Mrs.
Lawrence, the landlady, was slowly circling the small apartment, scanning its condition with a sharp, critical eye.
She had fixed a displeased expression on her dry face in advance, the better to scold her foolish tenant, but the more she inspected, the more her expression shifted to one of grudging satisfaction.
Petunia waited in the hallway.
At her feet stood a small valise containing all her meager possessions.
In her purse lay the old rusty key and the bus ticket.
Her head was still spinning from the dizzying speed at which her measured, carefully planned life had changed course, but inwardly she was ready to accept what fate had in store.
Yesterday morning, she had been suddenly fired with a paltry severance package, and the future she had planned for herself had come crashing down with a terrible roar.
In that now-unattainable future, she had a reliable, well-established husband, a two-story house with a front garden in the suburbs, a car (not new, but perfectly respectable), and two lovely children.
Now, the house lay in ruins, the rusting hulk of the car sat in the weed-choked front garden, and the wonderful husband had run off with another woman — who had indeed borne him those two children.
Then she had rushed to find a new job as quickly as possible — she’d even agreed to a salesgirl position!
— but, in an effort to preserve her meager funds, she had walked to the interview, gotten lost, ended up in some strange bar, and, of course, missed the interview entirely.
But that bar — and the bartender in it — had turned out to be the best interaction with magic in her uneventful life.
Mr.
Corey, despite his protests, was clearly a wizard, and a powerful one at that.
Who else but a great magician could have looked straight into her soul and pinpointed exactly what Petunia truly wanted?
And the wonderful liqueur she had tasted…
At the memory of that bittersweetness with citrus notes, her tongue tingled slightly, and her lips stretched into a blissful smile of their own accord.
Mr.
Corey had said he would definitely give her a bottle when the occasion was right.
Petunia intended to give him as many occasions as necessary.
A loud “ahem” caught her attention.
Petunia started, noticing Mrs.
Lawrence’s piercing trademark stare, and immediately erased the smile from her face.
“Is everything all right, Mrs.
Lawrence?” she asked politely, for form’s sake.
Of course, everything was fine.
Yesterday, barely out of the bar, Petunia had hurried home, only to find that despite how long their heart-to-heart had seemed, hardly any time had passed — maybe just a couple of minutes?
At first, she was puzzled, but then she remembered.
Lily had said that wizards could enchant a room to be bigger on the inside.
And in elf legends, there was often a story of a man feasting with magical creatures all night, only to discover that a hundred years had passed and everyone he knew was dead.
What happened to her was the exact opposite.
Having found an explanation for what happened, Petunia calmed down.
She made some tea and, settling in the kitchen, savored the drink while looking out the window.
People outside were hurrying about their business — it was the middle of the week — and it was so unusual to be doing nothing, rushing nowhere.
Petunia had never allowed herself to be idle.
But it turned out to be unexpectedly pleasant.
After finishing her tea, she went downstairs and called her landlady from the concierge’s phone.
Mrs.
Lawrence was not thrilled to learn that Petunia was moving out, and tomorrow at that, but agreed to change her plans and pick up the keys in the morning.
After that call, there was no turning back, and Petunia began packing and cleaning.
She spent the whole day making the apartment so clean that it probably hadn’t been that pristine since the first tenants moved in.
The cleaning kept her from thinking about the future, and those thoughts only caught up with her in the evening, when it was time for bed.
At first, she panicked.
It suddenly hit her like a ton of bricks: she had been fired, she was moving out, and on top of that, she had let some lunatic spin her a pack of lies!
There was no such thing as the Lonely Lands in England.
No city called Rivendell either.
Probably.
Terrified, Petunia fluttered around like a moth trapped in a lampshade, then snatched up her purse, pulled out the things the bartender had given her, and stopped in the middle of the room.
The cardboard ticket and the rusty key were solid, tangible.
The rough surface of the cardboard and the cold weight of the key calmed her, instantly quelling her fear and panic.
Petunia sat down in an armchair and stared at these objects, finally taking the time to examine them properly.
The key was about an inch longer than her palm.
On both sides of the large, round head, some kind of image was stamped.
Petunia rubbed the key with her thumb, wiping away the rust, and an image emerged on the time-darkened metal: an open dragon’s maw, flanked on both sides by membranous wings.
The engraving was hard to see, so Petunia held the key up to the lamp.
Turning it one way and then the other, she examined the dragon thoroughly.
Its muzzle had a fierce expression, silly as that sounded, and the hollow of its eye even glittered in the lamplight like a real eye.
The shaft of the key was plain and unadorned.
The bit extending to the side was shaped like a pitchfork or, turning the key the other way, Petunia suddenly saw in it the three-horned crown she had glimpsed in the bar.
There were even three small holes drilled exactly where the gems had shone with an unknown light on that crown.
The ticket, on the other hand, was more mundane.
It was a light piece of cardboard, half the size of a ten-pound note.
The front was glossy; the back was rough and darker in color.
The bus number was printed large at the top, followed by the name of the final stop — that city, “Rivendell” and just below, the departure time, which Petunia hadn’t noticed before.
According to the information on the ticket, there were several departures.
The earliest was at nine in the morning, the next only three hours later.
Petunia, mentally calculating how long it would take to hand over the apartment to the landlady, decided she had plenty of time to get to the bus station and catch the next bus.
Reassured, she put the ticket and key back in her purse.
She placed the purse on the nightstand, turned off the light, and went to sleep.
Despite the chaos of the day, she fell asleep quickly and easily.
She dreamed she was in a forest.
Tall, mighty trees surrounded her, and shafts of sunlight filtered through their crowns.
Beneath her feet, among the grass and undergrowth, the outlines of an ancient road paved with white stone emerged.
The road led deeper into the forest.
Petunia walked along it, carefully stepping on the few remaining stones, and the further she went, the more clearly she could see the remains of some structures showing through the trees.
She stopped to admire one of the more intact houses.
It looked like a fairytale palace, with columns and a covered veranda, a sloping roof, and large windows with carved shutters.
Tearing her gaze away from the ruins with difficulty, Petunia walked on, and soon the sound of a river reached her ears.
She suddenly emerged from the forest and found herself at the edge of a cliff.
Cautiously approaching the edge, she leaned over and saw, far, far below — so far that her head spun — a river current.
The water ran over the stones, churning up white-foamed rapids so steep and high that it looked like snow-white horses were racing through the water.
An ill-timed, drawn-out car horn from outside the window startled the dream away.
Petunia tossed and turned restlessly, but the magical vision was already gone, soon fading from memory, leaving behind only a vague feeling of something wonderful and long-lost.
Waking up in the morning, Petunia lay in bed for a while, listening to the sounds of the waking city.
She felt she had forgotten something important, but no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t remember anything.
Deciding it was just a meaningless dream, she got up.
Today was her last day in this apartment.
She had lived here for more than six months, since the day she left Cokeworth, heading for a new, better life, and it made her a little sad.
Without rushing, she prepared breakfast and made coffee.
Setting the table by the window, just like yesterday, she ate her breakfast slowly, hoping the hot food would calm the renewed nervousness.
Breakfast made her realize she had no idea how long it would take to get to Rivendell, and Petunia decided it would be best to prepare some snacks.
She made sandwiches for the road from the leftover bread, ham, and cheese, added a couple of hard-boiled eggs, an open pack of crackers, and a large apple.
She brewed tea in a small thermos.
Then she thoroughly cleaned out the kitchen, pouring out the leftover milk and placing the bottles outside the door — one of the neighbor kids would surely pick them up to return for a few shillings for sweets.
The open packet of oatmeal, a pound of flour, sugar, and salt went into the valise.
To fit them in, she had to press down hard on the rest of her things.
But Petunia wasn’t about to complain that her favorite dress or blouse would get wrinkled.
She had a feeling that a hot dinner wasn’t waiting for her on the farm, so food would come in handy regardless.
By the time Mrs.
Lawrence arrived, she had finished running around the apartment, putting on the final touches.
And when the doorbell rang at exactly eight o’clock, she greeted the landlady completely ready to leave.
Mrs.
Lawrence gave her a stern look from the doorway, said a dry hello, and immediately walked into the room.
Petunia waited patiently, watching the clock hands slowly move toward nine.
Finally, the extremely thorough inspection came to an end.
It was impossible to read Mrs.
Lawrence’s mood from her face unless she wanted it to be known, but Petunia was somehow sure everything was fine.
And she was right.
“It’s a great pity to part with you, Miss Evans,” Mrs.
Lawrence said primly, as if the words themselves were the highest praise.
In a way, they were.
She reached into her reticule and rummaged around in it as if it were a bottomless magical purse — Lily had sighed and saved up for one just like it — and then pulled out an envelope.
“I’ve decided to return part of your security deposit.
Though it’s quite irresponsible of you to leave me so unexpectedly and without advance notice.” “I’m very sorry, ma’am,” Petunia murmured, trying to put at least a little guilt into her voice.
She took the envelope and, without looking inside, tucked it into her purse.
“Some circumstances…
well, you understand…” She cast one last glance at the apartment, picked up her valise, and walked out.
Mrs.
Lawrence followed her out, jangling her keys as she locked the locks.
At the same time, she grumbled quietly about how now she’d have to find new tenants, maybe even place an ad in the newspaper!
And just think of the expense.
Who knew how long the place would sit empty?
It was always calmer with a tenant.
But even if you had one, who knew what they’d be like?
What if they were some disreputable person?
Petunia glanced quickly at her wristwatch.
Nearly nine, about five minutes to.
Mrs.
Lawrence finished fiddling with the keys and, with a regal nod that would have done a queen proud, walked down the stairs, past the girl who was politely waiting.
Downstairs, Petunia said goodbye to the concierge and pinned a small note to the bulletin board with farewell words and good wishes for the other tenants.
She adjusted her hat, glancing at herself in the hall mirror.
“Where will you go now, Miss Evans?” Mrs.
Lawrence asked curiously.
Despite her distress over the vacated apartment, her curiosity hadn’t left her.
“I’ve decided to have a change of scenery,” Petunia replied as amiably as she could, heading for the door.
Mrs.
Lawrence followed her.
“I think the London air doesn’t suit me very well.
I’ll go to the countryside for a while, relax in nature, and decide what to do next.” They stepped out into the damp, raw February air, and the insistent wind immediately tried to creep under their coats.
“Thank you for your care, missis Lawrence,” Petunia said.
Curtseying politely while holding a suitcase and handbag wasn’t very comfortable, but she managed.
“I need to hurry to catch the bus.” The minute hand of the large clock hanging on the wall of the house across the street moved, shifting to twelve, while the hour hand moved to nine, and right beside Petunia, directly opposite the entrance she’d just exited, a stagecoach stopped.
Above its door, the number “379-1” was displayed.