“Do you think we should wait, or just go in?” Otto said, but before Eleanor could answer, the doors swung open and someone—or something—stepped through.

The being striding through the doors had to be at least ten feet tall. He was towering and spindly looking, with a vaguely human-shaped body—at least, as far as she could tell with it being under long blue robes—but a head that looked distinctly goatlike. He was carrying a number of books in his two right arms, while a third arm on the left gripped a clipboard. A small, battered plastic name tag pinned to his robes read the librarian, and below that, he/him. He peered over half-moon spectacles at them.

“Yes?” he said.

“Are you the librarian?” Eleanor asked. What she’d immediately thought to ask was Are you going to eat us? but that didn’t seem polite.

“No, I am the Librarian,” the creature said.

“Isn’t that what I said?” Eleanor stammered.

“It’s capitalized. You didn’t capitalize it,” the Librarian said, blinking at her. Eleanor wasn’t sure how he could tell whether she’d capitalized it, since she’d been speaking out loud, but she decided not to argue.

“I’m sorry. The Librarian, then,” she said, and he gave an approving nod. “We’re looking for the Prime Stories.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Which ones?”

Eleanor frowned. “All three of them?”

“Three? You think there are three?” the Librarian said with a warm chuckle. “Young lady, the Library contains the largest collection of predatory Stories in all the worlds. Here, let me get a better look at you.” He came around the side of the desk. A fourth hand appeared from under his robes, and he raised it to adjust his glasses. “Ah. You are the Gray Tales, if I’m not mistaken. Warrior, witch, and world-walker.” He pointed at each of them in turn.

“That’s right. And we’d like to see them. Us. The original Stories, or whatever,” Eleanor asked, trying to sound confident and trailing off helplessly. “They’re, like, actual books, right?”

“Like actual books, yes,” the Librarian repeated, as if speaking to a particularly dim-witted potato.

Eleanor gave the Librarian a bright smile. “Yes. We’d like to see our Stories, please.”

“But of course,” the Librarian said with a flourish of one hand—Eleanor thought it might have been the one that had been holding the clipboard a moment ago, but it might have been a new one altogether. Then, suddenly, the Librarian froze. “Is that,” he said, enunciating each word with painful precision, “a cat?”

“Yes?” Eleanor said, looking over at the cat-of-ashes, who was sitting well off to the side, grooming herself with apparent disinterest.

The Librarian drew himself up. “We do not allow pets in the library.”

The cat-of-ashes stiffened. “I am no pet,” she said in a low, dangerous purr.

“Mew,” the kitten-of-ashes agreed, equally affronted.