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“Yeah,” Dewey said with a tight jaw. “This stupid book has a mind of its own.”

“Maybe we shouldn’t use it,” Paige said, shoving her glasses higher on her nose as Dewey set it on the kitchen counter and held it down with a hand.

The book pressed back against him, hopping up and slamming into the surface again.

“It’s the only reference I found to the bark,” Dewey said. “It should be fine. I’m not sure why it’s being so ornery.”

He grabbed the key dangling from the book’s spine and tugged it toward the golden lock. The moment he inserted the key into the keyhole, the book ceased its movement.

“There we go,” Dewey said. “Must have been nervous it was being stolen.”

Paige arched an eyebrow, still trying to come to terms with the idea of a book being nervous. Dewey turned the key, and the lock sprang open. He slid it off the cover and tossed it to the side before opening the latch.

He tugged the pages open, causing a plume of dust to rise. They both coughed, waving their hands to clear it before staring down at the book.

A few illustrations covered the inside pages. Dewey narrowed his eyes at them, searching for any reference to the bark they sought. He pressed a finger against the parchment.

The book seized, jerking away from him before fluttering its pages open to the middle.

A pair of red lips protruded from the thick, yellowed paper. “What do you seek?” they said in a crisp British accent.

Paige stumbled back a few steps, tripping over a stack of books and landing hard on her rear. “What the hell?”

Dewey fluttered over and offered her a paw. “You okay?”

She shook her head as she climbed to her feet. “No. The book just talked.”

“Yeah. A lot of them do that.”

Paige raised her eyebrows as she ventured back toward the talking book and stared down at the lips on the page. “That’s creepy.”

“Think of it like an old-fashioned Siri,” Dewey said. He turned his attention to the book and said, “Witchlock tree bark.”

“What do you seek?”

“Witchlock tree bark,” he tried again.

Silence filled the room for several breaths before the book spoke again. “What do you seek?”

Dewey’s paws curled into fists, and a puff of smoke escaped his nostrils. “WITCHLOCK TREE BARK,” he shouted at it with a slow, emphatic pace.

A ruffle of the pages gave them a moment’s hope, but the paper settled back, and the book spoke again. “What do you seek?”

Dewey let his head fall back between his wings. “Come on, lady. What did I tell you about Brits?”

“Maybe we should ask it about the weather or offer a cup of tea,” Paige suggested with a shrug.

Dewey shook his head, another puff of smoke escaping his nostrils. “Witchlock.”

No answer.

“Bark of a Witchlock tree.”

No response.

Dewey raised his fleshy eyebrows. “Witchlock bark.”

No answer.