Henry spun the combination lock to its secret code and slowly opened the lid. The chest contained many of his favorite and prized possessions. Some, like his rare mineral collection and Millennium Falcon yo-yo, he just didn’t want Brianna to touch. But other items were ones he wanted no one to touch—like the wand secured within the guidebook.

Henry kept his guidebook neatly wrapped in the remains of a blanket he had carried everywhere with him until he turned four. The blanket’s edges were frayed and torn. Stains from long-forgotten meals had turned the light beige to a mottled gray, not unlike the color of his cat. But it was still as precious to him as any treasure he owned. One of the first things he had added to his wand was a piece of thread from the blanket.

As he moved the bundled guidebook to make room for his new tomes, he had a sudden thought. He’d recently learned about a page in the beginning of every book that contains all kinds of information about the book’s publication. Mrs. Verrity, the local librarian, called it a copyright page. Maybe Coralis’s address was on that page in the guidebook!

Henry searched the book in vain. There was no copyright page, no information about who printed the book, nothing about the author. He wondered where his father had even purchased it. It was altogether unlike anything he’d ever found at the library: old and cracked, with handwritten advice scrawled in the margins.

“Henry!” Brianna called up to him from the backyard.

He looked out the window, ready to yell at her to leave him alone. Unfortunately, he could tell by looking what had happened.

Brianna held a sneaker by the shoelace at arm’s length, pinching her nose with her other hand. “I stepped in poop, Henry,” she whined. “Come clean it off.”

It was a request he could not refuse. He had begged for a pet cat and had finally gotten his wish. (Actually, he had begged for an owl, but an emphatic no from both parents slammed that door closed rather quickly.) They had picked out a three-year-old cat from the animal shelter. The man from the shelter had not lied when he said the cat was housebroken. What he didn’t say was that it hated to use a litter box, preferring instead to use the great outdoors. The whole backyard was its litter box, and it was Henry’s responsibility to keep the yard clean.

“I’ll be right down. Just don’t try to wipe it off!” All she ever succeeded in doing was grinding it into all the tiny crevices that formed a flower shape on the sole of her shoe, making it that much more difficult to clean.

He quickly rewrapped the blanket around the guidebook and tucked it back into the chest, then closed and locked it before running outside to help his sister.