The stagecoach appeared from nowhere.
There was no place for it to come from on a London street — it could only have woven itself out of thin air — but there it was, large, dark red with yellow wheels, as if it had rolled straight out of a fresh western.
Was this the promised bus?
To be honest, if the promised transport had actually been a bus, Petunia wouldn’t have been surprised by its sudden appearance at all.
In the brochure for Muggle-borns, which had been bought for Lily at Diagon Alley along with her first-year textbooks, the list of available transport options — alongside fireplaces and broomsticks — had mentioned a magical bus.
The “Knight Bus” or something like that?
The photograph illustrating the brochure had indeed shown a bus.
Looking at it from the outside, it was no different from its non-magical counterparts.
Just like the Hogwarts Express.
But this…
Petunia tilted her head back and examined her transport.
The stagecoach stood before her, as if waiting for her to climb inside.
Its dark-red sides glistened wetly with splashes of melted snow from the road.
Its unglazed windows were covered by leather curtains.
The driver’s seat was empty, since there were no horses to pull the stagecoach.
Rising on her tiptoes, Petunia tried to see the roof, but only confirmed the presence of small railings, apparently meant to keep those riding on top from falling off.
She carefully reached for the door handle.
Then stopped herself.
“I need to go, madam,” she said, turning to her former landlady, and stopped short.
Missis Lawrence, who had come outside with her, was no longer there.
Looking around, Petunia spotted her up ahead.
The woman was walking slowly down the street, moving farther away with each step.
This was strange.
Missis Lawrence was very particular about rules and etiquette.
She would never have left without at least a formal “see you later.” Which meant…
Only now did Petunia realize that as soon as the stagecoach appeared before her, she had ended up inside what seemed like a bubble of invisibility.
Passersby walked past, paying no attention to either her or her strange transport.
Otherwise, a whole crowd would have gathered by now to gape at a real Wells Fargo stagecoach.
She supposed she should feel calmer knowing no one would notice if she made a mistake.
But thinking that no one would see her leaving for who-knew-where, Petunia suddenly felt afraid.
Had her parents felt this kind of fear when Lily left every year for someplace they could never follow?
Fear seemed to freeze her body, and Petunia stood still with her hand raised, ready to open the door.
The stagecoach waited for her.
Who knew if anyone was inside?
Through the windows, covered by leather curtains, nothing at all was visible.
Blood throbbed loudly in her ears, drowning out all other sounds.
The world around went about its life, while Petunia remained apart.
Gradually, other sounds began to break through the noise: car horns, pedestrians’ conversations, a newspaper vendor’s cries, the ring of a bicycle bell.
The fresh scent of approaching spring reached her, and an unexpectedly warm wind gently brushed her cheek.
As if the ordinary world, unconnected to any magic, was asking her to come back, didn’t want to let her go.
Suddenly she realized she could move.
Fear had loosened its grip a little, giving her a chance.
It was enough to take one step back — Petunia suddenly understood this with perfect clarity, as if someone had told her — and the stagecoach would leave, the ticket and key in her handbag would become useless, and she could return to her former, understandable life.
Gradually she would forget about this, and only once, stumbling upon an old rusty key with a dragon while searching for something, would she wonder, because owning such a thing was completely unlike Petunia Evans.
Just one step.
Just one.
She was already ready to take that step and was only looking at the closed door of the stagecoach, trying to memorize it in the smallest detail — because as soon as the step was taken, nothing more magical would ever happen in her life — when she noticed some kind of drawing on that very door, right under the curtained window.
The drawing barely showed through the road grime stuck to the coach’s dark-red sides, and it was impossible to make out what was depicted.
“I’ll just look,” she said to herself, or maybe to whoever was whispering at her to take that step back.
And she stepped forward.
She managed to be surprised at how easily it came, but the drawing beckoned her more strongly.
Petunia pulled a handkerchief from her pocket and carefully wiped the stagecoach door clean of dirty snow.
A few wipes and one dirty handkerchief later, an airbrushed painting emerged from under the road grime.
In it, a narrow mountain path between two sheer cliff faces turned into a road paved with white stone, then into an elegant bridge without railings, leading straight into a green and beautiful valley, in the middle of which, right above a river and waterfall, stretched a fairytale palace…
the drawing was so vivid that for a moment Petunia even felt a warm breeze and heard the song of foreign birds.
An admiring sigh escaped her chest, and the wonderful vision vanished.
Petunia found herself once more in the middle of damp February, under a low gray sky, and the voices of pedestrians mixed with car horns sounded too harsh for her ears, which a moment ago had been enjoying birdsong.
Now she looked at the stagecoach with completely different eyes.
It would take her away, and no one would see where or why?
Well, fine.
And if she regretted it later, at least she would have had her own magical adventure.
Not a trip to a magical school on a magical steam train, but still something.
Petunia shoved the dirty handkerchief into her coat pocket and pulled the handle.
The stagecoach door opened easily and silently, and a folding step descended to her feet.
Gripping the handrail firmly, Petunia climbed the steps and entered the cabin.
She was the only passenger.
Compared to modern buses, it was cramped inside.
The gray February light seeping through gaps in the leather curtains illuminated three rows of seats — three at the back wall, three at the front wall, and three backless seats in the middle.
Petunia looked around, searching for a place to stow her luggage, but there wasn’t much space between the seats.
Finally, she decided not to stand on ceremony for now and set her suitcase on the seats across from her.
She took a row by the back wall herself, so she could ride facing forward.
When other passengers boarded the stagecoach, she would figure out where to put her things.
As soon as she sat down, the step retracted, folding back into the cabin, and the door closed.
The stagecoach’s body shuddered, startling Petunia, and then the coach pulled away from the curb.
She hastily untied the curtain, not even flinching when cold wind burst through the unglazed window and hit her right in the face.
With a delight like that of a child riding a wonderful merry-go-round, Petunia watched the houses and cars passing outside her window.
The stagecoach, guided by no one and pulled by nothing, rolled down the street, clearly avoiding collisions through magic, and no one — not a single living soul — paid it any attention.
Overcome by excitement and childlike joy, Petunia laughed happily.
She even stuck her head out the window to get a better look at the people and cars on the streets, waving her hand at them, shouting something, reveling in her invisibility and impunity.
Although store windows honestly reflected both her and her transport, it seemed this reflection was visible to her alone.
Soon the stagecoach broke free from the streets of London and rolled farther and farther away from it.
Petunia quickly got cold and hurried to close the window with its curtain.
Alas, these curtains proved poor protection.
The oncoming wind still found its way in, and inside it was scarcely warmer than outside.
Eventually, Petunia curled up in a corner, raising her collar and hiding her hands under her armpits to warm up somehow.
Gradually, exhausted by her own emotions and lulled by the coach’s gentle rocking, she dozed off.
Petunia woke when the coach jolted a bit harder, probably because a wheel had hit a stone.
It was so dark inside that she could barely make out her own hands, even holding them right before her eyes.
And it was still cold.
Shivering, Petunia pulled on her gloves, remembering them only now, groped her way to the nearest window, and pushed aside the curtain.
Outside it was dark, except for a lantern swaying in time with the motion, just ahead, now appearing, now hiding again.
Its faint light illuminated nothing, but seeing it made Petunia feel calmer.
She retreated back into the coach and wondered what to do with herself.
She didn’t want to sleep.
Although she usually couldn’t sleep in transit at all, in this wonderful coach she had rested better than she ever had in her own bed, and now she was incredibly alert, full of strength and energy.
Searching for something to do, Petunia also reached into her suitcase by touch.
She pulled out and ate two eggs, one after another, then a sandwich.
Washed it down with a couple of gulps of warm tea from her thermos.
And then she found the little lantern.
The little lantern had a story behind it.
Not a funny one, but rather a bit sad.
The lantern — a small glass jar in which a tiny blue flame burned without ever going out — had been a gift from Lily.
An apology for that old business with the letter she and Snape had stolen and read.
They hadn’t actually discussed it, but it was implied.
At first, the lantern stood on Petunia’s nightstand, and she loved looking at it before bed.
Then her relationship with her sister got worse and worse, so the gift ended up in the closet, with those things you couldn’t bring yourself to throw away but couldn’t bear to look at either.
When Petunia left her parents’ house, she automatically packed it with her other keepsakes, and yesterday, while packing, she’d meticulously placed it in her luggage.
She carefully unwrapped the thick packing paper around the gift, and the small blue flame illuminated the coach’s interior.
In the years since the gift had been given, the flame hadn’t changed at all.
As if it didn’t even need oxygen to burn.
Living its inscrutable life inside the jar, it would sway as if from a breath of wind, then stand straight like candle flames in a church.
Petunia carefully placed the jar on top of her suitcase so it wouldn’t accidentally tip over, and stared at the flame.
With the light, things felt more cheerful and even, somehow, just the tiniest bit warmer.
The magical stagecoach continued racing through the night toward the unknown Lonely Lands.
No matter how long Petunia waited, it never once stopped, and no one else joined her on this journey.
On one hand, she felt relieved; on the other, anxious.
How lonely were those lands, that no one was traveling in that direction except her?
Thoughts of possible fellow passengers distracted her from others, more intimate ones.
For instance, were sanitary stops included in the route, and what was she supposed to do if they weren’t, and she needed to go?
But no matter how much she listened to her body, the few gulps she’d allowed herself caused no urges.
Soon, getting hungry, Petunia dared to take a couple more gulps — the sandwiches had turned out rather dry.
Fortunately, her body didn’t cause her any problems for the rest of the trip.
Petunia was dozing off again when the stagecoach suddenly turned sharply, slamming her into the wall, then stopped.
While Petunia picked herself up and tried to figure out what was happening, the door opened, letting in daylight and birdsong.
“Huh?
Have I arrived?” Petunia said, bewildered.
Of course, no one answered her.
But something gently pushed her, urging her to get up.
Petunia stirred, hastily stuffed the few items she’d taken out during the trip back into her suitcase, grabbed it, and, tangling in her own feet, hurried to the exit.
Grabbing the handrail, she was about to step out when she looked outside and was stunned.
Outside was spring.