The white city on the other side of the chasm was, as before, quiet and empty.
Petunia stopped when she emerged from the passage between the two cliffs, but not to admire it.
She just wanted to look around, to use her newly acquired skills to assess the place, to see what valuable and useful things she could find there.
She spotted a patch of raspberries growing around the remains of a destroyed balustrade, its white, half-broken balusters sticking out among the branches like stumps of teeth.
Petunia carefully noted the spot so she could find it in summer and pick the berries, but she had a feeling she’d find it anyway, even if she didn’t try to remember.
Then, walking a bit along the path beside the stone ridge, she came across a whole lawn of dandelions.
The flowers had already opened, shining in the grass like little suns.
It was surprising she hadn’t noticed them last time.
Petunia squatted down and ran her hand through the flowers, letting the large yellow heads slip through her fingers.
When they were children, Lily would always weave a little wreath and give it to her older sister, and Petunia would wear it until the flowers wilted — and they never wilted for a long time.
Now she understood that it was probably thanks to unconscious magic.
Back then, she’d tried not to pay attention to yet another of her sister’s oddities…
“I’m not likely to get another one from her now…” Petunia pulled her hand away from the flowers.
Her fingers, stained with yellow pollen, immediately wanted wiping — on her trousers at least — but instead she brought them to her nose and inhaled.
A sweet, honey-like scent filled her nostrils, and a book seemed to open in her mind.
Petunia even heard the rustle of pages turning, and then an image of a whole dandelion appeared in her mind — from flower to root — alongside notes on what each part could be used for.
And if this hint was to be believed, then…
“Seriously?” Petunia couldn’t help herself and dug up one dandelion, root and all.
The mental diagram disappeared, but now, looking at a specific part of the plant, she knew — she just knew!
— what to do with it.
The leaves and stems were good for salad; the dried roots could be ground into powder and brewed as a coffee substitute, and also as a strengthening tonic, especially in winter.
And from the flowers, you could make jam, wine, and even “dandelion honey”!
“How do I know this?” she wondered as her hands, quick and deft, working almost without her brain’s involvement, dug up dandelions by the roots and packed them into her bag: root to root, flower to flower.
She only stopped when all the flowers in the clearing had been gathered.
“Is this the ghost’s knowledge?” Her gaze drifted of its own accord toward the white-walled city.
At first it had enchanted her, then frightened her, and now a flower of estel was blooming in her chest — if she entered that city again, she would find answers to all her questions.
Even the ones she hadn’t yet thought to ask.
Petunia closed her eyes, took a few deep breaths in and out, and said firmly: “No.
Another time.
I’m not a headless chicken, running back and forth.
There has to be a system to everything!” She got to her feet and, resolutely not looking toward the city — even though her heart was pulling her there with all its might — she strode down the path.
She’d almost run to the cherished signpost marking the passage in the cliffs when she stopped to catch her breath.
The stone path didn’t end here; it turned left and continued on…
“No, no, and no,” Petunia repeated sternly and entered the passage.
The forest greeted her with the scents of pine needles and herbs and the chirping of birds.
The markers she’d left last time were still dark against the forest floor, and Petunia occasionally checked them as she followed her previous route, until she realized she could manage perfectly well without them.
Overnight, she had astonishingly learned to navigate the woods.
As if it were her own home.
Every tree was now unique in her eyes.
The pattern of the bark, the arrangement of branches and limbs, the patches of moss, the design of the roots — everything was unique, and it would take real effort to lose her way back.
Gazing in delight at every tree and every bush, every hummock and every blade of grass, Petunia walked slowly, not forgetting to occasionally fill her bag with nature’s gifts.
Her bag again held the familiar leeks, fresh bunches of sorrel and nettles, and a bit more rosehip.
She also came across some mushrooms that looked like honey fungus, but, as last time, she was wary of picking them.
For some reason, the magic had given her a herbalist’s instinct, but not a mushroom hunter’s.
Soon a clearing appeared ahead, and the sound of flowing water reached her ears.
Petunia passed a few more trees and came out onto a riverbank.
The river wasn’t very wide.
At least, Petunia could clearly see the opposite bank.
The river flowed from left to right, appearing around a bend and continuing as far as the eye could see.
Was this the same river that ran past the city along the bottom of the gorge?
It wasn’t as turbulent, and through the clear water she could see the sandy bottom.
Petunia tested the water with her hand — cool.
In summer, it would probably be the perfect spot to come fishing and swimming.
Without much thought, she found a comfortable spot with a sloping bank, kicked off her shoes, and lowered her feet into the water, letting out a joyful yelp as the cool currents shocked her hot soles.
Swinging her legs in the water, she looked for fish.
They were unafraid and occasionally swam curiously past her feet, tickling her soles with their fins.
A couple of times, fish jumped out of the water to catch an unwary insect.
Then something chattered behind her.
Petunia tilted her head back and met the eyes of a red squirrel.
The little creature, hanging upside down on a tree trunk, studied her with its dark, beady eyes.
As if deciding whether to be afraid of this strange thing on the bank.
Then, having made up its mind about something, it chattered again in its squirrel language and scampered off about its business.
Petunia couldn’t help a tender sigh.
She liked animals, but after her close encounter with her sister’s owl — even if it was a thousand times magical!
— any desire to get a pet had completely left her.
Something rustled and scurried in the undergrowth.
Then the branches growing near the ground parted, and a bird’s head poked out.
Petunia froze.
After twitching its beak, the bird, either not noticing the human or not knowing what it was, deemed itself safe and emerged from the bush.
It was a small, plump bird, somewhat resembling an ordinary domestic chicken.
Round and well-proportioned, with a completely unremarkable coloring — gray, with small brown speckles on its wing feathers.
Petunia’s mouth fell open.
That was…
a pheasant!
A forest chicken!
Right now, she didn’t care where all this knowledge was coming from, knowledge that ordinary her couldn’t possibly possess.
Of course, she’d read about pheasants in books, but she probably wouldn’t have recognized one if it appeared before her.
But…
but…
eggs!
If this was a female, there had to be a nest nearby!
The foreign memory obligingly suggested that pheasants nest on the ground, and you should look for the nest in bushes or thick grass.
Petunia hastily pulled her feet out of the water, and the splash attracted the hen’s attention.
Seeing the huge wingless creature creeping toward her, the bird flapped her wings in fright and, waddling amusingly from foot to foot, disappeared into the forest.
Petunia bent over the precious bush and, carefully parting its shoots, began searching.
The nest was a little further in, where there was an empty space and the bush’s shoots formed a natural canopy.
In a small hollow, lined with dry last year’s grass and light gray feathers, lay several eggs.
One, two, ten…
fourteen small, dark olive eggs, half the size of chicken eggs, Petunia counted.
With hands trembling from joy and greed, she took seven from the nest and carefully placed them in her bag, arranging them among the collected herbs so they wouldn’t break.
She gently stroked the remaining eggs in the nest, whispering a thank you to the hen, and hurried away so the bird would return quickly.
Moving further along the bank, she dried her wet feet, put on her shoes, and decided to head back.
Finding the spot where she’d emerged from the forest, Petunia entered the shade of the trees and, looking around, almost unerringly chose the right direction.
There was the tree with bark that looked like someone’s angry face, and there — a broken branch hanging like a signpost.
Over there, past that bush covered in small red berries — wolfberry, don’t touch!
— she turned, and before that she’d passed a small stream flowing from under a fallen tree.
“Forest magic!” she exclaimed joyfully, and from an excess of emotion, clapped her hands when the trees parted to reveal the path to the cliff.
So, who’s a simple Muggle now, hmm?
Petunia turned to look back at the path she’d taken and feel proud — can’t skip that — and froze.
Unnoticed, the landscape around her had changed, while remaining the same.
Or rather, she herself had started seeing differently, in another way.
What a couple of days ago had seemed like an impenetrable thicket now looked like an astonishingly beautiful forest — wild and overgrown in places, but absolutely, undoubtedly once planted and carefully tended by someone.
The trees and shrubs continued to grow in the harmony that some unknown forester had instilled in them, giving life to both small plants and animals, providing them with shelter and food.
She hadn’t seen this before because her eyes hadn’t been taught to see.
The magical knowledge — whose usefulness and timeliness were invaluable — had changed the way she looked at things.
Impressed by this sudden realization, Petunia pressed her hand to her chest, covering her fluttering heart.
Could a human have created something like this?
Definitely not — that certainty was etched into her bones.
Could such a forest have grown on its own, naturally?
She doubted it — well, maybe — but still…
still, in all the surrounding splendor, she could feel someone’s caring hand, a taste for beauty, and a sense of harmony.
Petunia tried to imagine who this unknown architect of the forest might be, how far into the future he must have planned — and she grew frightened.
This forest, she suddenly understood, was no different from the white city.
Troubled by these thoughts, she quickly ducked into the passage and ran along the path.
She kept running until the farm gates appeared before her — simple and crude in their human essence, and therefore giving a feeling of security.
Petunia approached the gate, stopped, pressed her forehead against the rough surface of one of the posts, and stood still until her heavy breathing evened out and her heart stopped trying to leap out of her chest.
“Sometimes you think too much, Tuney,” she said, closing her eyes and feeling the warmth of the sun’s rays on her skin.
Once again, her trip to the forest had taken ages.
As if, when she left the farm, time flew like it was being spurred on.
It was almost evening already…
A cold draft suddenly hit her back.
If Petunia hadn’t run all the way from the forest to the house, she might have been scared, but right now she was too tired for all that.
She turned around and was hardly surprised to see the familiar ghost behind her.
“I collected some eggs,” she blurted out instead of a greeting, and on his lips, visible from under his low-hooded cloak, a smile appeared.