An older faerie—not so old as Jamison, Laurel thought, though it was hard to tell with faeries — approached them and inclined her head. “Jamison, a pleasure.” She smiled at Laurel. “I assume this is Laurel; my, how you’ve changed.”

Laurel was startled for a moment, then remembered that she had spent seven years in Avalon before going to live with her parents. The fact that she couldn’t remember anyone didn’t mean they couldn’t remember her. It made her strangely uncomfortable to wonder how many of the faeries she passed on the grounds could remember a past she would never recall.

“I’m Aurora,” the faerie said. “I teach the initiates, who are both ahead of and behind you.” She laughed, as if at some private joke. “Come, I’ll show you to your room. We’ve freshened it up — traded outgrown things for new ones — but other than that we have left it undisturbed for your return.”

“I have a room here?” Laurel asked before she could stop herself.

“Of course,” Aurora said without looking back. “This is your home.”

Home? Laurel glanced around at the austere foyer, the intricate banisters on the winding staircase, the sparkling windows and skylights. Had this really been her home? It looked — felt — so foreign. She glanced behind her where Jamison followed, but there certainly wasn’t any gawking from him. His surroundings in the Winter Palace were probably even more grand.

On the third floor they approached a hallway lined with dark cherrywood doors. Names were painted on each in a glittering, curly script. Mara, Katya, Fawn, Sierra, Sari. Aurora stopped in front of a door that very clearly said Laurel.