At first, it was like she was drowning. Wind roared in her ears, and with it came the clamor of a hundred voices crying out, shouting words she could barely understand. The words were crashing into her, tearing through her. I was wrong, she thought in a panic. It was going to destroy her! It was going to hollow her out, and she’d be as gone as if she were Empty.

Empty.

In the midst of the howling gale, gripping the book tightly in her hands, she thought of how Melia had stolen her feelings from her. How she and Ash had plucked things from people or sneaked them in. She remembered how it had felt—and suddenly, the world-walker filling her mind and her soul, she realized how it was done.

It was all in the connections. She was connected to the Story. She could see the connection—and she could control it.

Stop, she thought, pushing back against the bond that linked her to the ravenous Story. The howling gale quieted. Slowly, slowly, she drew the Story toward her, letting it seep gently into the gaps and cracks. The shouting turned to whispers.

 . . . and wander through starlight, through moonbeams . . .

 . . . every road open to her . . .

 . . . never lost, for she always found her way, though she did not always know it . . .

Eleanor opened her eyes as the Story flowed gently, steadily into her.

She was gripping the book with both hands. Pip and Otto were babbling, shouting, but the Editor held them back with several of her long arms. Eleanor could see why they were so alarmed.

Words were climbing up her arms. They swirled up toward her sleeves and vanished below, flowing out of the book. Companions, she saw, and the Wending and but some roads are dangerous. And as they flowed into her, she didn’t need to read them. She knew them.

She kept her breathing steady, focusing on slowing the Story down, on finding places to tuck it away or weave it into herself.

The last of the words seeped into Eleanor and lay on her skin like wet ink.

“Eleanor?” Otto asked, uncertain.

Eleanor looked at him, but she didn’t just see him. The web of shimmering threads was everywhere now, and not just in this room. She could sense the threads flowing out through the walls. Beyond the library, even, dazzling and endless.

“I’m okay,” she said, smiling. “I’m me.” Eleanor Barton. Claire Barton’s daughter. Friend to Otto and Pip. She wasn’t sure what she might have misplaced in that first rush of words, but all the essential bits of her seemed to be in place.

She was still holding the book, but it didn’t hum anymore. She flipped it open. Every page was blank.

“Fascinating,” the Editor and Otto said together, and flashed each other reflexive smiles.

“Me next,” Otto declared, stepping forward.