A strange buzzing sounds, and my attention finally goes to the other Fae, where the noise seems to be emanating from.

“Wings,” the first one says through that razor-sharp smile. “That’s what the noise is.”

The orc makes a strangled sound, eyes as large as dinner plates— but he’s not looking at me, no, he’s staring openly at the black lines of the tattoo on the light purple Fae’s hand.

A moon and vines. I have no idea what it signifies, what it could mean to a Fae who lives under the earth, no real moon to speak of.

“Bread and salt,” Piper calls out,  bustling towards the table from the kitchens. She stops in her tracks when she sees me. “Wren, what are you—” She cuts off the question with a sharp intake of air.

She’s given them my name.

Names have power amongst the Fae— especially in the Underhill.

Piper blanches.

“Wren,” the tattooed Fae purrs, pinning me in place with his pale, pale blue eyes, as clear as a cold spring. “A lovely name for a lovely witch.”

I go hot and cold all over.

“Bread and salt,” Piper repeats, jerking her head at me to sit, to join them. There’s a bit of annoyance in her eyes, but she doesn’t seem overly worried.

No, my pastry-making friend seems… completely fine.

There are two Unseelie Fae sitting smack-dab in the middle of her adorable black and white patterned floor, their lavender and deep purple skin complementing the few pastel frosted cakes left under the glass counter.

The massive Orc stands out like a sore thumb, and I can’t help but notice the way he’s watching her hungrily.

I don’t think it’s just for the honey-soaked loaf glistening on the platter in her hands.

The tattooed Fae pushes one of the heart-backed chairs out with a toe, grinning at me as I warily sit beside him.

At least this ritual of bread and salt will give us a modicum of protection. Every muscle in my body’s tense, and I focus on the serrated knife Piper expertly wields as she distributes a slice to each of the males at the table.

The men dwarf us, even the leanly muscled winged Fae, and it’s hard not to be painfully aware of their daunting physical presence.

Not to mention their innate magic, the citrus and smoke flavor of it tingling against my senses.

“I’m Caelan,” the tattooed Fae says after a perfunctory bite of the bread. “We appreciate your generosity.”

The winged male makes a sound of slight disgust, a noise that turns into a muffled moan a second later as the orc spears him with a furious glance.

“I’m Ga’Rek,” the orc offers after a beat, smiling broadly at Piper, and then me. “As you’ve noticed, we’re from the Underhill. We are hoping you know of a place we can stay here. Maybe some work.”

Piper leans forward, her eyes glimmering with excitement. “As a matter of fact, I need help here. I need another set of hands in the kitchen.”

“At the risk of sounding less than humble,” the table groans, the platter of sliced bread sliding towards him as he puts his weight on it, “I am a fantastic cook.”

Caelan arches an eyebrow, and the pressure of his attention finally flits away, towards the green-skinned orc. “Humility has never been one of your virtues, old friend.”

“You would be the expert opinion on that,” Ga’Rek tells him cheerfully, and the two laugh uproariously at their shared inside joke, while the third Fae sniffs at the bread before taking a delicate bite.

Piper clears her throat, wiping a crumb from her lips. “I don’t have need of three bodies in my kitchen, though,” she tells them apologetically. “Have you asked around anywhere else?”

Ga’Rek shakes his head, a smug look on his face as he studies the two Fae with him. Caelan, and the quiet, disdainful one who can’t seem to manage an ounce of friendliness towards us.

I scoot further away from the table, and nearly scream in surprise when a warm arm stretches around the back of my chair.

Fenn chitters an angry warning at Caelan, who, sure enough, has put his arm around my chair. I lurch forward, caught between either moving closer to his arm or closer to the table and absolutely not wanting to touch him.

The audacity.

I settle for an uncomfortable position in the middle of the chair and skewering the presumptuous Fae with a glare.

“Hmm. Isley, that’s our town grocer, she might be short-handed, you could check there. She sells fresh fruit and vegetables on the square.” Piper’s gabbing away like this situation is entirely normal, like Unseelie Fae are regulars in Wild Oak Woods.

It’s silly, but it does relax me a little.

At the very least, I’m not moping about the Guild’s rejection. Well, I wasn’t until I remember it, the cold words of the letter hitting me all over again, a punch in the gut.

My eyes well with tears, and I hunch my shoulders. Fenn pushes his cold, wet nose against my ankle, his fluffy tail wrapping around my other leg. Caelan’s watching me still, his pale eyes narrowed.

Piper claps her hands loudly, and I inhale with a shudder, grateful she’s pulled attention off the fresh tears. I wipe my fingers along my eyes, hoping no one’s seen my distress.

“Isley is for sure where you could start, if nothing else, she can probably use the help getting her goods from farm to market. I think she was talking about starting a small restaurant too…” She keeps talking, but I’m only half-listening, trying to stop the angry tears that threaten.

I glance around, pleased to see two of the three are fixed on whatever Piper’s saying.

Caelan, however, narrows his eyes at me, the smile that played along his lips disappearing as I dab at the stupid tears.

Mortified, I decide to ignore him completely.

He probably only wants to take advantage of whatever he perceives this weakness to be, he’s probably just looking for a way in.

That’s the Unseelie way. Bargains and tricks and promises they do everything in their power to keep the upper hand in.

I sit up ramrod straight. That won’t be happening to me, thank you very much.

No matter how pretty their packaging, how compelling their story, I will not be taken in. Nope.

Though, I have to admit, upon closer inspection, the three seem a bit worse for wear.

Their clothes are rumpled, not the polished finery, and there’s a hunted look in their eyes. Maybe they really are just looking for a new place to live. Caelan in particular seems to be doing his best imitation of tired innocence, and the orc, though completely overwhelmingly huge, seems genuine enough.

“What about the apothecary?” I force myself to ask, unwilling to utter Willow’s name. Last thing I need is to give these Fae another name. Goddess only knows what they’d do with it.

My skin prickles at the knowledge they have mine.

“She could use some help finding some of the more rare herbs and⁠—”

“Perfect,” Caelan says quickly. “Perfect. The—” he clears his throat, pausing. “Kieran is excellent at finding things like that. It’s in his nature.” He says this as an aside to me, a conspiratorial slant to his smile.

I take another bite of the honey-sweet bread, staring him down as I chew meaningfully. See? I want to tell him. Bread and salt. You can’t hurt me.

I don’t trust you.

Kieran, the winged fae, buzzes in slight outrage, his cheeks turning a brighter purple.

“Don’t deny it Kieran,” Ga’Rek says, putting a particular emphasis on the name. “You have a singular way with plants. The apothecary would be a good fit.”

Kieran scowls at Ga’Rek, who just huffs a laugh and slathers a piece of bread with Piper’s homemade butter, spiked with more honey a spell for pleasant thoughts, if I know her.

And I do.

“And what do you do, witchling?” Caelan leans further forward, and I taste the scent of magic clinging to him <scent here>.

I cant my head at him, annoyed with his presumptive tone, as well as the stupid nickname. “It’s been a long time since I was a witchling. You already have my name, anyway.”