Epilogue In Perfect Key
Missy
The cobblestones of Main Street look almost dreamlike in twilight’s watercolor hues tonight. Dean’s hand is warm in mine as we walk. Magic shimmers in the air, easy to see now that I know what to look for. It’s like starlight caught in amber, like music made tangible.
Dean explained about Resonants—humans with natural magical attunement—his eyes lighting up as he spoke.
He’s been adorably enthusiastic about researching it, requesting studies from other communities.
I let him explain the theories, but honestly?
I don’t need scientific explanations or magical theorems to understand what I know in my soul.
I’m supposed to be here. I knew it before and this theory only confirms it.
“Hi Missy! Hi Dean!” Iris waves as she passes, her arms full of late-blooming chrysanthemums that seem to dance with each step she takes.
Dean startles slightly at the casual greeting, and I can’t help but laugh though I do my best to muffle it.
He’s still adjusting to this—to being seen as more than just the stern Head Warlock, to belonging rather than standing apart.
The transformation reminds me of watching a tightly wound string slowly release its tension and finding its natural resonance.
“You’ll get used to it,” I whisper and squeeze his hand.
His smile comes easier these days, and he almost sounds not-cranky when he says, “I suppose I will.”
And he will. Just like I’m getting used to this new life I’ve chosen—running the summer music program, composing without pressure, loving freely.
Even our upcoming visit to his family feels more like anticipation than anxiety.
The melodies that once felt trapped beneath technical perfection now flow freely, filling my mind with possibilities.
I haven’t told Jules yet, but I’ve decided to record an album.
And I’m just corny enough to title it Cello Magic.
A chill whispers through the ocean’s breeze, carrying winter’s first promise. Dean pulls me closer as we approach the Whimsical Whisk, its window glowing with warmth despite the Closed sign. Inside, familiar voices and laughter spill out like music.
The bell chimes as we enter, and I’m immediately wrapped in Alex’s embrace.
Dean is absorbed into the fray by Ethan who’s been making a real effort to include him.
The whole book club has gathered for wedding cake tasting.
Tom and Violet argue playfully over flavor combinations, Rachel and Grant listen stoically as Zoe presents each option with theatrical flair, and Mia smirks at her wife and shakes her head.
Rhianna and Eli, who I’ve yet to meet, have returned from their latest adventure, their faces sun-kissed and happy.
“So this is the woman who melted our resident grumpy warlock.” The woman who has to be Rhianna with her curls knotted back with a pencil and a pin on her cardigan that says ‘shelf care is self-care’ grins at me as she extends her hand.
“Rhianna, by the way. I have to say I’m impressed.
We were taking bets on whether he even knew how to smile. ”
“Told you he was dateable,” Alex says with a smirk.
“Isn’t it cheating if you talked your sister into it?” Rhianna crosses her arms and turns on my sister.
Alex rolls her eyes, but her smile is fond. “As if anyone could talk Missy into anything.”
The truth of those words settles into my chest. There was a time when that wasn’t true—when I’d shaped myself to others’ expectations like a melody conforming to someone else’s arrangement. But now I know my own voice, understand my own rhythms.
Dean approaches then, his posture still carrying that careful control, though it softens when he meets my eyes. “Rhianna.”
“Hey… Dean.” She laughs awkwardly. “Nice weather we’re having, huh?”
His nod is pure Head Warlock, but when I nudge him, his expression warms. “It’s been a mild autumn. That’s always nice.”
Rhianna stares at him like a gargoyle just spoke and I’m once again biting back a laugh. Progress, one note at a time.
Zoe’s voice cuts through the chatter as she presents her latest creation. “Behold! Lavender-honey buttercream with elderflower sponge and edible gold leaf.” The cake sparkles with barely contained magic. “Tell me this isn’t the most exciting wedding cake concept you’ve ever seen.”
“It’s beautiful, Zoe,” Alex says.
Zoe props a hand on a hip. “You don’t like it, though, do you?” She stabs a knife into it. “Don’t tell me you’re going to be one of those tragic vanilla-and-buttercream couples. Next you’ll tell me you want the most basic roses piped on the cake. My artistic soul can’t take this level of betrayal.”
Mia passes around samples and we all start nibbling them, the flavors exploding in my mouth—each bite revealing new depths and complexities.
And the feeling—the magic—tastes exactly how happily ever after would taste.
I catch Dean’s eye and my heart swells with recognition.
Because I already know this flavor, this blend of sweetness and certainty.
Alex finishes her bite. “It’s delicious, Zoe.”
Zoe props both fists on her hips. “But?”
“I do really like vanilla cake.” Alex almost winces when she says it.
Ethan wraps an arm around her waist. “Whatever Alex likes is perfect to me.”
“You two are literally a tragedy.” Zoe throws her hands up. “I’m trying to create art here!”
“Well…” Alex exchanges a look with Ethan, one of those silent conversations they’ve mastered.
“We’ve actually been thinking. One cake seems…
limiting, especially given the talent we have at our disposal.
” Her eyes sparkle as they meet Ethan’s again before returning to Zoe.
“What if we gave you creative license over an entire cake table? Something that really lets you showcase your artistic vision?”
Zoe freezes mid-gesture, her eyes widening like Alex just told her they discovered a new flavor of sugar. “An entire table?” A grin breaks across her face and her eyes have gone bright and wild. “Now you’re speaking my language, Sugar. I only have a few months left, though. I need to plan.”
I chuckle as Dean and I drift to a quiet corner with other samples Mia has produced.
His fingers trace patterns on my hand as we taste each option and Tom expounds on the possibilities now that they have an in with the Head Warlock.
“Just think of the magical potential,” he says, gesturing at Dean without looking at him and therefore missing the skeptical lift of his brow.
“We could really push the boundaries of enchanted pastries.”
“My desserts stand on their own.” Zoe crosses her arms and her tattoos peek past her sweater’s sleeves. “They don’t need magical flair.”
Tom scoffs. “You literally love flair.”
Rhianna giggles from across the room. “Who doesn’t?”
Their voices and laughter fade into a pleasant hum as I turn my attention back to Dean. He’s watching me with that softness that still makes my heart skip—the way his careful control melts at the edges when we’re together, like frost yielding to spring sunshine.
He gestures with his fork at his empty plate. “They’re all excellent. Do you think you’d have the Whisk make your wedding cake one day?”
I go still, my fork suspended halfway to my mouth.
Dean blinks, his mouth falling open slightly, as if to backpedal, but no words come out.
His hand drops the fork with a clatter, and he quickly picks it up, gripping it too tightly.
A flush creeps up his neck to his ears, and he shifts in his chair, suddenly hyper-focused on the smudge of frosting on the edge of his plate.
“I mean… if that’s something you’d ever…
you know… want. Not that you—uh.” His voice fades, and he stabs at an invisible crumb, his gaze fixed anywhere but on me.
I laugh first. Then Dean joins me and the tension dissolves into something sweeter than any of Zoe’s creations.
“Of course,” I say, squeezing his hand. “What’s a brother-in-law for if he doesn’t make my cake?
” Our eyes meet, and in that look I see our future stretching out before us like an unfinished song waiting to be written.
“Besides, you know I’m going to have to play at their wedding. I’d say they owe me.”
“That sounds fair.”
Around us, the Whisk hums with magic and laughter, with friendship and possibility.
Dean’s thumb brushes across my knuckles, and I lean into him, savoring this moment of perfect imperfection.
This is what I was searching for all those years on stage—not the perfect performance, but genuine connection.
Not technical precision, but real magic.
Some songs take time to find their true melody.
Beethoven spent a decade refining his Ninth Symphony, searching for something that speaks to the soul.
Two centuries later, it’s a masterpiece that echoes in every grand music hall around the world.
I meet Dean’s dark eyes, his soft smile, that rare thing he offers only to me.
And it strikes me—that’s the magic of a truly great song.
Once it finds its harmony, it doesn’t just resonate, it lingers, timeless and unforgettable.