Chapter Text
The miniature guitar lay facing her, bursten and splayed, strings torn asunder whilst simultaneously bathed in an ominous green hue, from the body to the headstock. One in a million, an improbability. It shouldn’t have happened.
It couldn’t have happened.
The manic, hysterical caterwauling followed soon afterwards, severing through the night.
“Mirabel!”
The entire house—if not their small community as a whole—had been abruptly awoken by the commotion, the haunting shriek seizing them by the throat. By the time Julieta had arrived at her youngest daughter’s room, she found herself gazing upon a monumental vacuum that echoed and howled like a perishing beast holed in a cave, its life force ebbing and waning with every dying breath. Panic pierced through her heart like a venom-coated lance, an acute distress, as she rummaged through the area from the bottom to the very top in hopes that Mirabel may have been merely hiding. She was not. The room remained thoroughly barren, devoid of any and all possible signs of life. Julieta shook, fearing the implications. Not her. Not her daughter. Anything but her daughter.
The panic intensified, thoughts swirling about with no rhyme or reason—devoid of meaning, devoid of significance, a panicked mound.
Agustín joined the searching party shortly thereafter, just as affrighted as his terror-stricken wife. He checked under the bed, within the confines of the wardrobe, out the window, and came out equally empty-handed, his daughter nowhere to be found. His demeanor was austere, lips pursed in thought. One of them had to remain calm. Julieta seemed as though she were slowly losing her mind, their four-year-old missing.
“Mirabel,” he called, wide awake, eyes darting to and fro as he scavenged, “Mirabel!”
Another scream. Downstairs. Uncanny, wild, animalistic.
Familiar.
Julieta felt an acquainted chill creep up her spine, a dreadful wintriness as barren and lifeless as an old, hollowed tree. Locking eyes with Agustín for the briefest of moments, the two proceeded to scurry down the stairs and towards the kitchen, following the source of the hollering. The duo audibly halted in their tracks when faced with the unfolding display before them. Dolores was there, comforting a weeping Mirabel as the two lay on the floor, clinging to each other like lifelines. Mirabel desperately held onto her cousin’s shirt, as if letting go spelled death. Dolores rubbed her back in soothing, lulling motions, humming a lullaby under her breath. It didn’t quite help. The thought was appreciated nevertheless.
Taking notice of her parents’ presence in the room, Mirabel sobbed out, desperation coloring her features, “Mamá, papá, my head hurt!”
“Oh, mi hija!”
Julieta, arrant relief coursing through her veins, dove straight towards her daughter and held her in her arms, shushing her with swaying motions. Agustín, acknowledging the heartbreaking scene before him, helped Dolores up and murmured words of reassurance that he was positive she would hear. With a small, hesitant nod, she offered her smaller, younger cousin earnest well-wishes and trudged her way up the stairs, her exhaustion making itself apparent.
The clock mounted on the wall ticked forth ever so effortlessly.
Midnight.
“It’s okay, Mira, you’re okay,” hummed Julieta as she ran a hand through her daughter’s curls. “I’m sure it’s just a headache. How about I make you an empanada, hm?”
Mirabel, out of options and feeling as though her cranium would burst at the seams at any given moment, could only manage a feeble nod in return, shivering like a trimmed poodle in the middle of winter. She was then gently placed with Agustín as Julieta gathered the necessary ingredients, her movements masterfully calculated in her haste, practically robotic in nature. Agustín repeated Dolores’s motions as he massaged his daughter’s back. It wasn’t a cure, not in the slightest, but it was a start.
It would only take a few minutes for the empanada to be fully cooked and presented to Mirabel on a flowery plate. She snatched the pastry and devoured it apace, barely finding the time to chew.
“Take it slow, mija,” Agustín said.
Mirabel grumbled, despondent, yet slowed her tempo nevertheless.
Julieta allowed herself to unwind once the empanada had been consumed in its entirety, knowing her gift would work its magic and heal her daughter of whatever ailment was plaguing her. It was guaranteed. She, in her confidence, had failed to notice the vivid green hue that she’d come to grow accustomed to in the past few decades circling Mirabel’s irises, her one and only warning.
The plate within her grasp shattered.
Mirabel howled.
. . .
The impromptu meeting was scheduled at about four in the afternoon. All of the Madrigal adults were in attendance, their squabbles and contretemps slowly but surely filling the room like sand trapped within an hourglass, its downfall an inevitable endeavor.
“This is unprecedented—”
“I’ve never seen something like this before—”
“It could be dangerous to let her—”
“C’mon, she’s just a kid—”
“Of course it would be Bruno’s child that—”
A slam, resounding, piercing, cut through the dead air like a hot knife through butter. All eyes fell onto the eldest Madrigal, her expression severe, strict, eyes narrowed, a hand walloped into the table.
“That’s enough!”
Silence, withering.
“I’m sure you’ve all heard the news,” Alma commenced, her spine ramrod straight, hands clasped together, “regarding our youngest child’s… incident.”
Félix leaned forth, almost conspiratorially. “Is it true?”
“I’m afraid so.”
Alma pursed her lips, unsure of how to phrase the following sentence. “Mirabel’s gift has awakened without the candle’s blessing.”
There was yet another interlude, just as scathing and blistering as the first. Julieta lowered her head, fingers vehemently interlaced with her husband’s. Her mind went to her daughter—her sweet, sweet daughter, thoroughly innocent in all of this—and her stomach dropped, a desolate, wintry wasteland. It had been unprecedented, such an event. Never before seen in the history of their family. The Madrigals eyed one another, eyebrows pointedly furrowed, all of them with the same racking question within their mind.
Julieta beat them to it, completely and utterly dismayed, shaken to her very core.
“... What now, mamá?”
“Now,” Alma said, irresolute, “we wait.”