His point having been made, the ball of yarn vanished as quickly as it had come, disappearing in the blink of an eye, a thing that never existed. King even walked over the place it had been once they came to it.
"Yessh," he said, his mouth full of bannock. He was polite enough after that to finish chewing and swallow. They should get something to drink before they left. "It's very good, thank you very much for bringing it," he said. Long ago his old ladies taught him to not just be a pig because he could. Take food but be gracious, and he was gracious, especially for something he'd never eaten before. It was rare for him to find something he'd never eaten before. Especially snacky things.
"And you don't have to crack out the American-isms for me, seriously. I'm not even American. I mean I was raised in the most American part of Canada, but Ontario is basically faux-Britain. Saint Catharine's has the best meat pies and custard tarts you'd ever hope to find, and I know at least one butcher that makes haggis. And I lived in the UK, I've lived all over. So you can biscuit and lift and boot and crisps and cock-a-leekie at me all you want, I'll mostly know what you're talking about."
He stopped himself from talking by taking a bite of an Abernathy biscuit. "Thish makes me mith good tea," he said, mouth full of biscuit.