‘I’m coming,’ I warn them, my heart catching at the thought of hacking through those gathered branches. The acorn grows warm at my neck, and a tiny flash breaks through the winter air. ‘I need to get into the palace, so I’m going to run, and we’re going to fight you until we’re through . . . unless you get out of my way.’

One more step.

The trees do not part – if anything, they seem to bunch tighter, lowering their crowned heads. The white-furred weasels scramble into their hiding places, and there’s a deep, resounding boom, a great rumble deep down below us. We stagger, my knees are shaking, my head is full of shadow and fear, and then a great tide of snow and ice breaks from the tangle before us, rising up before plummeting down to the ground in a mist of cold so deep and thick that it rushes into our eyes and our mouths and throws us down.

Teacake bounces up first, her coat streaks of snow and shadow; she is hardly more than a blur of pink nose and green eyes. She pounces on us, her silver claws like needles, and she doesn’t stop until we’ve scrambled up, wincing and complaining.

This is hopeless . . .

Except, when I can see again, I realize perhaps it isn’t.

It is still winter here, and the land is thick with shadow, but the trees are only limed with frost now – they aren’t clogged with it. There are spaces between their trunks. They’ve cleared the way.

I look at Zara. She braces herself, as I do the same, and then we run straight through those gleaming silver trees, and they lift their arms up high so that not a single twig touches us as we go, and the acorn around my neck bursts into golden light, and there is no shadow made in the world that I will not fight to finish this.

The palace has been hidden for a decade, ever since my mother died, and my nan made her spell to keep me safe; ever since anyone saw my father. It rises up before us now, and takes my breath away. It’s a colossal, marble tangle of sweeping outer staircases, roof gardens where ice apple trees grow, and turrets topped with needle-sharp twists of green copper. Gargoyles spout rivulets of ice down over snow-encrusted window ledges, and great sheets of glittering frost cover every doorway.

And in every dark space, between every crenellation, lurking along the very edges of the palace, are yet more shadows. They are snarling foxes, dark-eyed hares, and other spiny creatures I cannot name. They gather, darker and faster, until the air is as thick as it is cold. But they do not strike. They do not move towards us.

‘Do you really think he’s here?’ I whisper, as Teacake bounds before us, half disappearing into the snow with every landing.