When scratchy voices started carrying a noisy conversation a few aisles away from me, I startled. I had been waiting at the doors of the library for it to open, and I had thought I was the first and only person in here.

“This is ridiculous!” The exclamation cut through the soft noise of my turning pages.

“What, that they made you prettier?” I was paying attention by now.

“No! I miss my old green self!” My brow furrowed, then cleared; she must have dyed her hair and now was unhappy with it.

“I think the red suits you just fine.” A new voice cut it, even scratchier than the last, with a distinguished accent I presumed was British.

“Shut up, Holmes. You’ve never suffered through a refurbishing.”

I raised my brows. A refurbishing?

I closed the novel I was skimming, tucking it into the crook of my arm as I quietly crept towards the end of my aisle. I passed each long row of books, glancing around surreptitiously to find the source of the voices.

No one was there.

I sighed and entered the aisle I was in: mystery. A beautiful copy of Sherlock Holmes caught my eye, next to a small crimson book. I reached for it-

“Don’t come any closer.” The accented voice rang out again from right in front of me. I jumped back, my hand hitting the top of the shelf.

A pale book to the left of Sherlock Holmes nudged its neighbor. “That wasn’t very nice.”

My brain started spinning. I had just heard both of those voices carrying a conversation.

And that impossibility meant that the red book on the right had been the one complaining about being refurbished.

I lowered myself to the ground until I was peering at the books from their level.

“Hello?” I whispered, already feeling my wallet get lighter from the insane asylum services I would no doubt be paying for in the near future.

There was silence.

“Do y-do you think she can hear us?” came the raspy voice of the thin red volume.

“Impossible,” Holmes breathed.

“I’m right here?” I said, slightly louder.

All three books jolted, little gasps coming from tiny mouth holes on the spine of their covers.

“Well,” intoned Holmes, “this is new.”

“What-what do we say?” I noticed the red book’s title: The Maltese Falcon, written in a fresh golden script.

“Introduce yourself, stupid!”

“But I’m ugly now!”

“Someone just do it please. You’re being ridiculous.”

“The Trio of Sentient Tomes are pleased to make your acquaintance,” the pale book said, dramatically elongating the inflections of each word.

I almost snorted. Books gave their exclusive club a name?

“And Julian Rose Cramer is pleased to meet you, too.” My reply mocked the dramatic tone of the pale book.

“How are you able to hear us?” Holmes asked.

“You were talking quite loudly,” I pointed out. The books looked at each other and made a shrugging motion, their spines curving strangely.

“How can you talk?” I wondered.

The pale book puffed. “That’s a long story.” I smirked at the unintended pun.

“I’ve got time.”