“That is the Winter Palace,” Jamison said. “I live there.”

“Is it safe?” Laurel asked dubiously.

“Of course not,” Jamison replied. “It is one of the most dangerous places in all of Avalon. But I am safe there, as are its other occupants.”

“Is it going to fall down?” Laurel asked, eyeing one corner that was done up like a corset with viridian laces.

“No, indeed,” Jamison replied. “We Winter faeries have been caring for this palace for more than three thousand years. The roots of that redwood grow with the castle now, as much a part of the structure as the original marble. She would never let it fall.”

“Why don’t you just build a new one?”

Jamison was silent for a few moments, and Laurel worried that her question had offended him. But when he responded, he didn’t sound upset. “The castle is not only a home, Laurel. It also safeguards many things — things we cannot risk moving simply for convenience or for satisfying our vanity with a fancy new structure.” He gestured back at their stony gray destination with a smile. “We have the Academy for that.”

Laurel looked back up at the castle with new eyes. Instead of the haphazard loops of green she had seen at first glance, she could now pick out the order and method in the latticework stripes. Careful braces on the corners, a web of roots supporting large expanses of wall — the tree really had become part of the castle. Or perhaps the castle had become a part of the tree. The whole structure seemed to lounge contentedly in the embrace of its sprawling roots.

Around the next bend they came upon what Laurel first thought was a wrought-iron fence. A closer look revealed that it was actually a living wall. Branches wound and curved and wrapped about one another in complicated curlicues, like an impossibly complex bonsai tree. Two guards, one male, one female, stood at a gate, both in ceremonial armor of a vibrant blue, complete with shiny, plumed helmets. They both bowed low to Jamison and reached for their side of the gate.