Katsura

In autumn, Katsura smells like a candy shop. When the katsura's heart-shaped leaves fall, they release a scent of caramel and cotton candy — the whole grove perfumed, the air itself confectionery — and children gather the fallen leaves like sweets. She is the Painted Bark's gentlest scandal: a tree whose surface is not the point at all, whose glory is in letting go. "The leaf," she says, "is a letter you only get to read by dropping it." The Flowering Court tries to claim her for the scent; she declines politely and keeps shedding. Her spring leaves emerge bronze-red, her summer green is unremarkable, and then — the fall, the fragrance, the brief season when the whole faction smells of spun sugar. Ephemeral, the Painted Bark says. Essential, says Katsura.