“I wasn’t planning on it,” Eleanor said, but as she glanced back toward the hedgewitch she glimpsed Thea. The girl had fallen behind and was staring at the shelves in front of her. Eleanor hurried back toward her.

“Thea, don’t touch them,” she said.

Thea gave a little jump and looked up guiltily. “They’re ours, though,” she said.

Eleanor frowned, coming up to stand at Thea’s shoulder. Four books stood in a row. Two of them were the color of bone, two a pale gray. On the shelf below them was a tidy golden label: the royal family of the pallid kingdom.

“That’s us,” Thea said. “Why are there books about us? And why are there only four? There should be five, shouldn’t there?”

“I don’t know,” Eleanor said, feeling uneasy. “But I think we should leave them where they are.” She held out her hand. Reluctantly, Thea took it, and Eleanor drew her away, casting one last glance over her shoulder. The books were a pale splotch on the shelf, standing alone from the rest. As if the other books didn’t appreciate their company.

They walked for several more minutes before they reached the end of the spiral. Beyond was a cavernous vault and an almost unbroken expanse of white marble floor.

In the middle of that empty space was a drafting table, and behind it sat a creature that looked identical to the Librarian, except for the bright red of their robe. All around them were piled massive stacks of books. Some were leaning, others had already toppled, sliding and merging into book hills and book mountains. The creature held a red pen in one long-fingered hand, scribbling in the book on their desk; with another hand they turned the pages back and forth. Eleanor could hear the faint scratch-scratch-scratch of the pen from all the way near the spiral.

Their footsteps were louder without the books to muffle them. Eleanor’s shoes squeaked on the marble tile, and Pip clomped along beside her. Squeak-clomp-squeak-clomp. Eleanor winced.

It was an excruciatingly long walk to the Editor’s desk, their shoes making a racket all the way. As they grew closer the Editor grew larger, until they stood in front of the desk, the edge of which was well above Eleanor’s head. This close, Eleanor could make out the writing on the Editor’s name tag—the editor, she/her, it read.

“Ah. Mm. Interesting,” the Editor murmured. “ ‘And walked up to the Editor’s table, interrupting her work.’ Humph.” She looked over the edge of the drafting table at last, peering down at Eleanor and the others. “Most unusual. I am not accustomed to appearing in the pages of my own books, Eleanor.”

“How do you know my name?” Eleanor asked in surprise.