One of the men to the leader’s right steps forward to whisper in his leader’s very pointed ear.
Whatever he says earns him a glower, but no one addresses me.
All right.
I suppose that answers the language question. I slip my pack from my back, and the whole lot of them retreat a step, their hands falling to the hilts at their belts.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you. I brought a gift.”They don’t understand you, Kerris. They might not even know what a gift is.I withdraw the box of almond biscuits we baked last night.
Back in Gravale, I had a cantankerous old neighbor who lost his son in an avalanche and his wife shortly after. For over forty years, he was all alone—and surlier than a cat with no teeth. Week after week, I brought him blueberry-lemon bread. After a few months, he eventually invited me inside for tea. I visited him every week until the day he died.
These men might not be old, but they do look almost as wary as I flip open the top of the box.
The men at the back of the group lift onto their toes to peer inside. The leader’s chest expands, his nose wrinkling.
Perhaps he doesn’t know what a biscuit is.
How tragic.
I lift one out and take a bite, showing them there’s nothing to be afraid of and that they’re safe to eat.
The one who whispered stretches out a hand only to have it smacked away by their leader.
I step forward and raise my head to meet the leader’s narrowed eyes.
How is he so bloomin’ tall? The top of my head barely reaches his collarbone.
No matter. Being the size of a giant doesn’t necessarily mean he has the temperament of one. When I smile, his scowl deepens.