“Comes great responsibility?” Laurel finished.

Jamison turned to her, smiling now. “And who taught you this?”

Laurel paused, confused. “Uh, Spider-Man?” she said lamely.

“I suppose some truths truly are universal,” Jamison laughed, his voice echoing off the great stone walls. Then he sobered. “It’s a phrase we Winter faeries use often. The Briton King, Arthur, said it after witnessing the terrible revenge the trolls took on Camelot. He always believed that destruction was his fault, that he could have prevented it.”

“Could he have?” Laurel asked.

Jamison nodded to two sentries, who stood at either side of an enormous set of wooden doors that led through the walls. “Probably not,” he said to Laurel. “But it is a good reminder nonetheless.”

The doors swung open soundlessly, and all thoughts were chased from Laurel’s head as she and Jamison walked out of the enclosure and onto a hillside.

Verdant beauty flowed down the hill and as far as she could see in every direction. Black paths wound through masses of trees, interspersed with long, flower-speckled meadows and rainbow clusters of something Laurel couldn’t identify — they looked like gigantic balloons of every imaginable color, sitting on the ground and sparkling like soap bubbles. Farther down, in a ring that appeared to spread all the way around the base of the hill, were the roofs of small houses, and Laurel could make out brightly colored dots moving about that must be other faeries.

“There are…thousands of them,” Laurel said, not quite realizing she had spoken aloud.