When you look at it like that, there really is no other choice to make.

I reach for the latch, push open the gate, and spring across the field, my hair flying behind me and the pack on my back bobbing. Tonight, my hair will be full of impossible tangles, but I cannot bring myself to care.

Without Nia around to caution me, I choose an alley even closer to the well so that I can get a better look. A loud gong chimes through the empty streets, the clock in the clocktower ringing in the noon hour. As if summoned by the deep, reverberating sound, unicorns and riders emerge like smudges of black across the horizon, accompanied by the steady thump of heavy hooves, rising and falling with every strike of the bell. Part of me expected to see different men from last week, but as far as I can tell, they’re all the same.

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.