“Cosette said no one’s been able to activate the sacred texts since they left, right?” he says. “So maybe we need to figure that out to reveal the real library?”

My image in the water gives me a wide, welcoming smile, and I let out a yelp. “Em! Did you see that? My reflection just smiled at me.”

He looks at me as if I’ve grown cheollima wings. “Are you feeling okay? I thought I just heard you say that your reflection smiled at you.”

I steal a glance at the water again. Sure enough, my reflection is grinning like it’s won the Powerball. Without thinking, I reach out to touch the surface of the pond. The water ripples under my fingers, and my reflection blurs. But as soon as the image clears again, water-me winks.

I frown even harder.

The words of the cheollima echo in my ears. Don’t forget to smile. Is this what the horse was talking about?

Tentatively, I move my face muscles. It feels weird to smile at a reflection that isn’t actually mine, but I force myself to do it anyway.

As soon as my cheeks stretch and my expression mirrors the one in the pond’s surface, the water begins to swirl as if someone’s flipped a switch. A red glow emanates from below, and I take a sharp breath. “Em, look at the wat—”

“Rye, turn around! Now!”

The tone of Emmett’s voice throws me off guard, and I swivel around in a hurry. My jaw drops open.

The conservatory has become overpopulated by birds. Fowl of every shape and size are perched in the greenery side by side, stacked on each branch like colorful book spines on a shelf. There are orange-beaked toucans sitting in the palms, kingfishers balanced on the ferns, and even tricolored scarlet macaws rustling their tail feathers on the lily pads.

And they’re all staring at us.

Emmett gawks. “Where did they come from?” He shudders. “So many eyes…Just. So. Many. Eyes.”

I study the birds carefully and realize there’s a certain order to them. Each one is different, but they’re organized by color, size, shape, and plumage.

“It’s weird,” I think out loud. “It’s like they’re waiting for something.”

I walk toward the closest flock and tentatively extend my hand toward a bright hornbill. It has a heart-shaped mark on its head, and it squawks at me before nipping my finger. But as soon as I touch its feathers, the bird vanishes. Instead, it is replaced with a heavy tome entitled The Art of Infusing: Love Tonics, Part II. It floats in the air above the tree branch, spine up, flapping its pages like wings.

I gasp and pull it toward me. “Em! They’re not birds—they’re books!”