Far below, the river roared and rumbled.
The foaming waters crashed with full force into the edges of their stone bed, chipping out rocks and carrying them away toward the sea.
High above, on a thin, almost toy-like bridge, Petunia — clenching her teeth and trying with all her might not to look down — was crossing the chasm.
She stepped slowly, one foot at a time, arms spread out, carefully placing one foot in front of the other.
The wind tugged at her skirt; several strands of hair had escaped her bun and nervously tickled her neck.
Her bag, slung diagonally across her shoulder, thumped against her hip with every movement.
The bridge wasn’t really that long, but crossing it seemed to take her an eternity.
Only on the far side, having left the unsteady support, did Petunia bend over, hands on her knees to keep from falling, and freeze like that.
Her chest heaved; her lungs worked like bellows, greedily pumping the cold, damp air.
When she caught her breath, she straightened up, wiped the heavy sweat from her forehead with a handkerchief, and finally looked around.
She stood at the edge of a circular platform, between two statues.
The figures depicted two warriors in full armor.
On their heads were helmets that looked Greek in style, and their breastplates and skirts were assembled from individual segments, like an insect’s carapace.
Long cloaks enveloped their figures, falling to the ground in long, even folds.
In their hands, the warriors held long spears, and their faces, turned toward the bridge, greeted anyone who dared enter the city.
Petunia caught the attentive gazes of their stone eyes, shivered, and quickly took a few steps forward.
The city — or rather, the palace — lay before her, quiet, silent, overgrown with trees and ivy.
Directly ahead of Petunia, a staircase rose upward.
It wound past an openwork tower, whose purpose she could only guess at, then farther up, where on several levels, like terraces, one after another, rose the palace’s beautiful buildings.
Beyond them loomed a wild cliff, overgrown with grasses and small mountain trees, and from beneath the palace burst streams of waterfalls.
Petunia looked left and saw a small bridge — small compared to the one she’d left behind — and beyond it, a spacious covered gallery that, curving with the mountain that served as its foundation, led to the right, arcing toward the palace.
Almost like a fortress, Petunia thought.
She climbed one flight of stairs and looked around.
Of course, there were no massive walls or deep moats — the first things that come to mind at the word “fortress.” No cannons or catapults stood.
There was no indication that anywhere were special places for warriors on guard.
But this fortress’s rear was protected by an impassable mountain, and the moat and walls were replaced by a deep chasm.
From the stairs, it was clear that the thin bridge over the chasm was the only way to reach this place.
Truly a fortress.
Mighty and impregnable.
Unconquered to the very end.
“I’ll bet there’s no store here, though,” Petunia said, and her voice broke the silence of this deserted place.
“But at least I can admire the view…” Her heels clicking, she climbed higher and peered into the tower.
Inside reigned the desolation that settles into houses where no one has lived for a long time.
The stone floor was covered in all sorts of debris — dry leaves, bird feathers, acorns, and alder catkins.
On a bench, forgotten by someone, lay a book.
Petunia carefully brushed a layer of dust off its cover and saw the now-familiar ligature of an unknown alphabet.
Curious, she opened it and flipped through.
The pages were covered with the same symbols, apparently written by hand.
The capital letters were rendered separately, very meticulously, and the margins were decorated with drawings of plants and animals.
A handwritten book — who would have thought.
Petunia closed it and gently stroked the binding.
The city was abandoned, and the book still lay here, waiting for someone to read it.
She wondered what it was about.
Climbing the stairs all the way to the top, she walked further along a long portico whose columns were decorated with rich carvings.
In the graceful interweavings of the ornaments, she could make out plant shoots and fruit buds — some familiar to Petunia, but most unknown.
But here, too, lay dust and debris, and looking at the palace ahead, Petunia had no doubt she would see the same there.
Still, she kept walking, driven not just by curiosity but by an idea that had formed in her mind as she examined the tower.
People had lived here…
Once.
And so, they must have eaten something and stored food supplies somewhere.
Looking at how wonderfully preserved that single book was, hope kindled in Petunia’s mind that the storerooms might have been protected by the same magic.
Maybe she’d get lucky and find something edible there.
Exiting the portico, she entered a small courtyard where a fountain burbled in its center.
The central statue depicted a snow-white tree, its branches adorned with leaves and fruits made of precious stones.
Stone benches stood around the fountain, and the water in its basin, despite the leaves floating in it, looked fresh and smelled pleasant.
Of course, Petunia didn’t drink.
But she still instinctively licked her suddenly dry lips.
She walked around the fountain and approached a wide porch.
The large doors, decorated with carvings, were unlocked.
She pushed one leaf with effort, and it gave way, swinging inward, and its hinges didn’t even creak.
As if they’d been oiled just yesterday.
From the outside, the situation looked as if she were being specifically invited inside, and Petunia’s heart quivered.
She hesitated for a few moments, but then remembered Lily’s enthusiastic stories about Hogwarts and her own helpless envy, gritted her teeth, and stepped inside abruptly.
Maybe later she and her sister would laugh together about how envy and anger had driven Petunia to recklessness.
Contrary to expectations, the door remained open.
Petunia glanced back at it.
But no.
The doors weren’t going to slam shut behind her, trapping her, and inside, nothing awaited her but ubiquitous dust and debris.
Petunia exhaled.
She walked slowly through the palace, peeking curiously into every room she encountered.
This palace was, she concluded, a common space.
There were living rooms and dining rooms, cozy halls apparently meant for relaxation or intimate gatherings.
A kitchen, however, was nowhere to be found, and Petunia deduced that the service rooms were located somewhere else.
But the most remarkable room was, of course, the fireplace hall.
A massive fireplace, its main feature, took up almost an entire wall, and in its hearth you could probably roast a whole elephant, no less.
Opposite the fireplace, on a dais, stood an oak dining table, and behind it, a throne.
The walls of the hall were decorated not with carvings and ornaments, but with tapestries.
Despite the passage of time — Years?
Centuries?
Ages?
— the colors hadn’t faded, nor had the threads decayed, and Petunia took the time to at least glance over them.
The scenes woven by unknown weavers were unfamiliar to her, but their craftsmanship made her admire and linger a bit longer, gazing at these works of art.
Above the throne, there was no tapestry.
Instead, the wall was covered with a sky-blue banner, in the center of which shone a silver star.
Along the far wall stood several musical instruments.
There was a large harp — orchestral, as one might say now — beside it, on a low stool, lay flutes; on a special rack behind hung trumpets; and to the side lay a small, almost toy-like, snow-white horn.
Petunia walked around the fireplace hall.
She ran her hand over the table, dared to sit on the throne.
Too bad no food appeared on the table.
The few empty goblets and plates that stood on it remained in their places.
Passing by the instruments, out of mischief — she was gradually being overcome by a sense of security — she ran her hand over the harp’s strings, bringing a soft ripple of sound to life, and held the flutes in her hands.
But what drew her attention most was the horn.
Growing bolder, Petunia carefully touched it and stroked its smooth, cool body.
The white material it was made of was likely bone — possibly even part of an elephant’s tusk.
The mouthpiece was made of silver, shaped like flower petals.
And the bell was the open, fiercely roaring head of a lion.
Holding her breath, Petunia took the horn from its stand.
Even though it didn’t look massive in her hands, it was much heavier than one might imagine.
Raising it to her lips, she pressed it to the mouthpiece and blew hard.
She only managed a pathetic wheeze.
Petunia frowned and tried again.
The second time, she managed to produce some sort of sound.
It was quiet and feeble, and quickly faded, dissolving into the centuries-old silence that enveloped the place.
“Last time,” she said to herself and blew again.
The third time, the sound came out bright and joyful.
It raced through the fireplace hall and burst outside, spreading throughout the palace, driving away the silence and sorrow.
Outside, startled birds flapped their wings frantically, cried out in alarm, and for a moment, the noise they made revived sounds long silenced.
Petunia heard the neighing of horses and barking of dogs from below, and the joyful exclamations of hunters returning with their quarry.
Behind her, the harp suddenly began to play and flutes sang, wine burbled as it filled goblets, and someone who rightfully sat on the throne under the starry banner rose and made a toast.
The space filled with the sounds of an unknown language, laughter, and song, and then suddenly — it all went quiet.
Petunia lowered the horn and looked around.
It was still empty all around, but the atmosphere seemed to have changed.
Before, it was just an abandoned place; now, it felt as if the owners would soon return, just stepped out for a while.
The horn was weighing down her arms.
She probably shouldn’t have touched it.
Petunia carefully returned the instrument to its place and, without looking back, hastily left the fireplace hall and hurried toward the exit.
The door was in the same position she had left it.
Petunia slipped outside and let out an alarmed gasp.
How much time had she wasted on this pointless excursion?
Long shadows fell across the dusty stone slabs, and the sky had darkened on one edge, the first stars peeking through that darkness.
She left the door half-open and whirled past the fountain toward the portico.
There was no more time to admire the views.
The gardens below, with their intricate paths and filigree gazebos, no longer tempted her.
Petunia was almost running, hurrying to get home before sunset, and she cared about nothing around her.
Passing the portico, she ran down the stairs, nimbly skipping steps.
Only at the guard tower — as she decided to call it — did she slow down.
After a few moments’ thought, she rushed inside, grabbed the book, and hurried on.
She didn’t even stop at the bridge.
The fear of not making it before sunset proved stronger than her fear of heights.
She quickly crossed the chasm, clutching the book to her chest, and only once on the other side did she stop to catch her breath.
At that moment, she seemed to feel someone’s gaze between her shoulder blades and turned around.
The fortress-city, in the rays of the setting sun that painted the white stone pink, seemed almost alive.
Petunia squinted.
For an instant, she thought she saw a human silhouette in the doorway of the tower.
She blinked, and the figure vanished, dissolved into the growing shadows.
“Probably just ivy.
Or something like that.
Don’t be silly, Tuney.” Saying this to herself, she turned away and hurried to the farm.
…the shadow inside the tower turned, watching the girl run away.