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.

Hmmm… Perhaps I’m wrong.

Still, I withdraw another biscuit and hold it toward him.

To my shock, he stretches out a large hand and takes it from me. His hands aren’t hairy at all, nor are they covered in warts. Besides being that strange green-gray hue, they’re just like mine.

Just like mine if mine were gigantic.

He brings the biscuit to his nose and sniffs. His nose wrinkles once more even as he breaks the biscuit in two and pops one half into his mouth. The others watch attentively as he chews. There’s something oddly sensual about the flex of his jaw and bob of his throat when he swallows.

I truly must be losing it. Whoever heard of someone having an attractive throat? My smile tightens as I meet his steady gaze, the onyx pools of his irises threatening to pull me under, an ocean of ink and darkness.

The one who whispered tries once more to reach into the box, but the leader swipes the box from my hand, twisting around with a deadly glower aimed at his fellow Unseelie. The most heinous noise rumbles from his throat, somewhere between a growl and a snarl.