Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 88960 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88960 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
Maybe I need to be more specific. More intentional. In the books I've read—the portal fantasy books, the ones where girls fall through wardrobes and stumble into other worlds—there's usually some kind of trigger. A word. A gesture. A moment of desperate need.
I'm desperate. Does that count?
I look around to make sure no one's watching. Then, feeling absolutely ridiculous, I raise my hand and wave it in a vaguely mystical pattern.
"Abracadabra?"
Nothing.
"Open sesame?"
A bird chirps mockingly from somewhere above me.
"Hocus pocus?"
The hedge continues to be a hedge.
I slump against a stone bench and groan.
This is pointless. Hewhay's isn't going to appear just because I want it to. It's magic—real magic, the kind that doesn't follow rules—and I'm standing in a garden talking to shrubbery like a crazy person.
But then I think about Harry Potter.
Platform 9¾. You had to run at a solid wall, trusting that magic would catch you. You had to believe, even when every logical part of your brain was screaming that you were about to concuss yourself on bricks.
Maybe that's what this requires. Not words. Not gestures.
Faith.
I stand up. Square my shoulders. Look at the garden wall—solid stone, covered in ivy.
This is a terrible idea.
This is the worst idea I've ever had, and I've had some spectacular ones, including drinking mystery tea from a shop that shouldn't exist and accidentally agreeing to marry a mafia king.
But I'm going to do it anyway.
I take a breath. Close my eyes. Think about Hewhay's—the warmth, the light, the smell of cream cheese garlic buns and old paper and possibility.
And I run.
Straight at the wall.
Full speed.
Believing with everything I have that—
THUNK.
Ow.
Ow.
I stumble backward, hand flying to my forehead, stars dancing in my vision.
Not Platform 9¾.
Definitely just a wall.
A very solid, very unmagical wall that has now left what I'm pretty sure is going to be a spectacular bruise on my forehead.
I sink down onto the grass and press my palm against the throbbing spot above my eyebrow.
Okay. So. That didn't work.
Good to know. Very valuable information. I've learned something today, and what I've learned is that I am an idiot.
The bird chirps again. I swear it's laughing at me.
"You're not helping," I inform it with dignity.
I SPEND THE REST OF the day with ice on my forehead and a growing sense of frustration.
Hewhay's isn't going to appear on command. Fine. That was always a long shot.
But there's still Abigail's journal. There's still the mystery of what actually happened to her. And there's still that passage behind the chapel—the one she disappeared into, the one I only explored partway before I found the journal and retreated.
Maybe I missed something.
Tomorrow. I'll go back tomorrow, when my head isn't throbbing and my pride isn't quite so bruised.
For now, I need to figure out how to hide this bump from my husband.
DINNER IS A QUIET AFFAIR. Devyn is distracted, but I don’t ask questions. If there’s something he wants me to know, he’ll tell me. So for now, I let it be. I’d rather not have his attention on me anyway.
Except...
When we’re back in our bedroom, I make the mistake of washing my face.
I'm standing at the sink, water dripping from my chin, when I push my hair back without thinking. Just a quick swipe to get it out of my eyes.
"What is that?"
I freeze.
Devyn is behind me, reflected in the mirror. He's already changed out of his jacket, his shirt unbuttoned at the collar, and his eyes are locked on my forehead.
On the bruise I've been hiding all day.
"What is what?" I try.
He's across the bathroom in two strides. His hand catches my chin, tilting my face toward the light, and his expression goes from questioning to thunderous in the space of a heartbeat.
"This." His thumb hovers near the bruise, not quite touching. "What is this?"
"It's nothing."
"It's not nothing. It's a bruise. On your face." His voice is too controlled. Too quiet. "Who did this?"
"No one—"
"Bailey."
"I did it to myself, okay?" The words come out too fast, too defensive. "I ran into a wall."
He stares at me.
I stare back.
"You ran into a wall," he repeats flatly.
"Yes."
"The same wall you ran into yesterday? Or a different wall? How many walls are you running into?"
"It was—" I stop. Take a breath. "It was the same wall. The same incident. I just...didn't want you to know."
"Why?"
Because it's embarrassing. Because I was trying to summon a magical bookshop by running at solid stone like a character in a children's book. Because I'm an idiot who can't even investigate properly without injuring myself.
"Because it's stupid," I say finally. "The reason is stupid."
His jaw tightens. His hand is still on my chin, his grip gentle despite the tension radiating through him.
"Tell me."
"I was trying to find Hewhay's. The bookshop. I thought maybe—" I gesture vaguely with my free hand. "Harry Potter. Platform 9¾. You run at the wall and magic happens."