“It’s everyone who’s ever been the world-walker. All of their stories,” Eleanor marveled, reading snippets out loud to the others.

“This one, too,” Otto confirmed. “Wow. There have been a lot of hedgewitches.”

“I bet you a hundred bucks there are way more Jacks than that,” Pip said. “Yours mostly fade out. Look at this.” She flipped through, showing page after page that cut off abruptly—usually when the current Jack was eaten by a dragon or crushed by an avalanche.

Otto ran his fingers along the pages with a frown on his face. “I don’t think these are the real Stories,” he said.

“What do you mean?” Eleanor asked, alarmed.

“They don’t feel magical. And look. Inside the back cover.” He flipped to the end.

Tacked inside the back cover of the book was a little label. archival reproduction. In even smaller text below it read the library assumes no legal, moral, or magical responsibility for the consequences of improper reading, copying, or reviewing of dangerous texts.

“These are all just copies,” Otto said in frustration, gesturing around at the walls.

The hedgewitch, who had been idly flipping through a slim volume titled The Skin Thieves, made a humming sound in the back of her throat. “I think that might be for the best. These things obviously need proper handling. Too dangerous for the public.”

“What’s in that one?” Otto asked curiously, but she shuddered and snapped it shut.

“You may be the hedgewitch now, Otto, but you’re still only thirteen. You do not need to see what’s in that book,” she said firmly, putting it back on the shelf.

“So what are we supposed to do?” Pip asked, throwing her hands into the air. “Destroying the copies won’t do anything.”

“I guess we can ask for the originals,” Eleanor suggested. “What were we supposed to say?”

“Assistance, please,” said Thea helpfully, and a split second later the Librarian was there, gliding through the door. He’d set down the books he had been carrying the last time they saw him and had all his arms hidden under his robes.

“How may I assist you?” he asked.

“Ah. Well, thank you very much for showing us these books,” Eleanor said. “But they aren’t quite what we’re looking for.”

“No?” he said. “They are the records of your Stories. I am certain of that.”

“We need the originals. The actual Stories,” Eleanor said.

The Librarian frowned faintly, one furry ear flicking. “The original manuscripts are not available to the public,” he said.

“But we’re not just the public. They’re our Stories.” Pip sounded affronted. Eleanor had once found a library book in Pip’s room that was three years overdue because she hadn’t gotten around to reading it yet. Pip was not the ideal library patron.