Chapter Text
Casita was the same as ever. No one was quite sure how, but every broken tile, creaky floorboard and chipped mug was present and accounted for. Plates and bowls that surely should have been destroyed in the collapse were found exactly as they were, nestled in their cabinets. Camilo even found his mother’s half-drunk cup of camomile tea sitting in the drawing room, just as it was left before an entire house fell on it.
The tiles of Casita’s roof ruffled and gently clinked together, quietly proud of its handiwork.
What was missing, though, was Bruno. It had been three whole days since the Madrigals moved back in, but Mirabel hadn’t seen him since they were pushed cheek-to-shoulder for their new family portrait. He was gone in an elaborate flourish of a ruana before she could even turn to face him.
“Your tío needs time to adjust,” her mother had told her. “I think he’s camping out in his old r- well, his room! The entire town wants him out there, reading palms. He doesn’t even do that.” She snorted at the idea.
They were in the kitchen, making sancocho. Well, Julietta made it - Mirabel chopped the potatoes and asked lingering questions.
“But why does that mean he should hide from us? He knows we want him here, right?”
Her mother looked askance at her, unsure.
“Bruno is a - complicated man. Sometimes the most loving thing to do for someone is to give them space.”
Mirabel pursed her lips, but nodded, understanding her mother’s implicit instruction. Fixing her eyes on the potatoes, she didn’t quite register a flash of green just within her peripheral vision.
Mirabel studied the engraving on Bruno’s tower door. The patterned wood pulsed with light - maybe even a touch brighter than the doors of her sisters and cousins, she thought. Two carved eyes, wide and slightly gaunt, stared her down. She was strangely afraid, desperate not to fumble the tentative bond she had forged with her skittish uncle.
Her mother had all but demanded that she didn’t bother him, but she had a persistent hunch that Bruno needed - wanted - bothering.
Brow furrowed, Mirabel rapped smartly on the door and flung it open before she could convince herself not to.
The room was empty. And - smaller?
“Casita - you redecorated?” she asked aloud. A nearby curtain swished itself around bashfully, which Mirabel translated as oh, it was nothing. Grinning, she stepped over the threshold.
The hellscape of sand and stairs was gone. In its stead was a small but cozy studio, not that much bigger than his previous - uh - arrangements. A stony fireplace crackled and murmured to itself at the very back of the room, and the hearth was covered by a thick woolen rug patterned with dancing rats. Upon it were two old but comfy-looking armchairs, facing a peculiar green glass table.
To the side was a stovetop, where a cauldron was simmering a strange, metallic substance, as well as a plain wooden writing desk. The right side of the room was almost entirely taken up by an elaborate and lovingly furnished hutch. Mirabel peeked inside - six little rats were wiggling happily through an elaborate maze of tubes and food dispensers.
For Madrigal standards, the room was woefully unimpressive. There was absolutely no way Bruno could cast any sort of vision in here. It was perfect.
“Tío Bruno?” Mirabel called out uncertainly, knowing full well he wasn’t there.
“Has he been here at all?” she asked Casita with a huff. Out on the landing, a window anxiously squeaked open and then shut: no. Mirabel knew that Abuela wouldn’t let Bruno just leave again. There was really only one other place to look. Setting her face with grim determination, she started off for another sojourn in the wallspace.