The Librarian sniffed. “Nonetheless, cats are not permitted. Many of the books are allergic. The rest of you may follow me. I will show you to the proper section.” He beckoned them with long, many-jointed fingers.

“Are you okay staying out here?” Eleanor asked the cat-of-ashes.

The cat-of-ashes lashed her tail. “Fine.”

“You’ll have to—”

“I’ll watch the puffball,” the cat-of-ashes snapped. The hedgewitch set the kitten-of-ashes down, and the kitten immediately skittered across the marble floor to attack her older self’s tail. “Don’t take too long,” the cat-of-ashes said resignedly, pinning the kitten to the floor with one massive paw.

“Thea, do you want to stay with the cats?” Eleanor asked, but Thea shook her head mutely. “Stick close,” Eleanor told her, and hurried to follow the Librarian.

Beyond the doors, a dizzying landscape of books spilled out in every direction. The group had stepped out onto a landing. To either side stairways swooped up and down, leading to more and more levels. The library was circular, with shelves spiraling inward. From their vantage point, Eleanor could see only the beginning of the spiral and the hallways that led toward the center, but somehow she could sense the way it wound inward. The center, she was certain, held something important.

The center was where they needed to go.

But the Librarian instead led them along the edge of the spiral, staying against the outer wall of the library. At regular intervals, hallways led farther outward into rooms labeled prophecies—false, and promises—broken.

“You said there were other Stories,” Eleanor said as she trotted to keep up with the Librarian’s long strides. The hedgewitch, holding Thea’s hand, lagged behind. “What other Stories? We thought it was just the three of us. How many more are there?”

“See for yourself,” the Librarian said. He had stopped in front of an archway, above which read in golden letters stories—personified, manifest, and infectious.

Beyond the archway was a room the size of the Great Room at Ashford House. In the center of the room was a long wooden table, several chairs set beside it. Every wall was covered in shelves from floor to ceiling, and every shelf was filled with books—thick ones and slender ones, leather books and three-ring binders, loose papers bound with twine.

“These are all Stories?” Eleanor asked in wonder, turning slowly. “Like ours?”

“Each volume represents a Story, yes, but their similarities to yours vary wildly,” the Librarian said. “Is it such a surprise? Everyone tells Stories. Some of these came into being only once and ended. Others, like yours, are more persistent, recurring. The Gray collection should be . . . ah, here we are. A three-volume set.”