"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 followrules—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 OFthe day with ice on my forehead and a growing sense of frustration.
