“The clues,” Emily whispered, looking back down at the pieces of paper, thinking of the envelope delivered by a stranger and his dog.

“It says so right there.” He pointed to the will, to a paragraph that Emily had read twice already but was having trouble understanding. “The books, the rights, and every single item within the house.”

“But not the house.” Emily’s lips began to tremble, the last word coming out as nothing more than a whisper. Because the accompanying letter clearly stated that the cottage in which she and her grandmother had lived for the best part of fifteen years did not, in fact, belong to them but had been rented from a businessman named Frank.

“But good news, my dear,” the bookseller said, smiling across at Emily. “If you complete the trail before the lease is up, then you will be given first refusal to buy the cottage. And at fair market value.”

Fair market value. Emily repeated it to herself. Nothing about this was fair. Her grandmother had lied to her, let Emily believe she was safe.

“Which means,” the man continued with a swift glance at his watch, “by my calculations, you have exactly ten days to complete the task.”

His words were forming in the air. Words Emily recognized but did not know how to respond to. Because the letters and sentences that flowed from this man’s lips were about a trail, a test of sorts, at the end of which was the prize her grandmother had spoken of before her death.

They’re like the notes of a wretched symphony, Emily thought to herself, imagining his words transforming into notes, wishing there were actual music to drown out the sound of his voice.

She began to tap her foot on the ground in sync with the rhythm of his words, imagined herself spinning around like a dervish, faster and faster, until she disappeared inside one of the books that held up the walls of this ancient shop. She could see herself dancing through fields and over streams heavy with fish, looking for the scarecrow and a road made of yellow brick.

Emily stood, dropped her grandmother’s will on top of a pile of books, and went to the door that led to the small patio at the back of the shop. It contained nothing more than a few porcelain pots and a watering can in the shape of a frog, one of its painted eyes staring up to the heavens.

“This is your first clue,” the bookseller said, holding out a book for her to take.

She knew what it was before he slipped it into her hands. Before she turned it around to reveal a picture of a handsome peacock, his tail spread wide so that dozens of eyes were winking back at her. It was a copy of the book that had made her grandmother a household name just shy of fourteen years ago, reprinted only last year in hardback, with a peacock replacing Emily’s original drawing of a little girl and her duck.