Violet makes much more sense as a Faerie than she would as a human.
I use the remaining command to make Violet wash the dishes. She probably would have anyway. But I want to get the last wish out of the way.
I don’t need to command Indigo to dry the dishes. A threat to tell Oren he misbehaved is enough.
As they work, I lie back on the sofa and relax. Rosa jumps on top of me. I try to shove her off.
“Rosa, get down,” I say. She doesn’t budge. My ribs creak from her weight. I think she’s gained ten pounds since we got home.
“Rosa, oof. You’re crushing me. Get off.” She just licks my face. I try to squirm away, but that makes her more determined. “Rosa…no…Rosa…stop…” I don’t know why I say what I do next. Maybe just habit.
“Mrs. Rosa Guzman, I command you: Get off me and go outside!”
Rosa freezes. Her body floats up off me and lands gracefully on the floor.
“What the…?” Indigo says, turning from the sink.
Rosa woofs and trots obediently over to the door. The closed door. It unlocks and swings open.
Rosa bounds outside. Indigo, Violet and I follow her, watching from the porch as she frolics in the yard. It’s getting dark, and we can clearly see Rosa playing with what looks like fireflies. They’re not fireflies, of course. I know she’s playing with Will-o’-the-Wisps. Just like Indigo and Violet used to.
“That’s…odd,” Violet says.
“It’s awesome,” Indigo says.
I don’t say anything.
Either some of Violet’s magic or some of Olea’s magic must have gotten into Rosa. Oren told me that when wild magic gets into a human, it is quickly used up. And humans can’t make any more. But does that apply to dogs?
Because if it doesn’t, I just used up one of her three commands. I now have a magical dog.
That sounds awesome, as Indigo says, but, knowing me, it will end in disaster.
What else is new?
I stood up quickly. I looked down at my feet to make sure there was nothing near them. That’s when I spotted something sparkly under the water. I had to investigate. Finding things is kind of my thing. I started digging carefully like I’d learned from my handbook, Treasure Hunting 101. Rule number one: Always protect the scene.
My fingers found something solid. It felt like a bottle. I pulled it out of the sand and held it over my head like a trophy. I had found the first treasure of the day!
“Hey!” Sam called out. “What’s that?” He ran into the water and stood next to me.
“Aw,” said my little brother, joining us. “It’s just a bottle.”
“Hang on,” I said. Something clinked inside the bottle.
I flipped the bottle over. With a THUNK, a blob of wet sand fell out. Stuck inside the bottle was a beautiful pink shell that glimmered. I tried to shake it out.
“Whoa, that’s cool,” Sam said. “I’ve never seen a shell like that before.”
“Maybe it’s from the ocean!” my brother said.
“That’s impossible, Bug,” I said. My brother is eight years old. His real name is Ben. Mom thinks I call him Bug because he likes creepy crawlers. But really it’s because he’s so annoying, a real pain in my butt. I always have to babysit him.
“Is not,” Bug said. He crossed his arms.
I grunted. The closest ocean is more than a thousand miles away. But Bug had a point. This shell did not look like any of the brown clamshells I’d found at the bottom of the lake.
I shrugged. “Lost treasure?”
We made our way back to the beach. Sam and Bug followed me up to the rocky ledge where we’d left our bags and bikes. Close to Mrs. Wilson’s cabin, it was the perfect place to stash our stuff, away from the crowds of people on the beach.
Bug pushed between us. “How did that big shell get in that tiny opening anyway?” he asked.
“Beat it, Bug.” I peered into the bottle. I’d seen a ship in a bottle before, down at the Treasure Trove, the local general store. But someone had built that boat inside the bottle, piece by piece. Bug was right. How did a shell get inside this one?
“But I want to see,” said Bug.
He grabbed at the bottle. I lost my grip, and the bottle fell out of my hands. It smashed against the rocky shore. Glass shot everywhere, like sparks at a campfire. The shell slid between two rocks, just out of reach.
“Bug!” I yelled. “Look what you did.”
Bug stepped back, crossing his arms again and pinching his lips together. “I’m going to tell Mom you’re not being nice.”
“I’ll tell her you smashed a bottle,” I said, trying to dig out the shell. “And here, of all places.”
Right on cue, a screech came from the front porch of the cabin. “What are you kids doing down there?” Old Lady Wilson stood there, shaking her cane at us.
“Run!” I pulled the shell free, threw it in my bag and jumped on my bike.
I didn’t wait for Bug or Sam. I kicked down the pedal and took off. I didn’t stop until I got to the top of Crow’s Hill. Soon Sam caught up to me, both of us huffing and puffing.
We had escaped. We had the shell. Everything was perfect.
“Wait,” I said. “Where’s Bug?”
Gabrielle Prendergast is an award-winning writer, teacher and designer. She has written many books for young people, including the BC Book Prize and Sheila A. Egoff Children’s Literature Prize winner Zero Repeat Forever and the Westchester Award winner Audacious. She lives in Vancouver, British Columbia, with her family.
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