Epilogue

Nothing tests a relationship like a sixteen-hour drive. Especially when you add in a nervous mini poodle and a co-pilot with a brand new driver's license.

Jester eventually stopped shaking in his doggy safety harness, but I couldn't say the same for myself—not when Berron was at the wheel.

Berron quoted obscure road rules for fun, then ignored them completely and lead-footed it to every possible side trip, tourist trap, and u-pick fruit farm.

I, on the other hand, viewed the expanse between New York and Florida as something to be passed through as quickly as possible.

It made for an interesting road trip.

When we finally broke the Florida state line and blew south on I-95, the humidity wrapped me up like one of Grandma's quilts. It wasn't summer yet, only spring break, and the heat was strong but tolerable.

The exit to Sparkle Beach took us through town: past landmarks like the old Highway to Grill burger joint; cruising the River Street downtown district; and finally over a great, swooping arch of a bridge above the Intercoastal Waterway to the beachside peninsula, where my cousin Luella lived.

We wouldn't be staying in her cozy shotgun shack, though. Lily claimed that spare bedroom, so we had our own digs at the Eventide Motel, adjacent to Rolling Wave Coffee. Word was that the coffee there rivaled even that of the Big Apple.

But since we were running a little behind schedule—one "Let's check out where that road goes!" too many—we were heading straight for the beach.

The rental car crunched over shell-peppered sand in the beachside parking lot just as the sun began to slide past the western horizon. The condo buildings and palm trees cast long shadows.

Berron was practically bouncing up and down in the passenger seat. Though he'd insisted on stopping just about everywhere, he refused to detour to a beach until it was, as he said, "The beach. Sparkle Beach."

"We're here," I said, pulling to a stop and applying the parking brake. "You ready?"

Jester stood up and stretched, pushing his front paws out like a fuzzy yoga master.

Berron pulled his messenger bag from behind the seat and leaped out of the car, slamming the door shut, then peering back in through the window. "Hurry up, Zelda!"

I chuckled to myself and unbuckled. "Hold your horses, Gentry."

"Sybelia's not here."

"You know what I mean." I leashed Jester, hopped out, and pulled two cheap beach chairs out of the trunk. The sound of the ocean waves was so close.

Berron took the chairs out of my hands and half walked, half scampered up the sidewalk, past the huge sea grape bushes and picnic tables.

Jester surged after him.

We crested the hill and faced the Atlantic Ocean together.

Berron's hair blew in the wind, just as it should.

"I've never—" He stopped, shook his head. "I've never seen it. Not like this. It's so—"

"Big?" I offered.

"Limitless," he said.

Jester, who had begun sniffing the grass with interest, looked up.

Across the beach, where a low tide ebbed, a group of people were waving.

"That's them!" I said, waving back to Mom, Aunt Belinda, and Luella. I didn't know the rest, but I would soon.

We made our way down the sand-covered wooden stairs. On the last step, we pulled off our shoes. The beach sand was soft and cool like flour with a little butter cut in.

Every step brought us closer to the family we knew and the friends we didn't know yet.

"Are they all magical?" Berron asked quietly.

"Magical or in on it," I replied.

My mom hurried to meet us.

"Mom!" I threw my arms open and she landed with the force of a mother.

Berron stepped back, trying not to get in the way of a family reunion, but was soon hauled in by Aunt Belinda and Mom for hugs so all-encompassing he had to drop the beach chairs.

Aunt Belinda took charge. "You all take a walk or take a load off while we get the grill going," she said, gesturing back to the picnic tables.

"Yes, ma'am," Berron said. He was learning fast. He opened the chairs side by side and dropped his bag into one of them.

I set mine in the other.

"Last one in the sea's a rotten egg!" he said. Then he took off running, pell-mell, toward the waves.

"No fair!" I launched after him, Jester flying alongside.

Berron beat me to the water, but when I got to him, I pushed him so hard he fell over into the waves. He emerged dripping, laughing, and pushing his locks out of his face.

The setting sun gilded the water and made the sky rose-pink on the eastern horizon. The water, cool at first, became a warm bath. A school of tiny silver fish flashed through a wave as it slid into shore. When the wave retreated, colorful periwinkles burrowed into the sand.

Jester pranced through the water and took an experimental nibble of sand.

When we'd had enough of splashing and looking for shells—I found an absolutely perfect whelk—we flopped in the chairs and dug our toes in the sand. Jester stretched out like a fuzzy sphinx and panted with a happy expression.

Berron opened his bag and removed a bottle of Suntan Queen sunscreen, setting it in the sand. Then he took out a wooden case.

"What's that?" I said, recognizing Berron's own woodwork.

He clicked open the clasps and revealed a flamingo-stemmed goblet that caught the remaining sunlight in its details. "Ta-da!"

"Is that… mine? Or did you steal the one from the museum?"

"Yours."

"You can't bring something like that to the beach."

"Why not?"

"Because—"

He stopped moving and looked at me patiently.

"What are you going to do, drink from it?" I said. When he didn't say no, I continued. "If you drink from something like that, you're going to start seeing little fairies everywhere."

"I see a big one in the mirror every day."

I put my head in my hand. Give me strength. "You don't have anything to put in it."

"That's where you're wrong," he said, fishing in his bag again. "Remember that produce stand I made you stop at?" He pulled out a bottle of fresh-squeezed orange juice wrapped with ice packs. Condensation beaded on the sides.

"Zelda!" my mom called. "Supper's ready!"

"Oh, thank God," I said.

We climbed the wooden stairs back to the picnic area overlooking the beach. One of Luella's friends, dressed all in black, discreetly lit candles with the touch of her finger. A fit and shirtless British man called us over and handed Berron a veggie burger, me a regular burger, and Jester his very own patty. Another friend of Luella's, an energetic woman with curly hair, waved her hands at us and all the water evaporated from our clothes and Jester's fur.

The sun had almost disappeared, but I was warm and dry and safe.

And hungry. The salty air made the food taste even better.

When we were done eating, and all the magical introductions had been made—who had which elemental magic—a beautiful white dog appeared, as if out of nowhere, on the grass.

Jester jumped up, alert, his tail pouf held high.

The two dogs play-bowed, exchanged sniffs, then dashed off together.

"That's Luella's familiar," Aunt Belinda said.

I watched the two dogs dash around: one magical, one extra-magical. I might have been biased, but I was pretty sure Jester was the extra-magical one.

Berron had wandered to the edge of the picnic area, where it overlooked the water.

I joined him. In the distance, the Sparkle Beach lighthouse was visible by its rotating light. "Still thirsty?" I said.

He looked at me and raised his eyebrows.

I led the way back to the sand. Took the box out of Berron's bag and undid the clasps. Lifted the glass to catch the first light of the moon and stars.

Berron had the orange juice bottle.

I held out the glass.

He poured.

The sharp scent of citrus made my mouth water. I lifted the glass. The juice flowed over the salt on my lips, like a cocktail, and as I drank, I looked out to the sea.

Limitless.

I raised the glass to Berron and took a second sip, unable to stop from smiling even as my lips curved on the rim of the glass.

"You going to drink it all?" he said.

"I've been known to do things like that," I said. But I handed him the flamingo-stemmed goblet with half the juice still in it.

He caught my gaze, then tossed it back in one go.

Everyone else was making their way back down the stairs, back to the beach. Jester dashed to me, a midnight blur against the white sand.

I scooped him up and smoothed his velvet ears. He sparkled, from the famous sand, and from whatever magic lingered in his soft coat.

And maybe you shouldn't drink orange juice from magic-forged flamingo cups.

Or open long-gone sandwich shops.

Or go on road trips with newly-licensed Gentry.

Or let miniature poodles lick your face by the light of the moon.

But where would be the fun in that?

Catch up with Zelda's cousin and the rest of the Sparkle Beach gang in Silver Spells!