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Chapter Text

In short, Mirabel is sore.

She is not in pain; no, she cannot feel much of anything anymore. But the small amount of feeling that still remains in her numb, broken-down body is a dull and achy sensation that hasn’t gone away for ten years. It is the remnants of pain that once was, that she’s grown so accustomed to and is in the process of healing from, but pain that absolutely refuses to go away completely. Mirabel is sore and she thanks God she isn’t anything more than sore.

There’s something about their village, she decides quite early on, that makes it worse. Perhaps it’s the fact that many of their neighbors knew and loved the Madrigals before Mirabel was even in existence, and so the expectations she’s failed to fulfill are still buried in the depths of their minds. Perhaps it’s the fact that she’s known them since her youth, when she was just a normal Madrigal, waiting in anticipation for the day she would receive her special gift, and she can see the distinct difference in the way they treat her. Perhaps it’s the fact that, when that day had come and she received no gift, the village had almost been more disappointed than she. (As was expected, she was all they talked about for weeks).

But perhaps the worst of all is that they pity her.

She can deal with the stares, with the whispers and the pointing, but she just about punches a hole through the wall each time somebody tells her they are ‘sorry.’

For what?

After all, no mistake has been made. It isn’t as if somebody did something wrong—made some heinous error along the way—that caused her to turn out this way. She just did. Of course they still aren’t sure why she failed to receive a gift, but who says it is something she should be sorry about? Why should she feel ashamed?

She cries some nights to Julieta, her mamá rubbing soothing circles on her back and cradling her like she is a child again and like it will make everything better. Of course Julieta doesn’t understand what she is going through; nobody does, truly. But she is the closest Mirabel can get to soothing the soreness she feels in her poor corazón and she is endlessly grateful for her mother.

She is often compared to her father Agustín and tio Félix, as if to comfort her. Being the only other gift-less Madrigals, she often wonders why she can’t be more easy-going and nonchalant as they are but, no, they were never meant to have gifts. They married into the family. Mirabel is the screw-up; Mirabel is the mistake.

Mirabel is the one who receives the pity.

So the sentiment does nothing to soothe her and she is back to square one, ever wondering, how can she make everything go away? How can she make it stop like she so desperately wishes? It seems nearly impossible when everything around her reminds her of her pathetic fate, and nobody seems to have any answers. Nobody seems to know why, or how. Nobody seems to care enough to figure it out, and she’s grown painfully used to it.

It almost hurts worse, the fact that it doesn’t hurt much at all anymore.

Because, when it comes down to it, Mirabel is sore. She is so sore and so tired that she sometimes wishes she could leave it all behind; that she could take off running and never turn back.

Then she meets Marty…

Everything changes.

————————————————————————

She is walking through the village as she often does on Sunday, greeting whoever she can and asking those who are busy if she can help in any way. Being the only Madrigal without an assigned gift used to help the town, she’s found she must ask or else nobody will admit they could use her aid.

So she wanders around town, waving at her neighbors and the few other children that are her age. They always wave back and Mirabel is grateful, considering she’s been homeschooled by Abuela for the majority of her life, and while they all attend school together for months at a time during the fall, she has had limited access to making friends or even acquaintances around the encanto.

Greetings aside, she continues on.

“Hola, Señor Flores!”

“Hola, Mirabel!” The humble priest waves back at the girl with a grin. “Late start today, ay?”

“Yep,” she responds. “Mamá let me sleep in. Anything I can help you with?”

“Oh, no. Not today,” he shakes his head with a smile, turning around and heading back into the humble church. “Gracias, Mirabel. Dios te bendiga siempre!”

Mirabel nods and bounds past the church deeper into town where she usually spends her time washing vegetables or carting around newspapers that are to be delivered the next morning. She spots Osvaldo Ortiz and her pace quickens.

“Señor Ortiz! Hola!”

“Buenas noches, Mirabel,” he says distractedly.

“How are the deliveries?”

This time he grumbles, picking up a rather heavy basket full of bales of shrubs and tree bark for the donkeys. “A bit behind.”

“Señor, let me take that from you,” she insists, grabbing the large basket from his hands. Its weight nearly knocks her to the ground, but she steadies herself before it can.

“You got it, chica?” he asks, his eyebrows raising so high it accentuates the wrinkles on his forehead. She almost laughs.

“I got it! Where to?”

“La casa Duarte. And be careful with that!”

Mirabel bolts off before he can chide her more, racing past those walking opposite on the narrow pathway and nearly bumping into each and every one of them. The Duartes’ house is almost directly next to hers, so she finds the trip back to be rather monotonous, but she does think it’s rather fun slinking past those who have always pitied her in the past with work to do, her own work to do.

And if she can save Ortiz the trip, she’s done her part.

Mirabel has somehow managed to avoid collisions with likely the entire neighborhood, a few greeting her as she passes and others glaring for her sometimes-close-calls. She is only a few feet away from her destination when—

SMACK!

She is suddenly laying on her back. Searing pain shoots up her spine and her head and, more importantly, she’s dropped the delivery.

She assumes she’s run into an obstacle she somehow failed to see and miserably begins to sit herself back up on the cobblestone, groaning a bit as she does so. She grasps her head and looks at everything previously in the basket that’s now scattered around her. Dios mío, she thinks. Ortiz is going to kill me.

Mirabel almost doesn’t hear the voice of the boy standing near her through the pain in her head, but she does hear him and she realizes he is apologizing.

He is apologizing? So this is not her fault at all. For once it is not her fault.

“Lo siento, lo siento,” the boy is saying repeatedly. “I am so sorry. Dios mío, are you okay?”

He offers a hand out to the poor girl who is still in a tangle on the floor and she accepts, ungracefully hoisting herself to her feet. “I think so…? How did you—I mean, what did I—“

“It was my brother,” he says shamefully. He reveals the little boy that is grasping his other hand and hiding behind his back. “He tripped you.”

“He tripped me?” Her voice is small and a bit squeaky, but she wants to laugh.

“I am so sorry. I’m supposed to be watching him, but I—he got a little excited.”

“Yeah, I can see that,” she jokes, scratching her head in the spot where it hit the ground.

Instinctively, the boy reaches down and begins to pick up all the lost supplies, placing them into the basket one by one. Mirabel is down on her knees again too, but he stops her.

“No, no, señorita. I’ve got it.”

She raises an eyebrow at the boy’s politeness. “Are you sure?”

“Yes. I’m sure.”

“Okay. Your brother is running away again.”

All the color drains from the boy’s face as he frantically stands and turns around to confirm that, yes, his little brother is on the move. “Ay, dios mío. I have to—Do you mind if I—“

Mirabel chuckles. “Yes. Go, go.”

He tiredly smiles at her to show his appreciation and darts off the other way, eventually reaching his brother and grabbing him harshly. He is scowling—understandably so—as he pulls the little boy’s hand, presumably in the direction of their new home.

But Mirabel stops them.

“Wait!” she calls after the pair who is desperately trying to head home. The boy turns. “I’ve never seen you around.”

“Sí,” he confirms. “Me and my family just moved here.”

“You did?” It’s strange. Abuela is usually aware when visitors arrive and enter the encanto, but she has not heard of a new family coming to live here.

“Yes. We just arrived, so I was trying to find my way around town, but—“ He pauses and scratches the back of his neck. “Well, I’m Marty.”

She smiles back at the new arrival. “My name is—“

“Mirabel!”

It’s the voice of her abuela. She cringes. “That’s me. I guess it’s time for dinner.”

She notices the dumbfounded look on his face but isn’t surprised. The boy glances at the house and back at the girl. “That’s your house?”

Mirabel’s genuine grin turns into a playful one as she picks up the newly restocked delivery basket. “Yes. My family lives there. Stop by and I’ll show you around sometime.”

Marty grins back, looking a bit nauseous. “I will.”

With that, they part ways, Mirabel finally heading next door to make the delivery that’s been pending for so long. The Duartes thank her and barely even notice the slight disarray of their package.

Still, Mirabel can’t help thinking that night about the boy.

She wonders if Ortiz might have another delivery for her to make tomorrow.

Chapter Text

The morning after her disastrous delivery, Mirabel is back to doing chores in the house while the others go out to help the town. She doesn’t necessarily hate being stuck up inside, as casita is entertainment enough, but she sometimes does wish she could go out and help them like she used to before the failed gift ceremony.

And then there’s Antonio who has yet to get a gift at all. But he is four and in love with all things nature-related, so he often prefers trips to the woods with Tía Pepa rather than wasting afternoons in town. He also enjoys spending his time with Mirabel and she dreads the day when that no longer persists.

When her family returns it is back to lessons for herself and Camilo. School is one thing she can say she hates because, dios mío, could it be more boring? It is especially cruel, she has decided, being stuck learning all day when the three eldest Madrigals have already finished their lessons and the youngest is not yet ready to start, leaving only the two of them to be put through such misery.

So Camilo and Mirabel do their lessons at the kitchen table adjacent to each other for six hours each weekday. Abuela stands at the head of the table instructing them and, while they all certainly love each other, it is brutal.

“Ay, Abuela,” whines Camilo that afternoon, forcefully abandoning his pencil on the ground. “Don’t you think we’ve had enough lessons for one day?”

“Hush, Camilo,” she says sternly. “All the Madrigal children must learn.”

“But why must we learn so much in one day?” Camilo mimics, likely fighting the urge to shapeshift into the woman in front of him.

“Do not insult my teaching,” she scolds.

“I’m not! I just have better things to be doing, that’s all.”

Mirabel snorts at the idea, tapping her pencil on the table distractedly. “Yeah, right. Like what?”

There is a knock on the door that they do not hear.

Camilo’s face is calculating at the sound of her question. He crosses his arms. “Like…very important things.”

“Like flirting with all the girls around town?”

He feigns nonchalantness, although he does begin to stammer. “What? Hah! I’ll—I’ll have you know that—“

“Mirabel!” calls Pepa who has just answered the knock. She is still standing at the door, hands glued to her hips and a smirk stuck on her face. “Some boy is here for you!”

This time it is Mirabel’s turn to blush. To her left, Camilo fails to hold back his laughter and dissolves into a fit of it while Mirabel ignores his behavior and stands, all thought of her schoolwork and lessons left behind at the table.

Marty is standing there next to Pepa, awkward as ever, and now she wants to laugh.

“Hola,” says the boy quietly.

Mirabel smiles warmly. “Hola, Marty.”

“I hope it’s okay that I’m here. I figured, you know—“

“No little brother today?” she interrupts him, ignoring her Tía Pepa’s glance from beside her.

“No. Just me.” His hair falls in front of his face and he moves it back, flustered. “I hope that’s okay.“

Mirabel notices he’s got a bit of dirt on his blue ruana which leads her to believe he’s been working in town and stopped by on his way home. It isn’t as if she’s unhappy he’s here, it’s just a few days sooner than she expected he’d arrive. And she had sort of been doubting he would arrive in the first place.

“Well, actually, my family isn’t here right now; that’s who you’ll really want to meet. It’s only my primo Camilo and Abuela…and you’ve met Tía Pepa.” Mirabel gestures to the woman standing confusedly by the door. Another awkward wave is passed between the two.

“Lo siento. Bad timing.”

“It’s alright, I just—no offense, Marty—but when you said you would stop by sometime I didn’t realize you meant today.”

“Sí. I figured it would get me out of my lessons, so…”

She chuckles at his embarrassment. “Clever. I’m sure I can show you around town instead, if you want.”

His eyes light up a bit as he nods. “Okay. I did almost get lost on my way here.”

“Then I’m sure a guide back home wouldn’t hurt. Come on! I’ll give you la gran gira!” She hops down the stairs that lead up to the front door and meets him on the pavement. “I’ll be back by supper, Tía. Tell Abuela I’m gone?”

Curiously, Pepa nods at the two teenagers, shooing them away. “Go have fun.”

Mirabel smiles toothily at her aunt and waves her hand as the door is shut behind her. Looking over her shoulder, she then gestures for Marty to follow her down the path in front of them. He complies.

Quickly, before they’ve made great distance, Mirabel turns back around. “Adiós, Casita!”

The windows wave in response.

Marty’s mouth drops to the floor and Mirabel does not hold back her chuckle.

————————————————————————

Mirabel moves through the village slightly too quickly for Marty’s taste, so she finds herself periodically having to slow her pace as to not leave him behind. It doesn’t bother her, really; it allows for more time to talk.

But their conversations are fast-paced, too, so it’s a good thing he likes to talk as much as she does.

“So…” She raises an eyebrow. “Marty, huh?”

“Sí,” he responds, a smile plastered on his face. He is a rather chipper boy, but Mirabel finds it quite endearing so she does not bring it up. “Marcelo Tomás Villegas.”

Marty is an interesting nickname, she decides, given his full name. She usually just goes by Mira, if any nickname at all. “And you’re from Colombia?”

“Sí. I was born here, but I’ve lived in a little town in Bolivia most of my life.”

Mirabel slinks down the path and he follows directly behind her. “So you haven’t been back here since you were born?” It entices her, why somebody would decide to move to the encanto without any prior knowledge of the miracle. How in the world had his family even found it?

“Oh, no, no. We visit Colombia from time to time. Never been to your village, though.”

“Well,” says Mirabel, “I’m sure you’ll love it. Not to mention, you know, the magic and everything.”

His smile molds into a nervous grimace. “So your house did wave to you?”

She wants to laugh and nearly does, but reminds herself that she is the strange one here, not Marty. “Oh, yeah. That’s Casita.”

“That’s Casita?”

She hums in affirmation, speeding her pace as she sees a familiar figure in the distance. “Yep. And this is my sister. Hola, Luisa!”

Her older sister is mid-lift, five donkeys hoisted up and held in her arms, yet she still stops to wave at the pair. “Hey, Mirabel.”

Marty’s mouth is agape as he watches the girl effortlessly cart around the animals with her bare hands. He squeaks a bit and it reminds Mirabel of Dolores, though she isn’t sure whether he’s heartily impressed or so scared he’s considering making a run for it.

“Don’t worry, chico,” she says with a flick of her wrist. “She’s gentle.”

Luisa smashes open the gate leading to the donkeys pen and Marty’s face has once again drained its color. “You said that’s your sister?

“Yep. She’s pretty much the coolest person ever. Well, other than my cousin, Camilo.”

His eyes are still saucers. “What—what can your cousin do?”

Mirabel shrugs. “He can shape-shift.”

Marty has little time to be impressed by Mirabel’s statement. To their right, rows of flowers are appearing at an incredible rate, one right after the other. Roses, orchids, carnations, spread throughout the town. And the source of the flowers is walking toward them.

“Woah,” marvels Marty. “Who’s that?”

Mirabel’s expression quickly turns sour at the sight of the girl in the pink dress she knows too well. “That’s my other sister, Isabela.”

She tries to avert the scene but Isabela spots her and, without a pause, rolls her eyes. “Hola, Mirabel. Gave up on lessons already?”

“Oh, yeah,” she responds almost mockingly. “And I assume your day’s been productive? What, with all the flowers you’ve been growing? Remind me again; how is that at all helpful?”

If looks could kill, Mirabel is sure she would be dead and buried in the ground. In fact, Marty would probably be there too. But she does not back down and turns her glare into a cunning smile, grabbing Marty’s hand and yanking him deeper into the town.

He is silent for a few seconds as they progress through town. “She seems…nice.”

Mirabel rolls her eyes. “A bona fide saint. Señorita Perfecta, I call her.” She can tell Marty wants to laugh but is simply too overwhelmed—and perhaps uncomfortable—to do so. She grows a bit concerned. “Are you okay?”

“Yes,” he replies warily. “I mean…kind of? I just found out everybody in the town I moved to has magical powers, so I’m not exactly…okay.”

“Oh, no. Not everybody. Just mi familia,” she corrects him.

“Just your family?” he echoes. “So, do you have one?”

She stops walking and blinks. “What?”

“A gift, I mean,” he clarifies, another awkward smile evident on his face. “Do you have a gift?”

It’s not as if his question is abnormal; she sometimes spends hours introducing young children to the Madrigal family, only for them to prod and pry and end up disappointed that she herself has no gift. It’s the phrasing of the question, however, that makes Mirabel pause.

She has never been asked whether she has a gift; it’s always just been assumed that she does. This is why it is normally so painful to have to break the news that, yes, there is one disappointing Madrigal child who failed to receive a gift and, no, nobody knows why. But Marty does not ask what her gift is; he asks whether she has one. That, she can deal with.

“No,” she responds slowly, forcing her lips to form a pained smile. “I didn’t get one. But mi primito, Antonio, has his ceremony in a few months—see, we get our gifts on our fifth birthdays—so, for now, I’m not the only one.”

She is surprised when Marty smiles back at her, a playful charm about his expression. “Well then, the world must have decided you were already special enough. With a gift, you would’ve been too powerful for this pueblito!”

Mirabel laughs. “Yeah! If I could, I don’t know, read minds or something, I might get myself into more trouble than it’s worth.”

“Imagine!” Marty laughs. “‘What is Mamá making for dinner tonight, Mirabel?’ ‘Oh, she can’t decide whether to make ajiaco or throw Papá in the oven until he behaves.”

Mirabel snorts at the scenario alongside Marty who is still cackling with joy. “But imagine the possibilities! My cousin, Dolores, can hear everything. I think it would be like that, only better.”

“Better?” he questions, wiping away stray tears of laughter. “I would think you might get tired of hearing everybody’s thoughts! When Papi has too much to drink, he says all of his out loud, and—“ Marty pauses, a shiver running down his spine. “Let’s just say they are not something a fifteen-year-old boy should hear.”

“Dios mío,” she cries. “Remind me to stay away when that happens!”

“Oh, sí,” he says, nodding his head violently. “Or just stay away in general. Mi familia is a lot.”

“Remember who you’re talking to, Marty,” she reminds him. “I think I can handle an exuberant family or two.”

“You think that now, but you haven’t met mine.”

“False!” Mirabel corrects him. “I met your hermanito.”

He becomes flustered again. “Oh…yeah. You met Manny.”

“Manny?” She says it incredulously and immediately worries she’s offended him. “I’m sorry, but…what’s with all the nicknames?”

He chuckles awkwardly, scratching the back of his neck. “Most people call him Manuel. It’s—it’s more of a family nickname.”

“And Marty is too?”

“Sí. Well, no. It used to be just mi familia, but then it sort of stuck in grade school. My mamá was raised in America for a while, and I think they were big on nicknames there. I don’t really remember.”

She eyes him, a curious glare in her pupils. “Well, I, for one, think Marty is a great name. And so is Marcelo.”

“Graciás,” he says, bashfully. “I—I like your name, too.”

She smiles at him and, for once, she feels as if she is just a person; not a Madrigal.

She swells.

“So, tell me more. How old is Manny?”

“Five,” he responds quickly. “Almost six. Though he acts like he’s two.”

“And you’re the oldest?”

He nods.

“You said you’re fifteen?”

“Sí. My birthday was last week, which…wasn’t ideal, considering I spent the day packing.”

She chuckles. “But not a bad birthday gift, eh? Moving into a town with, you know, magical people?”

“Oh, no. Not a bad gift at all. Just a bit jarring.”

They continue down the path as they talk and Mirabel happens to look at the large clock outside the local bakery. “Dios mío, it’s almost 6:00. I’d better get you home.”

“Oh, I can find my way from here.”

She raises a single eyebrow. “Are you sure?”

“Not completely,” he admits with a grin. “But I know my way to your house. I’ll just follow the trail of flor de mayo.”

Mirabel laughs. “Just watch your step. There might be a root or two along the way and I don’t necessarily want you to need my Mami’s cooking.”

“Why? Is she a bad cook?”

“Oh, no. Her food has healing abilities.”

He is once again shell-shocked and Mirabel laughs at his expression. She would think he might be used to it by now, but each time she tells him any new sort of information his feet are stuck to the floor and she finds it wholly hilarious.

At last, he shakes out of it. “So, I’ll see you soon?”

“Tomorrow,” she confirms. “After dinner, at the bakery. I want to show you something.”

“Dios mío, Mirabel. There’s more to show me?” he feigns exasperation.

Mirabel chuckles. “Oh, yeah. There is a lot I still need to show you.“

This time he smiles warmly in the dull sun. “Well, then; tomorrow after dinner at the bakery it is.”

Mirabel offers one last small wave of her hand. “Buenas noches, Marty.”

He blushes a wild shade of pink. “Goodnight, Mirabel.”

————————————————————————

Abuela is only mildly upset that Mirabel has purposely not finished her lessons that evening; in fact, she’s more disgruntled when Mirabel arrives home well after dinner is supposed to start and they are halfway finished when she bursts through the door.

Mirabel apologizes but inwardly wonders why they couldn’t have just waited for her.

She brushes it off, though, because she was expecting that sort of reaction from Abuela; this is why she’s told Marty to meet her after dinner the next day. That way, as long as she is home before the sun sets, the family will have no valid reason to be angry. After all, she’s stayed out to watch the sunset dozens of times; why should this be any different?

So she sits anxiously that night at supper, bouncing her knee obsessively and not eating a bite of the food her mother has meticulously cooked. The baked goods she is intending to introduce to Marty trump her mamá’s food, as much as she hates to admit it.

Julieta notices and eyes her daughter. “Mi vida, aren’t you hungry?”

She shakes her head. “Nope. Still digesting your delicious arroz con pollo from lunch.”

Her mother is not convinced nor amused. “Eat something, Mira. You’ll starve.”

“I won’t starve,” she argues, desperately trying to change the topic of conversation. “It’s not like you deprive me, Mamá. I may not be as bad as Papi, but I am prone to accidents.”

“She has a point,” argues Agustín with a pained smile.

The conversation has reached a dull fizzle and Julieta is near giving up. Instead, however, she chooses to venture into a different territory that is sure to reach her daughter, just a little. “Do you not like it?”

Her face turns red as expected. “No, no. I’m sure it’s fantastic, but I—“

“She’s got somewhere to be,” reveals Camilo, not lifting his eyes from the food on his fork.

All eyes are on Mirabel and she feels herself shrink to the size of a button. Rarely does she have the attention of the whole family at once; this, however, is not ideal.

“Do you, Mirabel?” questions Abuela, an unsettling glare in her eye.

The pressured girl rubs her elbow awkwardly. “I may have promised to meet someone tonight.”

“Someone?” This time it is Julieta. “Someone as in who?”

“Someone as in a nice kid who just moved to the encanto,” she says. “I’m going to show him around. That’s all.”

“The same boy you showed around yesterday, Mirabel?” Pepa asks accusingly.

Agustín has now perked up in his seat. “It’s a boy?”

“So that’s why you were late to dinner last night,” says Luisa in revelation.

Mirabel’s intuition—and possibly her past experience—tells her that Luisa had been the only one even remotely worried about her whereabouts the previous night, which is now backfiring at her very eyes.

She sighs. “It wasn’t his fault…I was the one who lost track of time. But I promise I’ll be home by—“

“No, Mirabel,” says Abuela firmly.

Her heart begins to pound. “But—“

“I said no. I forbid you from leaving this house tonight.”

“Abuela, if you’d just let me—I swear I didn’t mean to—“

“Enough, Mirabel!” Abuela has erupted and the whole table is silent. She has done a fair share of yelling in her life but it is rare that it is brought on so quickly. “I said you will stay here, so you will stay here. End of discussion.”

With all pairs of eyes now diverting their gaze to various locations—the wall, the food on their plate, the tablecloth—Mirabel silently pleads for somebody, anybody, to say something; to stand up for the poor girl who is just trying to keep to her word and be helpful like the rest of her family. But nobody does.

Mirabel violently shoves herself away from the table and, with haste, she flees to the nursery.

Nobody follows.

Chapter Text

Mirabel is crying when Julieta finally finds her in the nursery. Not a pitiful sort of weeping—heaven knows she does not need any more pity in her life—but an angry stream of tears that will simply not stop. She is on her bed with a needle and thread in hand because her embroidery seems to be the only thing that calms her lately, even if her family doesn’t see it.

Julieta knocks. She is the only Madrigal who consistently does so rather than bursting into the young girl’s room—if you can even call it that—and she is not about to stop now. Mirabel says nothing but her mother still enters and sits next to her on the bed.

“Lo siento, Mirabel. I shouldn’t have brought any of that up.”

“It isn’t your fault,” she mutters. “I just…don’t understand why Abuela was so mad.”

“Don’t be too upset at her, Mira. She’s trying.”

“No, Mami,” she argues. “You always say that, but—but she isn’t trying at all.”

Julieta opens her mouth but realizes she has no valid rebuttal. She lets her daughter continue.

Mirabel only grows more frustrated. “And besides, I’m—I’m not upset, I’m just—I don’t know.” She grasps the fabric of her skirt tightly in her hands. “I’m embarrassed.”

If only Mirabel had Dolores’ gift, she would have heard her mother’s heart snap in two. “Why are you embarrassed, mi vida?”

Mirabel hesitates but decides that, if there’s a time she should say what she’s feeling and have any chance of somebody listening, it’s right now. “Abuela doesn’t yell at anybody else the way she yells at me.”

Julieta is once again left with no argument, as much as she desperately wishes she could disagree. “That may be true. But you know she loves you, Mirabel. Just give her time.”

“It’s been almost ten years since the ceremony.”

“You know that isn’t why Abuela—“

“What other reason is there, Mamá?” Mirabel retorts. “What I know is that Abuela thinks…Abuela thinks it’s my fault that I don’t have a gift.”

“Mirabel—“

“No, Mamá, she’s—she’s mad at me because she thinks I did something wrong. It’s just…humiliating.”

Mirabel’s tone is harsh and Julieta is taken aback. Rather than snapping back at her, she grabs her daughter’s shoulders and pulls her into a tight embrace. “All that matters,” she begins, gently, “is that you are just as important to me as anybody else in this family; gift or no gift. You are my daughter and nothing in this whole world could ever change how much I love you. Okay?”

There is silence as Mirabel collects herself; her mother’s reassurance is hollow and templated, but she tries to appreciate it nonetheless. “Okay.”

They remain wrapped in their embrace for a few more minutes, Mirabel willing herself to stop her cries of frustration and her mother trying her best to comfort the distressed girl.

After a while, Julieta takes a breath. “So,” she says softly. “What were you really planning to do tonight?”

Mirabel pulls away from their hug quickly. “I really was going to meet Marty tonight. I wanted to buy him polvorosas from the bakery.”

“Your favorite,” remarks Julieta.

Mirabel nods miserably. Out of everybody in the family, her mamá knows her the best; surely she knows her daughter’s alleged intentions are true.

They sit in silence for a few seconds before her mother takes another deciding breath. “Go.”

“What?”

“Go see your friend.”

Mirabel is stunned to say the least. “But Abuela said—“

“I don’t care what Abuela said.” Julieta’s voice is gentle and calming and Mirabel wants to cry in joy. “She is your abuela; I am your mother. And your mother says to go and enjoy some polvorosas. But only until sunset, okay?”

The room’s atmosphere is immediately transformed. Mirabel’s face breaks into a bright smile as she hugs her mother once again, this time with great force and a sense of newfound excitement. “Thank you, Mamá! I’ll be back soon.” Her mother laughs and shoos her out the window as to avoid her abuela who has been subtly guarding the front door.

Casita carefully lowers her to the ground and she is gone in an instant.

————————————————————————

“Where has this place been all my life?”

Mirabel chuckles as Marty takes a second bite of the polvorosa she’s purchased for him, eyes comically wide with pleasure. “Just across the way in Colombia,” she says with a shrug. “I haven’t been here in ages, but…you know, I thought you might like it.”

“Sí. Papi should’ve moved us here years ago!”

“What, are there no bakeries in Bolivia?” Mirabel laughs, grabbing a cookie herself.

He smiles. “None like this one. I should take Manny here.”

She nods in approval, sitting up on the little wooden bench on which they’ve positioned themselves. “When I was little, I would come here for my birthday each year and buy a dozen of these things; one for each member of the family and two for me,” she explained. “Except, sometimes I’d take three and blame it on Isabela.”

Marty chuckles, taking a second polvorosa from the pile in front of him. “So, why’d you stop? I mean, if you like this place so much.”

She shrugs limply, eyeing the entrance of the small bakery. “We haven’t had time to do much celebrating lately. Actually, my fifteenth birthday is next week, so I’ll just…consider this an early celebration.”

“Next week?”

She nods again with a mouthful of polvorosa. “Saturday.”

“Well, then,” says Marty with a smile, “happy early birthday to you.”

“And happy late birthday to you,” she responds, raising her cookie as if making a toast and taking another bite. “Let’s do this again next year.”

“Sí. Maybe on a bigger bench next time,” he remarks, uncomfortably.

Mirabel chuckles and stuffs the last of the polvorosa into her mouth. The sun is setting and she can practically hear her mother anxiously tapping her foot on the kitchen floor, awaiting her return, and she figures Marty’s father might very well be doing the same.

“It’s getting dark, so—you know—I should probably get home.”

“Me too. Manny’s bedtime is soon and he refuses to go to bed unless I read to him.”

She stands from the bench, brushing the stray crumbs off her skirt. “He sounds like a good kid.”

“You don’t have to say that.”

Mirabel laughs. “I mean it! He reminds me of Antonio.”

“Yeah, if Antonio made you read him ‘Adela Zamudio’ every night.”

“Adela Zamudio?” Mirabel marvels. “Seriously?”

“What can I say? The kid’s into poetry.”

She shakes her head in disbelief. “Well, then. I won’t keep you from him any longer. Tell Manny I said goodnight.”

He smiles. “Sí. I will.”

“Oh,” she adds with a grin. “And make sure you take a few polvorosas for the road.”

————————————————————————

————————————————————————

The day of Mirabel’s fifteenth birthday, she wakes up much later than usual. She suspects that, subconsciously, she wants to put off this day as long as possible.

Realizing this, she resents that it’s become this way; she used to wake up bouncing with excitement for her birthday when she was a child and she still longs for that feeling. However, the blissful memory does not prevent the dread she now feels each time she wakes up and it is, once again, her birthday.

She takes all the time possible to rub the sleep out of her eyes and put on her glasses that she sets on her small dresser each night. It does take a few seconds of eye adjustment for her to realize that there is a small package sitting on top of the pile of fabrics and threads that has accumulated on the wooden desk.

Her finger grazes the small tag attached to the gift as she reads the writing.

To Mirabel

Nosotras te amamos mariposa
¡Feliz quinceañera!

Mamá y Papá

With a smile, she slowly tears off the modest wrapping, a job likely done by her father in a hurry the night before. Inside is a small white tote bag full of pockets and empty space; she grows confused as she examines it. Of course she appreciates any gift given to her by her parents, but the point of the gift is lost on her at first.

Inside the front pocket, however, is a note in her mother’s handwriting.

‘A blank canvas for your next brilliant idea,’ it reads. ‘Embroider with care.’

Her heart seems to flood with joy at the sentiment. She sets the present carefully on her bed—she’s hoping she’ll have at least a bit of time to try it out later that day—and leaves the nursery as quietly as possible, careful not to disturb the few Madrigals who are still sleeping.

Young Mirabel Madrigal, she realizes, would have bounded down the stairs, anxiously awaiting the hugs and kisses and shrieks of ‘happy birthday’ from each member of the family, one-by-one, that was surely awaiting her.

Old Mirabel sits down at the kitchen table silently as her mother kisses her forehead.

“Buenos días, Mira.”

“Morning, Mamá.”

Her mother does not bring up the thoughtful present she has bought for her daughter, but Mirabel smiles at her and the thanks is clearly received. Julieta smiles back and places a plate of huevos pericos in front of her.

“Oh, good. You’re awake,” says a voice approaching the kitchen hastily. It is her Tía Pepa, already panicked and, frankly, quite frazzled so early in the morning. “Listen; I promised Camilo I’d go with him to help clean out the church this morning and Félix has already gone off to heaven knows where, so could you watch Antonio today? It should only be for a couple of hours.”

Pepa’s words come out in a quick jumble and yet she can understand every word.

Mirabel should be used to this, she decides; in fact, she desperately wishes she was. However, she is not, and it takes a few moments to digest Pepa’s words before she can even begin to formulate a response. All she can manage is, “Sure. Of course.”

“Gracias, sobrina. I’ll be back by lunch.”

Her aunt is off without waiting for a response and Mirabel deflates, just a bit. A hand is placed on her shoulder almost immediately; it is that of her mother and she is smiling sympathetically.

“I’ll watch Antonio.”

“No, Mamá. It’s okay,” Mirabel assures her. “It’s only for a few hours.”

“But that isn’t your job, mi vida. I’ll take care of it.”

Sometimes Mirabel wishes her mother was not so kind-hearted so that she wouldn’t feel like such an ungrateful daughter all the time.

Of course, the issue was never watching Antonio to begin with. Mirabel loves her primito; she loves him so much, in fact, that she sometimes resents her Tía Pepa for leaving him in her hands. Mirabel can only care for the young boy so much and, often, what he really needs is his mother.

But who is she to tell her aunt no?

So she usually will watch him anyway, despite the lurking uneasy feeling in her stomach. She will sing to him and he will fall asleep in her arms; then he will wake up and ask her a billion questions she can’t answer, until she is so tired that she could fall asleep right then and there.

This is why Mirabel is especially appreciative of her mother that day. Whether or not she can handle all the questions asked by the four-year-old is unclear. How can she tell him the truth when she, herself, doesn’t know? Julieta is gracious, however, and willing to deal with whatever he throws her way.

So Mirabel finishes her breakfast as fast as she can, kisses her mamá one last time, and immediately heads back up to the nursery, locking the door behind her. If there is one thing that can occupy her mind for hours, after all, it is embroidering. With her new birthday gift, she is sure she can blow off an entire day working on one project. So, she decides, she might as well start now.

When it is time for lunch and Luisa knocks on her door, she is startled. She’s only made it through about half of the project she’s currently working on—a display of her name on the bag using multicolored threads—and she is forced to abandon it for the time being.

She heads down the stairs once again.

The atmosphere when she reaches the table is a strange one, but not one she is unfamiliar with. It is awkward and loaded and she desperately wishes she was back up in the nursery the moment she sits down. The whole family is relatively silent and not a soul dares to make eye contact with the newly fifteen-year-old; she eats in silence as well.

Mirabel, of course, knows exactly why they are all so silent and does not dare provoke the beast.

However, there is a loud, excited knock at the door that breaks the family out of their silence. Mirabel freezes.

She knows it’s Marty and she knows exactly why he is here. Suddenly, she is enveloped with a wave of fear as the knock seems to echo through her head which has been pounding the majority of the day.

“Mirabel, answer the door, please.”

Mirabel isn’t sure whether she’s glad she’s been asked to open the door, or if she wishes she was dead.

Either way, she cannot ignore the knock any longer. So, holding her breath, she approaches Casita’s entrance and, at last—

The door flies open.

Chapter Text

“Happy birthday!”

Mirabel’s face turns a shade of bright red as she sees the boy standing outside Casita’s entrance. He’s holding a vibrant pink flower—likely an orchid—in his hands that pairs nicely with the bright smile on his face, but Mirabel, however, feels herself shrink.

“You have to go,” she says in a harsh whisper.

“What?”

“You have to go, Marty. Now.”

His previously bright smile has faded and his eyebrows are now knit with confusion. Lowering the flower he’s presented to her, Marty takes a step back. It’s clear he wants to say something but keeps his mouth shut.

She follows him down the front steps, outside the house, and shuts the front door behind them.

“You can’t be here,” she repeats for the umpteenth time, inching towards him so that he is forced to back up.

“What? Why?”

“Just—I’m sorry, you have to—“

The door they’ve just escaped through opens forcefully behind them and Mirabel freezes once more. She whips around, a guilty grimace on her face.

“Mirabel, what are you doing?”

It’s her Abuela once again. Her face has melded into a fierce expression of pure rage, meaning she is livid and surely she is looking to take it out on her granddaughter.

“I’m sorry, Abuela, this is—“

“I’m Marty,” he interrupts, holding out a hand for the old woman to shake. “I came to wish Mirabel a happy birthday.”

Her left eyebrows raises and she does not accept his handshake. “Oh, did you?”

“Sí.” He has backed down a bit now, sensing the intense atmosphere that has been created. “Uh, yeah. I did.”

“Well, we will not be doing any celebrating in this house,” she snaps at the young boy who is growing more nervous by the second. “So you can find your way home.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t—I didn’t know. I just thought, you know, since it’s Mirabel’s birthday—“

“Today is the anniversary of the first failed gift ceremony in this family. How dare you come into our house and urge us to celebrate?”

Mirabel takes a step forward. “Abuela, he didn’t know—“

“Enough out of you!” she interrupts. “There is a reason we do not celebrate this day. Until you and this chico irrespetuoso learn that, I don’t want either of you in my sight.”

“Mami!” Hastily, Julieta makes her way from the kitchen to the scene of the quarrel, holding the bottom of her skirt up with the tips of her fingers. “What in the world is going on out here?”

“Nothing is going on, Julieta,” she says unconvincingly. “Take Mirabel back inside. I’ll deal with the boy.”

“No.”

Mirabel is surprised to hear the word come out of her own mouth, but it is out and cannot be taken back. Her eyebrows immediately furrow in frustration. At her stern tone, both Abuela and Julieta are silent. But Mirabel remains standing her ground in front of the innocent boy.

“What did you say to me?” Abuela’s gaze is fiery and it scares the daylights out of Mirabel each time it makes an appearance (which is, unfortunately, rather often).

She does not cower, however. “I said no. It’s—it’s my fault. Don’t punish him.“

“Dios mío, some nerve you have,” she notes, “talking back to me like this. Julieta—“

“Mamá,” says the woman with a sympathetic glare. “Please. It’s her birthday.”

“Another year of age does not give her the right to speak to me like she is. You will take her inside at once.”

Julieta looks back and forth between her mother and daughter, both unwilling to back down from their opposing positions and both clearly pleading Julieta to fix this.

She then looks to the boy holding the flower on the pavement. He is staring at the ground and only looks up to briefly make eye contact with the woman, who then makes her decision.

“Go home, niño,” she says gently to Marty, who is looking a bit shaken in his worn-down shoes. “Lo siento. Go home.”

He seemingly wants to respond but is at a loss for words. Instead, he quickly places the flower he is holding in Mirabel’s palm and scrambles away from the scene, unlikely to return anytime soon.

Mirabel, however, is sent to the nursery.

Abuela follows closely behind.

————————————————————————

“What in the world were you thinking?”

Mirabel is sitting on her bed, eyes locked to the floor and thumbs twiddling in her lap. “I don’t understand what the big deal is.”

“The big deal is that you’re engaging with a boy who does not respect the boundaries of this family, and I will not tolerate it.”

“What boundaries?” she retorts, incredulously. “You never set any boundaries! One year I woke up and we weren’t allowed to celebrate my birthday; the year before, we suddenly weren’t allowed to talk about Tío Bruno—“

“And for good reason,” she says, her head shaking violently. “There is a reason for everything, Mirabel, whether you like it or not.”

“And what reason was there for you to yell at him like that? He was just trying to be nice.”

“He was trying to meddle into our family’s business—“

“By wishing me a happy birthday?” Mirabel scoffs, finally willing herself to raise her voice. “I am the only one who doesn’t get a huge party every year, let alone a bit of extra acknowledgement, or—or even tolerance from you. Instead you just—you ignore me; you and the rest of the family. It’s—it’s humiliating.”

“It isn’t meant to embarrass you, Mirabel,” she argues. “It’s meant to preserve the integrity of this family and its name.”

Outside the casita, she hears thunder rumble; a large storm-cloud can be seen rolling into the sky. Their argument must be audible from downstairs and Pepa must be listening. She is upset.

Not as upset as Mirabel, surely.

Her hands are balled into tight fists. “Well, I didn’t ask to be part of La Familia Perfecta.”

Lightning flashes at her words, but Abuela’s face darkens. For the first time since she was a young child, Mirabel is truly, genuinely scared.

“I want you gone.”

She shrinks to Antonio’s size. “Abuela—“

“Get out of my sight,” she repeats, harsher and angrier than seemingly possible. “And don’t you dare come back until you’ve learned to respect this family.”

For the first time that day, Mirabel obliges.

————————————————————————

It’s early March and the rain is freezing cold along Mirabel’s back. She isn’t quite used to being stuck in such weather—usually she’ll flea back to casita to check on her tía and make sure everything is okay when it is raining—but she doesn’t much appreciate it. The rain is dripping down her arms into her shoes and making her shiver down to the bone.

She repeatedly has to convince herself that she is not running away. No, running away would entail leaving behind her mamá and papá and all her cousins who, despite the occasional quarrel, have done little to hurt her. Especially little Antonio who is a sweetheart and so young. He wouldn’t understand.

No, she is not running away, because running away is usually done with the intention of never coming back. On the contrary, Abuela has told her to return once she’s learned to respect the family; Mirabel’s decided not to return until the family has learned to respect her.

So, here she is in the pouring rain, soaking from the top of her head to her freezing toes. Her hair appears inches longer now as it’s absorbing the gallons of water falling from the sky. And she is not running away. She has specifically been asked to leave her abuela’s sight.

And so she is.

She wanders around the town for a while, noticing the absence of people. It’s not as if she necessarily desires any immediate interaction; in fact, she is sure her neighbors are watching her from their houses, wondering what in the world the crazy Madrigal is doing alone in the rain, and she wishes not to interact with them whatsoever. The thought aggravates her, and her pace quickens.

She makes a stop at the bakery on her way to wherever it is she is going. The owner is nice enough—a sweet old man who has a granddaughter about her age—and she greets him with a friendly smile, but finds herself struggling to be too cheery as she tells him which baked goods she’s wanting to purchase. She thanks the old man dully before continuing her trek through the village in the rain.

She tucks her purchase—a coconut roll and pan blandito—inside the bag she has grabbed from the nursery before leaving out the window. It is the only thing she’s taken with her from home, along with her needles and threads stuffed into the pockets, and she keeps it closely pressed against her chest as she walks.

At last, she’s reached the destination that’s been at the back of her mind throughout her entire trip. She doesn’t want to bother him—she doesn’t want to bother anyone, really—but she figures, if there’s any chance of finding a place to stay without risk of being found by her family, it is worth it to ask her new friend Marty.

She knocks on the door, which is a lot smaller than any of the doors in her house. A lot less magical, too. It’s almost refreshing.

It is Marty himself who answers her knock, and a half-smile-half-grimace appears on Mirabel’s face.

He is surprised, to say the least.

“Mirabel?”

“Hola, Marty. Can I come in?”

Chapter Text

“You’re soaking wet.”

The comment is not meant to provoke her in the slightest, but Mirabel’s patience has been worn rather thin and she finds she must restrain herself from harming the friendly boy in front of her. “Yep! I am aware of that.”

This snaps Marty out of his delusional shock. He shakes his head and takes a step back, allowing space through the doorway. “Sí, sí, lo siento. Come in.”

She does so, taking a moment to wring out her hair and clothes and get rid of as much rain water as possible before entering his home. Her shoes still squeak, however, on the old wooden floors.

The house is a rather humble one; its kitchen does not have much more than a stove and a small refrigerator connected by a shiny polished countertop. The rest of the house is similarly modest, with only two bedrooms down the hall and a small living room near the front door.

Mirabel decides it is positively charming.

“Sorry. I should’ve told you I was coming, but—well, I actually just decided a few minutes ago.”

He looks a bit uncomfortable. “It’s okay. Did you—did you walk all the way here in the rain?”

She nods. “It’s my tía Pepa’s fault, the storm. She’s mad at me and Abuela’s mad at me and pretty much everybody is mad at me, so, you know…the rain wasn’t exactly my biggest problem.”

He is still staring at Mirabel as if she has just broken into his house. “They’re mad at you because of…earlier?”

She does not respond. “There’s a lot I haven’t told you.”

“I…kind of figured that out.” They are standing in awkward silence now, a heavy sense of dread between them. “I’ll go get Papi.”

Marty disappears down the hallway which is dimly lit and leaves Mirabel alone in the comfortable living room.

Esteban Villegas, it turns out, is exactly as Marty has described him and exactly as Mirabel has pictured him. He is a large, podgy man and she is a bit intimidated by his tall stature when he is first in view. However, he is smiling when he steps out of the darkness and her heartbeat slows.

“Mirabel! The bakery girl, yes? Hola!”

He is loud, too. It’s a good thing she is not Dolores, she thinks for the umpteenth time in her life.

And apparently Mirabel has acquired a reputation of ‘the bakery girl’ in la casa Villegas, which is unusual but surely not intended to be malicious.

“Hola,” she says with a shy wave.

“Have you had lunch, chamaca? I made bandeja paisa for the boys.”

“Papi, slow down,” interrupts Marty. “You haven’t even told her your name.” He is evidently embarrassed by his father; Mirabel is nothing short of enchanted.

His father chuckles and his whole body seems to shake along with it. “Oh, lo siento. My name is Esteban. Marty has told me so much about you.”

His hand is extended in front of him and Mirabel shakes it heartily. “He’s told me about you, too. It’s nice to finally meet you, señor.”

“Oh, the pleasure is all mine! So, about that lunch offer?”

It does sound appealing, but Mirabel knows better than to take food from a family who was not expecting her arrival in the first place.

“Actually, I made a stop to the bakery on my way here,” she says bashfully, pulling out the slightly flattened baked goods she’d stuffed into her bag.

“Even better! I’ll save you a plate for dinner tonight if you’re staying.”

“Does your family know you’re here?” Marty asks, disregarding his father’s previous direction of conversation. He is seeming to be the more sensible of the two in this situation—perhaps in life as well.

She nods rather slowly, her mind debating with itself and racing a mile a minute. “Yes. My parents do.”

She does not want to lie to Marty—or his father, for that matter—but she knows what consequences will follow if she tells him the truth. So she speaks quickly and plainly and hopes they move on.

“And you’re staying for how long, exactly?”

“Now, Marty,” scolds Esteban, a cheeky smile still on his face. “Don’t be so impolite. She’s welcome to stay as long as she well pleases.”

Mirabel is a bit uncomfortable but grateful for Marty’s father who would rather not question her spontaneous arrival. “I thought I’d stay for dinner, if it’s no trouble. Marty told me you make a mean carne oreada.”

“Marty told you that, did he?” Esteban is smiling smugly. He ruffles his son’s hair as he speaks, and Marty is thoroughly mortified. “Well, I’m glad to know he appreciates it. The little one? Not so much.”

“Where is he, by the way?” Mirabel wonders aloud. She’s been hoping to learn more about the kid, as strange as Marty has made him seem.

“Probably still out back, messing with Perla,” grumbles Marty. “Poor thing can’t catch a break.”

“Perla?”

“The cat,” he clarifies. “She’s, uh, she’s my cat.”

“No te preocupes, I’ll get her,” says Esteban with a smile. He meanders out the back door that Mirabel didn’t know existed, shouting “Papá to the rescue!”

They are left alone now, neither one knowing what to say but both of them desperately wishing they did. It’s her fault, Mirabel supposes—it is her unsolicited arrival that is causing this painful awkwardness, after all.

At last, she speaks. “You never told me you have a cat.”

“Sí. I do.” He smiles back and it is awkward and strained. “What are you doing here, Mirabel?”

Her face turns a bright shade of red as he continues to stare. “Well, I mean, you saw what happened earlier. I just—I had to get out.”

“That doesn’t explain why you walked all the way here through the storm and brought nothing but a canvas bag with your name on it.”

His words make perfect sense in Mirabel’s head, which is why she suddenly feels herself shrink. She must have been an idiot to think that she could show up unannounced without any raised suspicions whatsoever. Perhaps his father didn’t question her, but Marty is smarter than that.

All of the sudden she is positively mortified. “Miercoles. You must think I’m crazy.”

He is still standing uncomfortably, but now his expression has begun to soften into one of concern. “No. I think you have a lot to unpack and you aren’t sure where to start. Sí?”

She sighs and gently sits down on the couch she’s spotted. “Yeah.”

“Well,” he says, noticing her struggle to form words. “Why don’t you start from the beginning?”

“The beginning?” From an outsider’s perspective, it seems like a distinct point in the timeline of someone’s life. To Mirabel, it induces some sort of inner turmoil. “I guess…my gift ceremony.”

He nods, urging her to go on.

She hesitates but proceeds. “Well…I was the only Madrigal to not get a gift on my fifth birthday, which—well, you know that. My family was confused, mostly. Nobody could understand why I hadn’t gotten a gift, and what we were supposed to do about it, and I was just a kid. I mean, I didn’t know what was going on; all I knew was that one day Abuela started treating me like…well, like I wasn’t part of the family.”

“And your parents?” he questions, his voice now quiet and mellow.

“My parents did all they could. I mean…they do all they can. I’ve never doubted that they love me, but—you know, sometimes it just feels like they don’t think it’s worth the trouble to—to stand up for me. To Abuela.”

He shakes his head in disbelief. “No, that’s—I mean, you’re their daughter. How could they think like that?”

She chuckles sourly. “I think everybody is kind of scared of Abuela, but—I don’t know. They’re always just apologizing; never actively trying to make things better. I mean…it’s been ten years since the ceremony and nothing’s changed and—and nothing’s gotten better, so…you know, I’ve tried to stop caring. I just…I can’t.”

“You shouldn’t have to,” he reasons. “I mean, this is just—Mirabel, you can’t live like this.”

“Do you think I have a choice?” She doesn’t mean it to come off a rude, but she’s too tired to do much about her tone and prays that he doesn’t take it to heart. “That’s why I’m here. I figured, you know—if anybody would understand…”

She fails to finish her sentence as a knot grows in her throat. Marty nods. “How about your sisters? And your cousins? I mean, your one sister—the strong one—she seemed okay. And your shape-shifting cousin?”

She sighs, sitting deeper into the sofa. “Obviously I love them—all of them—but…I don’t know. They treat me differently, too. Camilo and I used to be best friends; I mean, closer than I ever was to either of my sisters. But now—I mean, we get along—but it’s never been the same. It’s like the minute that door disappeared, I became some kind of family outcast. Like my tío Bruno.”

He stares. “Tío Bruno?”

“That’s a whole different story,” she huffs. “I just wish…sometimes I just wish I could go back to when I was little. When Abuela would walk me out to watch the sunset, and tuck me into bed each night, and—and take me to the bakery for my birthday.”

Marty stays silent for a while, taking in all that Mirabel’s told him in her upset spiral. “So that’s why you don’t go anymore. To the bakery.”

Mirabel nods painfully. “Yeah. That’s why I don’t go anymore.”

He thinks for a moment. “What about Antonio? He seems pretty fond of you.”

“Oh, I love Antonio; I mean, of course I love Antonio. But I know that he’s afraid of turning out like me.”

“Don’t say that,” he says, shaking his head. “I’m sure that isn’t true.”

“He would never admit it,” she continues, fighting back the wave of tears threatening to overtake her. “He probably doesn’t even understand, but—but I know his biggest fear is walking up to that door, seeing it disappear, and—and becoming the next family disgrace like his big cousin.”

Marty can’t do much else but nod, accepting the cruel reality that is Mirabel’s family.

She continues. “It just…it hurts. That they think I’m worthless because I have no gift.”

Marty folds his hands in his lap, finally allowing himself to look into the eyes of the girl in front of him. “Mirabel. You know you are worth so much more than any stupid gift. Sí?”

She’s struggling more and more to hold back her tears. “I wish I did.”

“Well, you are. You can’t define yourself by what your family thinks of you. I mean…when I met you, I had no idea your family even had gifts, let alone that you didn’t have one. And who am I sitting here talking to now?”

She allows herself to smile and wipe a tear from her eye.

Marty smiles back. “It isn’t your cousins or your sisters. It’s you. Because you’re a cool person, and because you didn’t need some gift to be that way.”

She sniffles. “Thanks, Marty. I just…I wish I didn’t have to fight so hard for my family to see that. Does that…make sense?”

He is staring at her dumbly as if his limbs have gone completely limp, but he nods. “Sí.”

Mirabel notices her own exhaustion and takes into account the amount of information she’s loaded onto the poor boy. “Sorry. That was a lot.”

“You don’t have to apologize,” he says. “And you can stay here for a while, if you want.”

“Your papi is okay with that?”

“Oh, sure,” he says immediately. “You’re my friend and you need help. He isn’t going to say no.”

“I’ve known you for two weeks,” says Mirabel flatly.

“Sí. But I still want to help.”

At his words, an unfamiliar sensation makes its way into Mirabel’s heart as it pounds and pounds. “You’ll really let me stay here?”

“Por supuesto. As long as your parents know where you are. I don’t want to get either of us into trouble, sí?”

She nods. As much as it pains her to lie and continue to do so, she wants to live in this feeling—whatever this feeling is—forever and she decides she is not quite ready to give it up just yet.

So she finally takes off her bag and sets it carefully to the ground, basking in the weight that’s been lifted from her chest.

“One more thing?” she says shyly.

He nods.

“Can I meet your cat?”

————————————————————————

Unsurprisingly, the Madrigal household falls apart that day.

Usually in the afternoon—with the exception of Camilo and Mirabel who are doing lessons—the family will split and perform their usual tasks in town. Julieta sets up a tent and acts as a clinic for the sick and injured of the town while Agustín stays at her side or helps with chores back at the house.

Pepa will tend to the garden and Félix will help, or he will visit local vendors and buy the family groceries for the week which, predictably, turns out to be loads. Meanwhile, Isabela helps grow the flowers that blossom there year-round and Antonio watches in awe.

As for Dolores and Luisa, their tasks tend to vary. Normally Luisa cannot go more than a few feet without somebody in the village yelling at her from their house to move something or break something or both. She always obliges but sometimes wishes she’d never gone out in the first place.

It’s rare that Dolores is assigned a specific job; mostly she listens for her neighbors who are working and is at their side the instant she senses they are in need of help, whether that be physical labor or just providing a shoulder for them to cry on. Heaven knows she can hear them crying.

Consequently, most days Dolores hides in her room.

Today, however, the Madrigals’ daily plans are violently veered off track because, somehow, there’s a storm and Pepa is not in control of it.

Alma comes out of the kitchen in a confused rage to find her daughter who is fleeing inside to escape the rain, Antonio in her arms. She is clearly flustered, which is doing nothing to help to cause but, strangely, nothing to hurt it.

“Pepa, what’s going on?” Abuela asks, nothing but concern showing on her face.

“I don’t know, Mami,” she huffs, setting down the antsy child. “It’s not me, I can’t—I can’t control it.”

“What did you say?”

“I said I can’t control it!” She is angrier now, wringing out her soggy braid and patting down poor Antonio’s hair. He is absolutely dripping.

The rest of the Madrigals who had been in town come rushing home, tucked under spare ruanas and hiding underneath trees along the way. It does little to help, however, and they come home, one by one in a sopping, befuddled outrage.

Hours earlier when their lunch had been so abruptly interrupted, they had watched as Mirabel was sent to her room—the nursery—in concerned silence. It isn’t as if the Madrigals are particularly used to such a thing, but it is not much of a surprise that Alma is acting such a way, especially towards the young girl with no gift.

They don’t have much time to question it anyhow. They escape while Alma is putting her foot down on the poor girl and the storm starts only an hour later.

“45 years and my gift has never stopped working. Not once!”

“Pepi, calm down,” entreats Félix. He’s made her tea and done his best to stop the enraged grumbling he expects from her, but to no avail. “It isn’t your fault.”

“Of course it isn’t my fault! That’s the problem. Something is wrong with the magic—“

“Nothing is wrong with the magic,” interrupts Abuela with a perturbed glare directed towards her daughter. “We are fine! The family is fine.”

“Where is Mirabel?”

The thought suddenly dawns on Julieta that, although she’s in a considerable amount of trouble, her youngest daughter is usually the first one there if anything involving her family is wrong. And here they are, gathered in the kitchen, and Mirabel is nowhere to be found.

“The nursery. And I don’t intend to see you let her out. She needs to learn her lesson.”

She is suddenly defensive. “Mamá, if there is something wrong with the magic, she needs to be here, too. What if we are in danger?”

“What does it matter?” Isabela argues. “It’s not like she’ll be affected, anyway. She doesn’t have any gift to lose.” This earns her a smack on the arm from Camilo, who is shaking his head. She yelps but moves on.

“She’s right, Julieta,” Abuela agrees. “Mirabel will be fine.”

Julieta is uneasy but does not dare argue with her mother’s decision. If there’s one thing she’s learned, it’s that Mirabel is a touchy subject around Abuela, and venturing into such territory tends to end in a slammed door and a flickering candle.

So they spend most of the day worried, testing out their gifts to assure themselves that they still work and that the storm outside will stop any minute now. Camilo is still shape-shifting with ease and Dolores is covering her ears in all the commotion, so the rest of the family is decidedly unaffected. This only leads to more questions.

When dinner rolls around, Julieta’s food is flavorful as ever, and her gift is proven to still be in prime condition when Luisa slices her finger with her knife and it heals instantly. Their worry is mostly vanquished but it is still storming.

Mirabel’s place at the table is empty, too, and only her parents seem to notice.

“I’ll go get Mirabel,” suggests Agustín, standing from his place at the table.

“No,” deflects Abuela. “Take a plate up to her.”

“You won’t make her eat in the nursery,” says Julieta. She is absolutely dumbfounded at her mother’s behavior, considering it is caused by what she thought to be a rather moderate incident. “She will eat with the rest of the family, just like every other night.”

“She will eat in the nursery until she has learned to respect this family.”

The family is silent, most of them diverting their gazes from Julieta. However, she is unwilling to fight, and so slowly pushes her chair away from the table, grabbing the plate she’s made up for her daughter and taking it upstairs, all the while shaking her head in disgust.

What else can she do, really?

Her journey up the stairs is, admittedly, difficult. She finds it hard to keep herself steady when all she wants to do is stand up for her daughter; to make things right between her and her mother. But the fact of the matter is, no matter what she says or does, her mother’s feelings will not change. They will not.

And poor Mirabel has done all she can to help the family and prove herself to the others, all without a gift. Julieta does not blame her for lashing out. She just wishes it hadn’t become necessary in the first place.

She knocks on the rickety wooden door carefully. “Mirabel? I have dinner.”

She receives no answer and knocks again.

“It’s your favorite, mi vida. Made with love.”

Still, the lonely nursery is silent and Julieta’s heart breaks for her daughter. The pain she must be in just inside that door is enough to send her over the edge. So she opens the door.

The plate she is holding suddenly crashes to the ground and shatters into pieces, while the sound echos across the halls and is heard in the kitchen along with the poor woman’s fearful scream.

Mirabel is gone and the room is completely empty.

Julieta crumbles.

Chapter Text

Agustín is the first to respond to Julieta’s dreadful scream. He jumps from the table and rushes up the stairs toward the nursery, but Julieta meets him halfway in her tearful panic.

“She’s gone,” she breathes. “Agustín, she’s gone.”

“She’s not in the nursery?” Agustín finds his own heart dropping now, too.

Julieta ignores the rather redundant question, shoving past him down the stairs to meet the rest of the family. They have stopped their eating, some of them standing up in concern and others not daring to move at all.

“Where is she?” Julieta says once she’s reached the kitchen table once again. “You said she was in the nursery.”

“She is,” responds Abuela calmly. “Exactly where I left her.”

“No, Mamá. She’s gone.” She’s becoming angry now. The more she thinks, the more she realizes that either her mother is lying or had not cared enough to make sure Mirabel did not run away after yelling at her. She isn’t entirely sure which is worse.

“Mirabel is missing?” It’s Luisa, who has pushed her chair away from the table with much more force than intended.

“No, no,” says Abuela. “No te preocupes. I’m sure she is fine.”

Camilo is standing now too, his hands balled into tight fists. “Not if she’s out in the storm alone.”

“Dios mío,” says Julieta, grasping the back edge of one of the kitchen chairs. “I have to find her.”

“Disparates. Not in the rain,” insists Pepa, stroking her braid habitually as she speaks.

Isabela is tapping her foot impatiently when she finally decides it is her turn to speak up. “What about Dolores? Dolores, did you hear anything?”

“No,” the young woman says quickly and quietly. “Maybe? I think the thunder—the thunder was too loud.”

Pepa turns to her sister. “You see? It’s too dangerous, Julieta. You’ll be caught in the lightning.”

“And so will Mirabel if we don’t find her.”

She makes her decision right then and there, grabbing Agustín’s hand who willingly follows her outside into the storm to find their youngest daughter.

The wind is cold and frighteningly strong as they trek down the paths, through the bushes and trees, past the fallen vendor display stands and tents. Julieta supposes they could go door-to-door, asking all their neighbors near and far who are camping out in their houses until the storm ceases, but she doubts anybody would open the door in the first place.

So, instead, she and Augustín continue to wander, searching in their daughter’s typical locations where she likes to watch the sunset and observe the constellations at night, calling out her name desperately to no avail.

Julieta is barely breathing and realizes very quickly just how resentful she is that it’s gotten to this point in the first place, and even more infuriated that she comes from a magical family, yet nobody but herself and her husband can bare the rain for a few hours for the sake of finding one of their beloved family members.

What have we come to? she wonders.

It’s because she has no gift, Julieta supposes. It’s because, in her mother’s eyes and possibly in the eyes of many living in the encanto, Mirabel serves no purpose to the family without a special gift. Her precious daughter, whom she carried for months and raised for fifteen years, is worthless in the eyes of those she cares deeply about. That alone is enough to make any good mother want to weep, and Julieta is no different.

Why does nobody see how special—how important—her beloved daughter is?

She wants to keep trying; she wants to spend the entire night knocking on each door in the village, asking for somebody, anybody, to bring back her daughter or at least give a bit of insight as to where in the world she could be. But nobody seems to answer her plea as it is, and she and Agustín are dragged back into the casita by Pepa only a few hours later, as soon as the sun goes down.

After all, the storm shows no signs of stopping, and Julieta has an agonizing feeling in her gut that, not only has her tireless searching been useless, but her daughter does not even want to be found.

Wherever it is she might be. ——————————————————————————— “Do it again, do it again!”

“Okay,” agrees Marty at Mirabel’s request, a familiar blush spreading across his cheeks and reaching his ears. “Ready?”

Mirabel nods rapidly. She and Marty are positioned side-by-side on the floor of the small living room as little Manuel Villegas watches them from the couch in glee, laughing and squealing every once and a while.

Slowly, Marty moves his hand across the rug as a small set of paws carefully follows. After a few seconds of purposeful temptation, he swiftly lifts the feather he is holding between his fingers into the air.

The tiny cat leaps off the ground—it must have been three or four feet, Mirabel decides—and lands on her feet with a thud, feather in her teeth and pride in her eyes.

Mirabel and Manny alike howl with laughter, falling back and holding their aching stomachs. Their game with the cat started immediately after dinner and has not yet stopped, lasting an hour, or maybe two. Time seems to move differently at the Villegas residence.

Carefully, Marty grabs the cat, stroking her striped gray and black fur. He kisses the top of her head and, at last, allows her to run off down the hallway with her feather; she trots proudly with her tail up in the air.

After the feline flees, so does Manny, stumbling a bit as he stands. He races down the hallway and disappears from the sight of the two seated on the floor.

Marty is exasperated. “Leave her alone, Manny! She doesn’t want to be messed with.”

Given the silence that follows his call, they assume he has either not heard or does not care, and is somewhere messing with the cat anyhow. He shakes his head.

Mirabel giggles. “Maybe I should get myself a cat.”

“Sí. You seem thoroughly entertained.”

“It’s plenty entertaining! She lands on her feet every time! If only I could do that,” remarks Mirabel with a grin. “I get my clumsiness from my papá.”

“Oh, me too,” agrees Marty. “I think my mamá used to call him a klutz more than his actual name.”

She smiles at his mention of a mother figure. “Did you know her well?”

“Huh?”

He is staring blankly at her and Mirabel backpedals. “Your mamá. Sorry, I shouldn’t—I don’t mean to pry.”

“Oh, sí,” he nods, his joyful smile turning into a solemn one. “When I was Manny’s age, she would take me out into town every day while Papi was at work. I’d usually get tired quickly, though, so she’d have to carry me back home. But she didn’t mind much.”

Mirabel’s heart seems to swell at the memory he shares. “She seems like she was a great person.”

“She was.”

He is still smiling and Mirabel decides to continue the conversation, however uncomfortable it may be. “What happened?”

He does not seem to mind sharing. “She died a few years back. I was…nine, I think. And Manny was only a baby.”

“Oh,” says Mirabel, her tone turning hushed.

“Sí. I was young, but old enough to remember. Poor Manny didn’t get to know her at all; but I tell him plenty of stories. He just loves hearing about his mamá.”

“I’m sure,” she nods, a sincere smile on her face. “And I’m sure you miss her a lot.”

He nods, sinking down a bit further into the rug. “Sí. Every day. But I still have Papi, and Manny. And you.”

Mirabel pulls her knees up to her chest and wraps her arms around them. “I’m really sorry, Marty. I didn’t know.”

“It’s okay,” he assures her. “I’ve been alright; it’s Manny I’m worried about. Mamá died giving birth to him, so…you know, he sometimes feels like it was his fault.”

Her heart seems to shatter into more pieces than the two it’s already been split into. “But he’s so young.”

“He is,” Marty agrees. “But he knows that we all miss her, and he’s told me he feels responsible for the family falling apart.”

A cold, violent sense of relation floods Mirabel’s stomach as she listens to the words that spill out of his mouth. It’s almost déjà vu; like she’s heard these exact words before, but not from Marty. No, she’s only heard these thoughts produced from her very own head in the dead of night as she fails to fall asleep in the nursery.

Perhaps she has more in common with the young boy than she ever would have considered.

She sits in silence, debating whether to respond or just to dwell on the devastating reality of it all. Her stream of thoughts is interrupted, however, when a yell is heard from another room, down the hall.

Manny.

Both Mirabel and Marty stand in alarm, though it’s Marty who takes action. He quickly makes his way down the hall towards the source of the scream, followed closely by Mirabel whose shattered heart seems to be beating alarmingly fast once again.

Inside the largest bedroom sits Manny who is on the floor and in tears, next to an irritated Perla with her claws sunken deep into the floor.

Marty lets out an exasperated sigh, proceeding into the bedroom and picking up the sobbing child in his arms as carefully as possible. He sets Manny on the bed. “What did I tell you? You should’ve left the cat alone.”

“I was only trying to pet her,” cries the child through strained breaths.

“Where did she get you?”

Manny holds up his left hand to reveal a fresh scratch, only an inch long but red with blood. He is still sniffling and sobbing while Marty examines the wound.

“It’s only a little scratch. You’ll be okay.”

“But Marty!” He’s crying harder now, likely still suffering the effects of being frightened by the cat.

He groans in frustration. “Lo siento, Manny. Papi’s still working downstairs. I don’t know what you want me to do.”

Slowly, Mirabel makes her way further into the room, careful not to disturb the distressed child any further. “Can I see it, pequeñuelo?” Marty steps to the side and looks back at the girl, who is inching forward towards the small boy on the bed. She takes his wounded hand into hers, careful not to touch it directly, and examines it thoroughly.

She hums indecisively as Manny stares at her in curious wonder. After a while, she stops and shrugs. “Looks like we’ll have to cut it off.”

The young boy giggles at her remark. “No, no!”

“No?” Mirabel teases. “Oh, well. I guess a kiss will make it better all the same. Yes?”

He nods happily, holding his hand up higher in the air in confirmation.

Mirabel finds herself desperately longing for her mamá in this moment, wishing she were there to properly heal the boy’s hand with one of her famous arepas and give her a hug to soothe her, as well. She is not there, however, so Mirabel resorts to the next best option.

She gently kisses the scratch on Manny’s hand with a smile. “Sana, sana, colita de rana,” she says softly. “Si no sanas hoy, sanarás mañana.”

Marty is watching the two with a sort of fondness in his eyes. “Better?”

Manny smiles in amazement as he pulls his hand away from Mirabel’s and inspects it. “Sí! Better.”

Mirabel laughs as he leaps off the bed and bounds down the hallway, no doubt in attempt to find Perla and play with her once more.

Once they are left alone, Marty shakes his head. “Are you sure healing isn’t your gift, Mira?”

Mirabel only smiles. “Yeah. I just learned from the best.” ——————————————————————————— The Madrigals wake up later than usual.

In fact, it is almost two full hours after their usual wakeup call is bellowed through the hallways of the enormous house when Dolores Madrigal finally awakens in her bedroom to…

Silence?

Yes, casita is dead silent; no fist or hip-bumps against the door, no joyous songs throughout the halls, no sound whatsoever. It is completely quiet (and downright eerie, she decides).

She steps delicately into the hallway, peaking her head out carefully first. The sun is shining brightly in through the windows and doors, but none of the Madrigals are awake. Not one—except for Dolores.

She tiptoes down the stairs, one hand on the railing and the other holding up her obnoxiously long nightgown. She’s pretty sure Mirabel made it for her for her twenty-first birthday and—

Mirabel.

There is something about the night before that rattles Dolores as she recalls the events of the night. Watching her tía Julieta and tío Agustín search so hopelessly in the storm that her mother had no control over was almost surreal, and she had wanted desperately to go out and help them. But her ears were stinging and her head was pounding so she stayed back and listened to her own heart beat twice as fast as it normally does.

Today, however, she regrets it. She regrets it because she loves her cousin, and she knows how hard it must be for the young girl to have such an abnormality in the family.

But then, she wonders, shouldn’t the rest of them be considered the abnormal ones?

And, of course, there are times when she wants to scream and cry at the top of her lungs because she is jealous—so, so jealous—that Mirabel has not been given a curse tied with a pretty bow that makes her life a living hell like Dolores has. But it isn’t her fault; none of it is her fault. So she’s managed to swallow the envy that rises in her throat at the very mention of the girl and, instead, she loves her and cares for her as much as she possibly can.

Dolores continues to travel through casita in awe of its silence. She ducks down as she passes the front door, which is a display of all their neighbors picking up fallen tents and carts and things that have been damaged from the storm. At last she reaches the kitchen and—

Oh.

There is one Madrigal who has already awoken. Julieta sits at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee that is likely untouched and about a dozen arepas that have already been made and cooled in front of her. Her head rests in the palms of her hands and she is not saying a word; in fact, she is not making a sound at all. Dolores is surprised she had not been able to tell that her tía was already awake, but her silence is still somehow deafening, and it scares her.

Julieta looks miserable.

She soon realizes that this is true of all of the Madrigals. As they each wake up, disoriented and confused at their lack of a wake-up call, the worry and exhaustion in their eyes becomes more and more apparent. Even Abuela, the rock-hard family member who never seems to mind the most distressing events, is beginning to appear concerned.

But, somehow, they all awkwardly tip-toe around the issue and it drives Dolores nearly to insanity. They eat in silence and get ready in silence and they sit around all day long in complete silence. The silence quickly becomes too much.

If nobody in the family will find her cousin, Dolores decides, she will.

So she trudges through the town over dirty puddles and piles of mud that are sure to stain her dress and the bright red shoes she’s slipped on. It is the least of her worries, however, and she does not look down once on her journey.

She manages to successfully avoid small talk with her nosy neighbors as she makes her way farther into town and suddenly—

She stops in her tracks. She stops because she hears.

“You made that?”

“It isn’t finished yet, but—yeah, I made it for Antonio. For his gift ceremony.”

She would recognize her youngest cousin’s voice anywhere, but the mention of her hermanito officially confirms that, yes, she’s heard Mirabel. And hearing Mirabel, she is assuming, will lead to finding Mirabel. So Dolores listens on.

“That’s just—that’s incredible. I had no idea you could sew.”

“I mostly embroider. I taught myself—you know, after my own gift ceremony—and from then on I just practiced every night before bed. It brightens up the nursery a little.”

“You sleep in the nursery?”

Dolores feels a strange new sensation in her chest at the words of the unknown speaker. She’s grown used to her cousin sleeping in the nursery; after all, she’s done so all her life. But never had she taken into consideration an outsider’s perspective. After all, Mirabel is fifteen years old and sleeps in the nursery of the largest house in the town. It is surely enough to produce a raised eyebrow or two from anybody except the Madrigals.

It all of the sudden bothers Dolores just how normal it’s become.

“It’s not so bad.”

“Still better than my old sofa, I’m sure. Lo siento, again.”

“I might prefer your sofa, actually.”

Ouch.

Dolores knows it is not her right to be offended at the comment, but she can’t help but feel the last shred of hope inside her that Mirabel will ever want to come home disappear into the afternoon air. She supposes she can’t blame her; it is just strikingly painful to realize that, when it comes down to it, Mirabel is gone in more ways than one. And Dolores refuses to sit back and be fine with that.

So she begins to charge. Her pace quickens as she darts throughout the village, hoping to find the source of the young girl and unidentified boy’s voice. Their conversation continues as she walks, and she concentrates intensely to keep her focus on only the words spoken between them.

It is harder to listen to than she expected.

“You seem sad.”

“No.”

“Is it something I did? I’m sorry the house is a mess—dios mío, there are boxes everywhere—but if you want, I can get Papi to sweep up and then, maybe…Mira, you’re crying.”

“I’m sorry, Marty.”

“Oh, no…don’t apologize.”

She reaches a house after fifteen minutes of walking that catches her eye; or, rather, her ear. It’s a small blue house with a charming exterior that is hidden behind a few bushes and, had she not been paying attention, she surely would have missed it. She’s glad she didn’t, however, as the noise is almost too loud once she steps onto the doorstep. Mirabel must be inside.

Dolores’s arm is raised in the air; she’s ready to knock, to put all her previous thoughts and concerns behind her for the sake of bringing her missing prima home, when—

“I don’t think I can ever go home.”

It hits Dolores like a bullet right through the heart. Has it really gotten this bad? Have the Madrigals really pushed it to the point where a member of their family has left and cannot even bare to come home? She suddenly feels herself wanting to yank open that door and force Mirabel into the longest, warmest hug she’s ever been faced with in her fifteen years.

But that is not Dolores. Dolores knows a hug cannot heal a lifetime of mistreatment.

So what, really, can she do?

“Don’t you miss your family?”

“I’m not welcome in my family.”

Where in the world had Mirabel ever gotten that idea? Sure, she’d gotten into a pretty nasty quarrel with Abuela which, undeniably, was the cause for this whole debacle, but in no world did Dolores expect to hear that come from her cousin’s mouth. She may be fifteen, but she is much too young for that, in Dolores’s mind.

“I’m sure that isn’t true.”

“I wish it wasn’t true. Abuela kicked me out.”

Dolores wishes this was new information to her. She wishes desperately that Mirabel had not just confirmed the lingering thought she’d hoped to suppress; after all, she hears a lot in a single day, so she surely must occasionally overhear a sentence incorrectly, and a few phrases must become jumbled in her busy, overstimulated brain. The truth, however, is that she had heard Abuela say all those awful things; she had heard Abuela tell Mirabel to leave her sight. And she had done absolutely nothing.

Here they are now, and Mirabel does not even feel welcome in her own home. The ugly truth presents itself to Dolores as she stands silently on the doorstep…

Dolores can hear from miles away, but she can barely see what is right in front of her.

She shakes her head in frustration and dashes home, hands over her ears the entire way back.

Chapter Text

Mirabel’s been gone a week and Dolores is close to cracking.

She refuses to do so, however, and it is downright killing her. As it turns out, Dolores is much better at keeping secrets than she gives herself credit for, but only when it is for the sake of helping her family. After all, she now knows the whereabouts of two missing Madrigals, and she’s managed to keep both under wraps for impressive amounts of time.

When it first happened, now almost eight days ago, she had heavily debated what to do. Of course, the option of blowing up on her entire family and ratting out Abuela for what she’d done was at the top of her list, but her walk back to casita had given her much needed time to cool down and reconsider.

For one thing, there had been a reason Mirabel had been kicked out, and surely Abuela would find some way to blame her for her youngest cousin’s actions. But, then again, would she? Mirabel seems to receive the blame for most incidents within the family.

More importantly, however, is the issue of Mirabel herself. Dolores desperately wishes to bring her prima home, of course, but she knows the only way to properly do so is to expose her location to her whole family. The issue lies in the fact that she almost worries about Mirabel’s safety if she were to do this; surely Abuela and Julieta and her mother would be furious with the young girl. Besides, she thinks; Mirabel needs this.

At least in Dolores’s eyes, Mirabel more than deserves some time away from her family who has done her so wrong so many times in her life. Who is Dolores to rip that away from her? Certainly not the cousin she wants to be and has always been.

Antonio has started relentlessly asking for Mirabel, though, and Dolores is once again wishing she could come back, just for a bit, to ease the young child and herself. And then the worry seeps back in, and she is afraid of what will happen when Mirabel does, eventually, return home, so she pushes down her own selfish wish and keeps her mouth closed.

There are now posters and fliers plastered all around town by Julieta and Agustín who are entirely dejected.

(Antonio may also fall into this category, but he is more confused and scared than he is sad, though Dolores’s heart breaks all the same for him).

So far, the fliers have proven to be painfully ineffective, as nobody in town cares enough to help the family in their search. They all assume it was bound to happen at some point; that the giftless Madrigal was bound to crack and that nothing could have prevented it.

She even hears some admit that it might be better this way. Dolores feels like throwing up. 

Dinner is not the same without Mirabel. Camilo refuses to speak, and her mother speaks entirely too much in a distressed, irritated attempt to calm her storm cloud. Julieta and Agustín do not show up to dinner at all which perturbs Isabela, who thinks the incident is being blown way out of proportion.

Luisa does little except cry for her little sister.

In all, Dolores feels there is a huge gap in their family that is not only caused by Mirabel’s disappearance, but by the conflicting reactions of her loved ones. Some days she worries she should be doing something; that maybe she should confess that she knows the locations of her beloved cousin and that she’s kept it a secret this whole time.

She knows this will not fill the gap, however. It will only widen it.

So, instead, she focuses on what she can do to help Mirabel. An idea springs to her mind quickly, though she must do it in secret. Luckily, she’s beginning to develop a knack at hiding things from her family.

She leaves the house early in the morning before anybody has woken (after all, there still is no longer a reliable wake-up call), and prays she is not questioned upon her return. She sneaks to the kitchen first, grabbing a few of Tía Julieta’s uneaten arepas from the day before, and she bolts.

It does not take her long to arrive at her destination: Señora Amaya, a vendor who lives only a few blocks away. She greets the woman with a handful of money she’s been saving.

“Threads,” she says quietly. “I need threads. All colors. And, uh—needles? And fabric.”

“Sí, Dolores,” says the young woman with a bright smile. “Learning to embroider?”

She swallows. “Something like that.”

Señora Amaya pulls out an array of thread colors, ribbons and fabrics, and delicate needles. “These okay?”

“Yes. Perfect.”

She places the coins in front of the woman who slides them in towards her and places them into a small register. In turn, Dolores takes all the supplies in front of her and stuffs them into the pocket of her orange skirt which has yet to be embroidered by Mirabel. She carries the needles in her left hand, thanks Señora Amaya, and quickly turns to leave.

“Oh, Dolores?”

She stops and swings back around, warily.

“Such a shame about your sister. Let me know if I can be of any help.”

She says nothing because, really, how can she respond?

Instead, Dolores only nods and heads off in the direction of the small blue house she’d stumbled upon the week before with a handful of fresh embroidery supplies for her prima.

She isn’t entirely sure how to approach the situation once she arrives. Does she knock and quickly leave? Or just leave the needles and thread and food on the doorstep for them to find? Or should she speak to Mirabel herself and risk facing a negative reaction?

She decides not to get too involved and carefully sets her supplies on the cracking doorstep. If there is one thing that will brighten Mirabel’s demeanor, surely it is the newly acquired ability to do the thing she loves; the thing she is good at.

In a way, her gift.

Before she leaves, she listens once more, because there is a part of her that remains curious of where Mirabel is staying and how she is reacting to her own disappearance. Luckily, once more, she hears.

”Tomorrow, you’ll  work in the garden. I’ll teach you two to till the land and nourish the plants the way my father did when I was young. I just hope it isn’t so cloudy.”

It’s a new voice this time; one of an older man that is loud and vibrant and, to Dolores, comforting.

“If it’s cloudy, we’ll go into town. Mira and I can visit the bakery.”

”No!”

There’s the voice she’s been hoping to hear. It is sudden and she isn’t quite sure what’s caused the outburst; though she can hear just about everything, she cannot always make sense of it.

“Why not? You love the bakery.”

“I just think, maybe, we should stay in so Manny doesn’t terrorize the cat any more than usual.”

“Oh, Perla will be fine. You saw what happened last time.” 

“Please, Marty? I’m tired.”

A pause can be heard after Mirabel’s plea, until it is broken with a deciding sigh.

“Okay. Then we’ll rest.”

“And we can teach Manny a few new words?”

“Sí. He’d love that.”

Their conversation has reached its apparent end and Dolores decides she is tired of eavesdropping. As long as her cousin is safe and happy—at least, as happy as she can be—she will not intervene and she will not bring her home. And whoever the boy on the other end of the conversation is, her little cousin seems to have him wrapped around her finger. Maybe it’s good for Mira; to have somebody pay attention to her for once.

Dolores does not try to deny the fact that, although she’s never been outright mean to the young girl, she has not pulled her weight at making her feel included and comfortable and appreciated in their family. She regrets it now but knows there is no way to fix what’s been broken.

So she leaves her delivery at the doorstep and wills herself to keep the secret, at least for a bit longer.

Really, it’s the least she can do.

————————————————————————

Mirabel is not keen on wearing pants.

It’s a personal preference, she decides; she likes the flowy comfort her usual skirts provide, and brown linen does not suit her well. But it’s her fault for not packing clothes before making her grand exit, and she’s grateful Marty has something that fits her relatively well, let alone multiple outfits he’s willing to let her borrow.

It’s now been two weeks and she is honesty surprised she has yet to be found. It’s not as if she doubts they are looking; she just knows her mother and father are wracked with guilt and worry and she feels utterly terrible about it. But there was no other option, and she does not regret leaving. She only regrets letting down her parents, as if she hasn’t already let down the rest of the family.

A week in starts the “mystery” of the threads and needles and healing arepas that show up at Marty’s doorstep. The first time it arrives, her heart drops because this can only mean that somebody knows where she is. While it’s inevitable that she’ll have to go home at some point—as much as she does not want this to be the case—she didn’t intend for it to be now . She looks around before swiping the supplies and slamming the door behind her.

It dawns on her later that day that Dolores can, quite literally, hear everything. She smacks herself on the forehead because how could she not have thought about that? Of course Dolores would know where she is.

She’ll probably go home and tell everybody, and Mirabel will quickly be dragged along the pavement by Abuela and shoved into the nursery and kept there until she turns eighteen. Dolores, after all, has not proven to be the most excellent secret-keeper, in past events.

But another week goes by and she remains in the safety of Marty’s home and Marty’s family. When the next shipment of supplies arrives, she allows herself to smile. A mental note is locked into Mirabel’s brain to thank her oldest cousin when she arrives home.

True to his word, Esteban teaches Mirabel and Marty how to garden. Tía Pepa has never let her tend to the flowers before, too afraid she will trample them of pick them or mess them up in some other absurd way. She does not mind much, because she has anything but a green thumb and has never particularly had any interest in gardening anyway.

It’s different with Marty. She feels at ease as they learn together because, as far as she knows, they did not have a garden back in Bolivia and this is new to him, too. Esteban is practically an expert and, while it is not rocket science, it takes enough effort that they are exhausted by the end, drained from the sun, and can barely stay awake to read Manny his choice of poem that night.

They do the same the next day and the day after that, and Mirabel dirties yet another of Marty’s ruanas because, as it turns out, she does have a green thumb. It fills her with pride, watching creations of her own grow and develop as time goes on.

She feels better, too, doing some work for the Villegas family. Although they’ve endlessly assured her that she is welcome there, no strings attached, she does begin to feel a bit of guilt at her lack of help around the house as she watches Esteban head to his work (which is a vendor stand right outside their house, selling ceramic creations and fine China) and Marty cleans and Manny learns to read.

She and Marty do most of the teaching, in fact. She’s found another joy in teaching the young boy new words every evening, and Manny is surprisingly appreciative. He sounds each word out and jumps in the air when he is correct; then he gets frustrated when Mirabel has to gently correct him and Marty watches from the side in adoration.

He tries to convince her often to go out into town and, as must as it pains her, she refuses each time, making up a new excuse and praying he will not question her any further. Marty always seems to believe her; or, at least, pretends to. She isn’t entirely sure what would be waiting for her if she did decide to go into town, but she is sure, one way or another, that she would be found. She is not quite ready to leave the comfort of the small blue house down the block, and so she stays inside or tends to the garden or works with Manny instead. Nobody seems to object.

She’s almost growing used to this lifestyle she’s developed. She’s growing too used to it, in fact, that is scares her, because she knows it will soon enough be ripped away and she is not quite sure how to handle that.

And then, of course, there are the days when she is trying to fall asleep and begins to cry instead, longing for her mother and father and sometimes even Abuela; she longs for the relationship she never had and knows she never will have with Abuela. She cries because she is jealous that her sisters and cousins have this relationship, and because she isn’t sure why she wants it in the first place.

One night she even cries because her family hasn’t yet found her and she rightfully assumes it is because they’re not looking.

Marty finds her that specific night because he can’t sleep either. He sits next to her on the couch as she grasps the thin blanket she’s grown so used to with all her strength and seems to lose whatever inner battles she is fighting. He does not seem quite sure of what to say, and so he just sits with her and keeps her company and waits until she is ready to talk.

“I don’t—I don’t know why I’m upset.”

“I do.”

She isn’t surprised at this response in the slightest. Marty tends to be on the quieter side, which also means he spends a lot of his time inside his own head. He tends to know those around him and himself to an extent that Mirabel is not familiar with.

“You do?”

“You’ve been here for three weeks, Mira. It’s not absurd that you might miss home, just a bit.”

Her gasps are subsiding though her tears are still relatively consistent. “I don’t miss home.”

“You miss your family, then.”

“No.”  She isn’t quite sure why it frustrates her, but it does. “You know they were horrible to me.”

“And that’s why you want to go back. You’ve always held onto hope that things might change, probably your entire life. And I think—I think you aren’t quite ready to let that go. Sí?”

His expression is earnest and it breaks her heart that he is sacrificing his night to comfort her. Or maybe it makes her heartbeat quicken; she isn’t quite sure. Either way, she sighs. “I guess you’re right.”

”Sí. I know—I know you never will let that go. But I’m hoping once your mamá comes to get you, you won’t forget how things were different here. You aren’t the issue, Mirabel.”

She nods, not only because he is right but because it feels so good to hear from somebody else. After spending her entire childhood trying to convince herself of exactly that, the fact that Marty has been the only one to even remotely succeed in convincing her speaks volumes.

She remains silent, basking in the moment because she isn’t quite sure how to feel anymore. It’s only a few seconds later when Marty speaks again.

“And you know that once you do go home, you’re welcome back any time. Maybe you can come and help with the garden every once in a while. And Manny will miss you.”

She nods again. “I’d love to help with the garden. And I’ll miss him, too. I wish I could say you two were welcome at my house, but I’m not entirely sure if I’ll even be welcome there, so I wouldn’t risk it.”

It’s a lousy attempt at a joke, and Marty doesn’t laugh. He simply remains silent in the dark living room, in Mirabel’s presence. She doesn’t mind much as it’s a calm, comforting silence and it’s almost refreshing.

Mirabel thinks she might like to stay this way forever. Maybe if she hides away for long enough, this will be her new normal; spending her days here with Marty and Manny, and not having to worry about whether she is good enough because she knows she is by default. Maybe she will never go home and spend the rest of her life sharing a vendor booth with Esteban Villegas, selling embroidered clothes and canvas bags, and making a life of her own. Maybe someday she will grow up. She’ll have a family of her own and a house of her own, and all her current worries will be a distant memory.

She hates to think this way because then the harsh reality of her real situation hits her in the face like a ton of bricks. Maybe it’s too far-fetched; maybe she’ll be stuck in the confines of the encanto her entire life, under the cruel jurisdiction of Abuela. The thought is overwhelming and Mirabel suddenly wishes she had never let it get this way from the beginning.

And then Marty grabs her hand. Their fingers intertwine and her heart pounds, yet somehow it is calming like the eye of a storm. She doesn’t dare move in fear of interrupting the tranquility she’s finally, finally found after hours of turmoil; it’s not a surprise that it’s Marty who manages to help her find it.

Somehow Mirabel sleeps through the night and does not even dream; no nightmares to frighten her in the night and no pleasant dreams to disappoint her when she wakes in the morning. It’s a new experience and she finds herself wanting to simply live in it forever.

Mirabel quickly worries, however, that ‘forever’ is not in her fate’s vocabulary. The next morning, she awakes to another storm.

————————————————————————

Marty wakes quite early the next morning. It takes a moment for him to realize he’s fallen asleep on the small sofa, fighting for space with Mirabel who remains on the other end. Rubbing the tiredness from his eyes, he stands slowly and looks out the window.

Outside stands his father, already making a sale at only 6:30 in the morning; his charisma certainly serves him well when it comes to running his business, and Marty is never surprised when his customers come back weeks later, thrilled with their first purchase. After all, Esteban Villegas is an admirable man in many aspects, one of which being his extraordinary merchant skills, yet it is befuddling how he manages to be so successful each time.

As Marty adjusts to the light piercing through the windows, he suddenly realizes the implications of the sight outside the house and his face becomes hot and likely sports a blush he’s grown entirely used to. His father had seen them—Mirabel and Marty asleep on the sofa—and had probably made a joke in his head purely in good nature, although both of them knew it hadn’t been like that.

She’d needed somebody to keep her company, and they’d fallen asleep. That was that.

It’s evidently embarrassing nonetheless and Marty makes a note not to let Mira know. She certainly does not need another weight on her already aching shoulders, and he has done his best thus far to relieve her of as much of it as he can; certainly, he isn’t about to stop now.

Marty finds he is running out of clothes. After all, his wardrobe is only enough for one person, and he cannot keep up with washing all of the clothes he and Mirabel go through in a week, especially with her newfound knack at gardening. Daily, she’ll already have covered one of his ruanas in dirt and mud before noon and he’ll insist she change into a new one, despite her protests. This, unfortunately, leads to a serious shortage of clothes for the next day, and his options are very quickly minimized. It makes her happy, though, so he does not bat an eye. He dresses in his last remaining ruana that day and reminds himself to wash the others.

He assumes Mirabel will sleep for at least an hour more; although she used to wake up at the crack of dawn each morning, she hasn’t been sleeping well recently and she surely won’t mind if he lets her get a few extra hours in. So he develops an idea instead:

He’ll surprise her.

He’ll head to the bakery and purchase some of their favorite polvorosas and maybe a few coconut rolls to share, and once she wakes up maybe she won’t remember the reasons she was upset the night before. So far, it is sunny and the sky looks fit for planting a few new flowers and vegetables; she’ll like that, too.

As Marty walks through the town, he realizes just how long it’s been since he’s done so; it’s been since Mirabel showed up at his doorstep, surely. It isn’t as if he’s intended to stay inside for so long, but part of him feels responsible for Mirabel, and keeping her safe and happy has been his main priority for the three weeks she’s been living there. Truth be told, there has not been much time for any spontaneous stops to the bakery, so his outing is a good thing, as the sun is shining and the villagers seem happy and busy this morning.

He arrives at the bakery in no time with money he’s saved up from various birthdays and holidays, mostly from his tíos and tías back in Bolivia. He is quite sure he’ll have enough to buy all that he desires, and if he is short a few cents, he decides, he will help his father sell a few plates and come back later that day. The line is short and it’s his turn at the counter very quickly.

“Hola! A dozen polvorosas, por favor. And…do you have any coconut rolls?”

The man at the counter smiles, his white mustache curving upwards with his lips. “No coconut rolls today. But we do have a sale on pan trenza .”

“Then a loaf of that, please.”

The owner nods and reaches down into the counter with his gloved hands, grabbing Marty’s requested desserts and baked goods. “I’ve never seen you around, chico. Are you new here?”

“Sí, I’ve been here about a month. My name is Marty Villegas.”

The man stops his packaging and looks at the boy, who is standing a bit awkwardly now. “You’re that boy who was here with Mirabel Madrigal. A few weeks ago, yes?”

Marty’s face heats up once more. “Sí. Do you know her?”

“Of course I know her; she’s a Madrigal. And she comes here often. Do you know where she is?”

He is a bit taken aback by the question. Yes, he knows where she is; she’s still back on his sofa, sound asleep. Why should that be his concern?

“No entiendo, señor.”

“She’s been missing for weeks. Haven’t you seen all the posters?”

The old man points to the farthest wall of the bakery and, just as he had said, a poster is hanging with Mirabel’s face and name plastered on it.

His heart pounds.

It doesn’t make sense. Why would there be posters hung around the town, claiming that Mirabel is missing, when her parents clearly know she is just taking a break from the family and staying with him for a while?

Unless…

All thoughts of the bakery are immediately forgotten. He turns on his heel and bolts out of the small shop. As soon as he is outside, he sees a nearby lamppost, which also has one of Mirabel’s fliers taped to its side; he rips it off with haste and it reflects the bright sun that is on the rise.

                               MISSING

                     Mirabel Madrigal, age 15

- Curly brown hair              -Bright green glasses

-Brown eyes                         -5 feet, 2 inches tall

The poster proves that, yes, it’s true; Mirabel has been declared missing and it’s been this way for weeks. The whole time, he thought her parents had known. He thought the factor determining when she returned home was when her abuela told her she could come back, not when Mirabel herself decided she’d had enough of Marty’s family.

She’d lied to him. And now her family has spent weeks worried sick, no doubt, after searching for her to no avail. And it seems it’s all his fault.

Marty contemplates running back home and waking up the sleeping girl, demanding to know why she hadn’t told him the situation had escalated so drastically. But he doesn’t particularly want Papi or Manny involved, and the problem realistically will not be solved by causing the fuss he so wants to cause.

So he heads the other direction instead, straight towards the house of the Madrigals.

————————————————————————

It’s possible that Dolores may be close to cracking now.

Breakfast feels like it’s been going on for years when it’s really only been five minutes, and none of them feel like eating, really. After all, Antonio’s gift ceremony is in exactly a week, and none of them are particularly prepared to be throwing a huge party due to the circumstances. Mirabel’s also been gone for three weeks and there has been no sign of her.

It still bothers Dolores how nobody dares to talk about her anymore; it reminds her exactly of Tío Bruno. Although she knows, in both cases, their silence stems from the worry being felt by the entire family, it is not fair to her young cousin who does not feel welcome in her own home.

This morning, however, somebody does decide to bring up her name in the midst of their party-planning. It is probably not for the best.

“I assume Isabela has the flowers covered,” says Abuela. “I’ve ordered maracas and hats from Señor Ortiz, which should arrive next week. Am I forgetting anything?”

Félix pipes in. “Will Julieta be cooking?”

Luisa has managed to convince her mother to rejoin the table for meals with a lot of persuasion, but still she refuses to be part of their conversations or even look at a single one of them. Julieta only nods in confirmation at the question, and the Madrigals move on.

Abuela smiles. “Then I think everything should be perfect, sí?”

“This is ridiculous.”

Everybody looks up from their plates at the face of the speaker.

Pepa furrows her eyebrows. “What is it, Camilo?”

“This family is ridiculous! Mirabel has been missing for three weeks and all you can talk about is the stupid ceremony.”

Dolores is sure you could now cut the tension in the kitchen with a knife. It is thick and raw and she isn’t sure how Camilo ever developed the gall to say what he did. She is proud of her hermanito.

“How dare you insult your brother’s ceremony?” Abuela booms. She is seriously intimidating now, but Camilo is undeterred.

“I’m not insulting his ceremony; I’m insulting you. And the fact that you ever let it get to the point where Mirabel felt like she had to run away.”

“Mirabel ran away because she did not care about this family.”

“Mirabel ran away because you pushed her to it,” argues Camilo with fury in his throat.

“That is not true! Mirabel is the one who has pushed this family and put its name in danger time and time again. If she wished to come home, she would. If she wished, she would be sitting here now, planning this ceremony instead of hiding away and leaving this family completely. Just like Bruno.”

At Abuela’s comment, Dolores is no longer close to cracking.

She cracks.

“Mirabel didn’t run away.”

Now all eyes are on her and she can barely stand it. She hears all their hearts beating at once, to different rhythms, and she just wants it to stop.

Camilo is intrigued. “What are you talking about?”

Dolores finally stands, takes a deep breath, and braces herself. “The night before the storm…I heard it. Abuela kicked Mirabel out.”

Thunder booms outside the window.

Dolores’s revelation causes the most reaction the Madrigals have shown in all of the past three weeks, and it is certainly not a positive one. They are all talking over each other now; Luisa is crying and Antonio is so confused. Abuela is simply livid.

There is not much time for anybody to calm down at all. Like so many times in the past, there is a knock at the door, and Dolores jumps up to answer it, covering her ears tightly on her way.

The door is opened and a boy stands before her, soaked from the storm that has suddenly begun.

“I know where Mirabel is.”

Chapter Text

So this is Marty.

He’s smaller than Dolores had pictured—not small, necessarily, but probably about the same size as Mirabel—and he carries himself with much less confidence than her primita. His hair is also a few shades lighter, but it’s shorter and curly, also like Mirabel’s.

His appearance is not the issue at the moment, however. At the sight of him, Dolores lets out one of her famous squeaks and scurries outside, slamming the front door behind them.

It’s storming intensely now and both of them are soaking. Part of her feels guilty that she hadn’t let the boy take shelter inside their house after he walked all this way, but her cousin is more important and she isn’t quite sure what to do.

Marty’s eyes appear concerned as Dolores looks into them, sternly. “You have to go home.”

“What? No— “

“Yes, chico. I know that Mirabel’s been at your house but you can’t tell them.”

He is taken aback. “You know?”

She nods furiously. “Yes, of course. I heard you. I’ve been sending the arepas and threads and needles for weeks now.”

“That was you?”

“Yes.  Now, listen; Mirabel is going to be in a lot of trouble if you tell them she’s been with you. You’ll be in a lot of trouble, too.”

“But—but she’s missing.”

He simply cannot understand and Dolores does not blame him. From what she can tell, he is relatively new to the village and is only really familiar with Mirabel’s side of things; but then, surely, he should know that she does not want to go home. There must be something else Dolores doesn’t know.

“Just go home; quickly. Abuela can’t know you were here.”

He obviously wants to protest, to insist that he lead them back to his house and reveal Mirabel’s location; but his conscience overrules his instinct, and he nods and darts away.

Once Marty is out of sight, Dolores quietly makes her way back into the house, which is still painfully loud with arguments left and right. Abuela is yelling the loudest of them all.

Maybe she’ll just go to her room; she can hide there until the madness has died down, and nobody will question her at all. It’s true that it had been Dolores who had started it all, but she isn’t sure she can bear the effects of it and, in this moment, understands exactly why Mirabel left.

She sneaks past the kitchen and not even Abuela turns her head to question her; she must be in the clear. The stairs are in sight when—

Okay. Maybe not in the clear.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

It’s her mother and the terrorizing look on her face tells Dolores she is not playing around. Her arms are crossed and the cloud above her head is dark.

“To my room,” she responds, plainly. “It’s too loud.”

“I don’t believe that for a minute.”

Not exactly the reaction Dolores had been expecting. She is not one to sass her mother, but a wave of anger suddenly washes over her and she can’t hold back. “You don’t believe that? I can literally hear everything, Mamá. Remember?”

“Yes, I remember. And that means you know where Mirabel is.”

Busted.

Dolores seems to shrink under her mother’s gaze and she suspects this is intentional. “No. I don’t.”

“You heard Abuela kick Mirabel out that night. So surely you’ve heard her since then.”

Her face turns red and she’s sure her mother can tell. “My gift gets a little weak along the edges.”

“And how would you know she is ‘along the edges?’ Unless you heard.”

It’s clear her mother has been brewing this argument for a while, and any excuse Dolores considers is easily refuted. She sighs. “Fine. I do know where she is.”

Pepa’s face is even angrier now, though Dolores thought it impossible. “And why did you not tell us? We’ve been searching for weeks, Dolores!”

Now is one of those times when Dolores wishes she had no gift at all. She wishes her mother’s voice was not so loud and she wishes the thunder would quiet down, and she wishes she knew what to do. “I know—I’m sorry. I just thought—“

“No, Dolores, you weren’t thinking! Seriously, after all this family has gone through—“

“What about all Mirabel’s gone through? Did you ever think about that?”

While her question does not cause Pepa to back down, it’s enough to make her pause. This gives Dolores time to realize that her mother, while still looking young for her age, has begun to develop a few wrinkles on her forehead that she can’t remember seeing in the past. Mirabel’s disappearance has taken a bigger toll than she realized.

“While it’s true, I haven’t been as…attentive to Mirabel as I should, that does not give her the right to run away any more than it gives you the right to hide it from us.”

“For the last time, Mamá, she didn’t run away. She had no choice.”

Her mother has no argument and Dolores can tell. This only makes Pepa more livid, however; she takes a few intimidating steps towards her daughter. “You will take me and Tía Julieta to Mirabel. Right now.”

It turns out, even at age 21, Dolores is still a bit scared of her mother. As much as it pains her, she knows she is now the one who has no choice, and she knows she will not win this argument.

Dolores sinks and leads her mother out the door.

————————————————————————

It’s not as if Mirabel had been expecting to sleep later that morning; no, usually Marty wakes her fairly early and they start whatever activity they’ve landed on that day; chores, or helping his father, or playing with the cat. Today, however, she definitely wishes she could have stayed asleep, just for five more minutes.

She startles when there is a knock at the front door, right next to the couch on which she’d slept. She scrambles to untangle herself from the sheet and stands, barely remembering to put her green glasses on her face.

Unsurprisingly, it’s Marty. He is positively soaked; Mirabel hadn’t noticed the rain that was turning into a storm outside, but it’s apparent on his clothes and hair and face. He looks pitiful, so she steps aside to let him in immediately.

She almost smiles. “Huh. Weird being on the other end of this situation.”

Marty tries to laugh but it comes out awkward and panicked. “Forgot my key.”

“What were you doing out there? In the rain?”

“I was trying to get us, uh, breakfast. From the bakery. I got caught in the storm on my way.”

Mirabel’s heart begins to pound in her face. If Marty went into town, that means he might have found the one thing out that she’d hoped to keep secret. Surely she is the topic of conversation among some of the residents of the town and, while Marty does not have Dolores’s ears, he is still quite perceptive.

“Where’s your father?” She realizes that he is usually out working by now. The storm has likely prevented him from doing so, but Mirabel has yet to see any sign of the man.

Marty still appears uncomfortable. “Last time it started raining this fast, I think he took shelter in the church.”

“Why? He lives right here.”

“Yeah, well…people in the church aren’t quite as likely to break all his merchandise as Manny is, so…”

She nods and the awkward silence returns. Only then does it occur to Mirabel that, just last night, he’d come to sit with her when she had been in such an emotional state; they’d talked for quite some time and sat in silence for some time after that. It was peaceful and quiet, and she misses it now. The rain is pelting down against the roof and a horrible feeling presents itself in Mirabel’s stomach.

“Are you okay?”

She blinks, processing the question. “You’re asking me that?”

“Well, after last night, I just—uh, what do you mean?”

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost, Marty. What’s going on with you?”

His face turns red and Mirabel’s dread only grows. “Nothing. I’m sorry for waking you up.” 

She shakes her head. “Don’t apologize. I just—I don’t know why it would be storming, unless…”

A knock sounds at the front door.

At the sudden noise, Mirabel feels almost five years old again, like she’s just knocked over a picture frame that has broken and shattered, and she’s seconds away from facing the repercussions of her actions. Only, this time, she’d much rather run and hide than be brave and apologize like she used to.

Before she has time to stop him, Marty reaches forward and pulls the door open.

“Dios mío! Mirabel!”

Before her stands her mother, who is shivering from the cold rain running down her back but obviously is not focused on the weather. Her eyes are full of relief at the sight of her daughter, but Mirabel senses there is some anger in them as well. She’s been gone for three weeks and has left her poor mother behind; surely she harbors some resentment.

Funnily enough, the first thing Mirabel thinks of is Marty.

He has backed up a bit and appears to be just as shocked as Mirabel. Still, she turns her head abruptly to face him, positively livid. “You told my family where I am?”

His eyes are wide with guilt. “No! No, I just—“

“How could you?” As much as she tries to help it, Mirabel’s fury is quickly replaced with dejection. Almost instantly, she is close to tears.

Marty’s defenses present themselves. “You told me your parents knew where you were! There are posters with your face on them all around town, Mirabel. You are the one who lied to me.”

The rational part of Mirabel’s brain knows that he is correct; she hasn’t been honest with him and, in the process, has taken advantage of his hospitality for the entire three weeks she has been here. Mirabel has plenty she should be apologizing for and, yes, the rational part of her brain very well knows this; but the only thing she can see is red, and that part of her brain seems not to be working today.

Her current mental war is abruptly ended when her mother surges forward and wraps Mirabel tightly into her arms, cradling her and stroking her hair. “Oh, mi amor! I thought we’d lost you.”

It is a struggle to keep reminding herself that, although the whole family is to blame, Julieta has repeatedly done her best to help her daughter, although not always successful, and she should not be punished for it. Although it is cold and her mother is still soaked, Mirabel sinks into the hug and does not protest.

Tía Pepa then storms in and interrupts the moment. “Dios, Mirabel! Where the hell have you been? We have been searching for you for weeks now!”

Now Dolores makes an appearance, likely unwillingly. She appears to be rather worked up, however, as her voice is raised. “Disparates! You have not been searching at all. Tía Julieta and Tío Agustín were the ones who kept looking. Not you.”

Mirabel has broken away from her mother’s embrace and watches as Pepa’s face turns flushed. So all that Dolores has said is true. Only her parents have been looking for her.

“All this time, Mirabel, you’ve been here?” Julieta questions, looking around at the comfortable living room.

Her head is bowed as if she is ashamed, though in reality she is only trying to avoid making eye contact with Marty. “Yes. I just thought—I mean, I didn’t leave the encanto.”

“But you still left. Alone. We were all so worried, mi vida.” She shakes her head in disapproval.

“Not to mention the family fell apart! No doubt everybody is still arguing back at home. And—and Antonio’s ceremony is in a week, Mirabel. Did you even think about him?”

“Mamá, stop,”  says Dolores fiercely through her teeth. Mirabel has never seen her this way; she does not necessarily object.

“We will finish this conversation later.” Julieta grabs Mirabel’s wrist and begins to lead her out the door. “Come on. We’re going home.”

“No!” She pulls away immediately, rubbing the spot on her arm which was tugged a bit too hard. “Mami, I can’t.”

“It was not a question, mi sobrina,” protests Pepa. The rain outside has stopped and it is now only cloudy, though the sky is still so dark that it very well may be dusk. “You are coming home with us.”

“Abuela is going to kill me. And—and Marty. She’s gonna kill Marty.”

All four Madrigals turn their heads towards the boy who refuses to look up from the ground.

“This is Marty?” questions Pepa.

“Tell your abuela I’m sorry,” says Marty in a voice that is not his. It is small and timid, and it holds a slight tremble that is a bit out-of-character. “I never meant to upset anybody, I just—I was only trying to help.”

“Yeah, well…you’ve helped me enough,” says Mirabel, furiously. “I thought I’d made it clear to you that I didn’t want to go home.”

“I thought I’d made it clear to you that I wasn’t comfortable with harboring a runaway!” 

Her hands are in fists now, tightening with each word. “You know I didn’t run away.”

“Then what was this, Mirabel? A vacation?” The timid voice is gone now, replaced with one of outrage and strong emotion. “You’re acting like I haven’t spent the past three weeks stuck inside because you wouldn’t let me go out into town. You knew what I would find if I did. You’ve been keeping this from me on purpose!”

“So you ran back and told my family?”

“What else was I supposed to do?”

Mirabel wishes she hadn’t seen the tears that are now visible in Marty’s eyes, but she has. She turns her gaze away from him because she cannot pity him now; her pride is more important.

“Maybe I shouldn’t have come here,” she whispers.

“Yeah. Maybe you shouldn’t have, mentirosa.”

She recognizes that he’s insulted her and something inside of Mirabel breaks. Somehow, even after weeks of Marty being nothing but nice and helpful, he is now intentionally trying to hurt her, and to call her a liar is quite a low blow. Mirabel is fully ready to release all the pent-up anger inside her heart in Marty’s face, but her mother interrupts them.

“Enough, you two!” They both startle a bit at the woman’s rather harsh tone. It’s effective, however; their arguing stops. She turns to Marty. “Thank you for keeping her safe. We are going home.”

Julieta’s voice is stern, and Mirabel knows she must oblige this time. She’s put off her return to la casa Madrigal for weeks now and, though she’s been waiting for it to get easier, she suspects she’s just made it harder by creating a conflict with Marty.

She can barely even look at him.

The walk back home is painful and grueling, but Mirabel somehow does not wish she was back at the Villegas household anymore. She does not wish to be back home at casita, either.

When she’s brought back into the house and all eyes are on her, she wants to simply disappear.

————————————————————————

Mirabel finds herself back in the nursery again. She’s not entirely opposed, considering the alternative is having to face her entire family all at once, but it’s certainly not how she wanted to spend her morning. Her bed is still the same as it used to be—rickety and covered only with blankets she’d sewn and embroidered herself—and the gloom of the situation weighs down on her.

Her mother has sent Tía Pepa and Dolores back out to the kitchen table where the rest of her family is whispering about her. Now the two of them remain in the nursery, and the door is closed tightly, though that does not stop anybody from hearing.

“You know I love you. Yes?”

She nods her head miserably; it’s proving difficult to do much else.

“Good, because I do. I love you, Mirabel, no matter what. But you betrayed my trust, and I can’t—I can’t just let that go.”

“I know,” she says hollowly. “And I’m sure you’re still upset that I yelled at Abuela, but—“

“No,” she interrupts. Her hands are placed firmly on her hips, although her expression is more worried. “I’m not upset that you yelled at Abuela. I’m upset that you left with no intention of coming back. I mean, we—we were all worried sick, Mirabel!”

“I know,” she croaks through fresh tears. “I’m sorry, but I—I was going to come back.”

“And it’s because I love you, mi vida, that I’m so disappointed. To run off like this and not tell anybody, not even one of your sisters or cousins. If something had happened to you—“

“Nothing was going to happen to me! I was safe—“

“But what if you weren’t?” She is raising her voice now and it hurts Mirabel’s ears. “What if you found out that that boy—that Marty—wasn’t who he said he was? What if he hadn’t been so good to you?”

“What else was I supposed to do?” Mirabel cries. Her face is hot and she feels a bit nauseous, but she refuses to back down now. “I wasn’t welcome here, I—I couldn’t just wander around town until somebody let me stay with them. He was my only option, Mamá. Abuela didn’t want me here.

Julieta obviously has more she wants to say—she wants to continue scolding her daughter and reminding her of all the harm she’s inflicted on the family—but she stops herself and takes a long, deep breath. “What did she say to you?”

“She told me she wanted me out of her sight. Until I learned to respect the family.”

Julieta’s gears seem to be turning at quite an accelerated rate. She makes her decision suddenly and heads towards the door, though not before turning to face her daughter briefly. “Stay here.”

Again, Mirabel is not Dolores, but casita’s walls are surprisingly thin, and she has little else to do but listen. There is a ruckus downstairs and she’s afraid she’ll be blamed for it later; however, the argument that follows is much more concerning.

“You told my daughter you wanted her out of your sight?”

“Julieta, listen—“

“No, Mami, you listen. I don’t care what Mirabel does or what she says; she is still a Madrigal, and this is her home. What were you thinking, implying that she should leave casita? She could have been seriously hurt!”

“I never told her to leave. I meant she should stay in her room. And I will not have you yelling such accusations at me!”

She cannot see either of the women who are arguing, but Abuela especially sounds frightening. Her tone is stern and irate, like she’s ready to snap at any moment. She hopes it is not this moment.

“Whether you meant it or not, you put Mirabel in a terrible situation, and you need to go up there and apologize.”

“I have nothing to apologize for. She disrespected the family.”

“She disrespected the family by making a friend? Dios mío, Mamá. You are ridiculous.”

Abuela’s gasp is loud and sharp. Shivers run all the way down Mirabel’s spine.

“What has gotten into you, Julieta?“

“You have been a mother for fifty years. You should know that a mother’s job is to protect her child, no matter what. For the past three weeks, Mirabel has felt like she was not safe or welcome at home because of you, and—and I cannot just ignore it. As a mother, I will not ignore it. You’ve hurt her, you’ve hurt me, you’ve hurt this entire family, and I do not care if it was an accident. So, for the last time, this family can either spend the entire week arguing and yelling over Pepa’s storms, or you can go apologize to my daughter right now.”

She wants to cry because finally, finally her mother has stood up for her rather than making excuses. It’s been quite some time since Mirabel has felt so loved, even in her own family, and it’s a refreshing moment that she wishes she could see in person rather than hear through the walls.

Apparently Abuela is still being stubborn. “That girl never listened to me before, surely she will not listen to me now. So why should I apologize?”

“Well.” There is coy silence before Julieta finishes her response. “It would be a pity not to have any food at Toñito’s gift ceremony, wouldn’t it?”

————————————————————————

Mirabel knows her mother. She knows her mother’s interests, her likes and dislikes; she knows her favorite meal to cook and to eat, and she knows that her favorite skirt is the first one Mirabel ever embroidered for her at the age of seven. It is safe to say Mirabel knows her mother, and she knows her mother’s threat has no real plausibility.

Julieta would never do that to Antonio. Even if Abuela had not bitten her tongue and had said the nasty things Mirabel is sure were in her head, Julieta would never purposely ruin Toñito’s big day. In fact, she rather admires her mother for making such a claim and using it to force an apology out of her.

Of course, she’d much rather an apology be sincere, but that is out of the question, so this is the next best thing.

Abuela’s footsteps on the stairs make her spine tingle and she almost wants to hide again. Is this not what she wanted? For her mother to stand up for her and for Abuela to apologize?

But suddenly it feels so wrong. Maybe she should not have yelled at Marty. Then she could return to the Villegas household, and read to Manny and play with Perla and cry with laughter each time Esteban speaks. And she’s sure she’d rather be holding Marty’s hand than holding her breath at this moment.

But Abuela slowly opens the door and Mirabel’s heart stops completely.

“I’d like a word with you, Mirabel.”

She would prefer anything over having a word with her abuela. Avoidance is not an option, though, so she reluctantly nods her head, signaling her to enter.

Abuela carefully sits down next to Mirabel on the old rickety bed. “I suppose I am sorry.”

Mirabel only blinks. “You…suppose you’re sorry?“

“Your Mamá has spoken to me and made me aware that I’ve said a few things that were taken the wrong way. And for that, I am sorry.”

She nods again. It isn’t as if she’s unwilling to accept the apology, but she’d certainly prefer it to be more sincere. She cannot just back down that easily.

“And I’m glad you are home.”

She wants to scoff but knows it will not be well-received. Instead, she takes a breath. “I didn’t want to come home.”

Abuela’s silence is enough for Mirabel to know that there’s a reaction being withdrawn; not necessarily a positive one. “Why would you say that?”

“Because l knew this would happen when I did. Now everything is awkward and it’s—it’s like even my presence is taboo.”

“That may be so. But you should have considered that before you left. Sí?”

“No. You should have considered that before you told me to leave.”

She can tell Abuela is biting her tongue; it’s almost impressive, considering her inability to do so in the past. “I did not come here to argue, Mirabel. I came here to apologize, and I hoped you would do the same.”

Mirabel considers this. It’s almost funny to hear that Abuela expects an apology; of course she’s used to it. She’s broken enough vases and tripped over her own feet enough in her childhood for Abuela to expect apologies from her almost 24/7. But it’s especially rich coming from her at this moment.

She stands firm in her decision. “I will not apologize. But I am willing to talk.”

Abuela is obviously taken aback, but continues. “Bien. Talk.”

She takes a breath. “I know you’re mad at me; and I know you’ll never see things the way I do. But we need to put our differences aside. For Antonio.”

At her words, Abuela shakes her head. “I am not mad at you, mi nieta. I just wish you would not push the boundaries so often. This family’s name is a sacred one, and as the candleholder, it is my job to protect it; to protect you and your sisters and your cousins. Do you understand?”

She so badly wants to argue, to fight back until she gets a real, true apology out of Abuela. But she realizes quickly how tired she is, and instead, she nods defeatedly. “I guess I understand.”

“Good. You are very important to me, Mirabel. But there are limits that must not be crossed.” 

Abuela stands to leave and Mirabel wants to cry. It’s one thing for Abuela to dismiss her completely, but another to deliver some half-baked apology and act as if everything is fixed. After all, she tries as hard as possible to stand up for herself, but there is only so much she can say. Abuela simply will not understand; she’s made that clear enough.

She hates to be back here, sitting helplessly in the nursery with nothing to do but sulk, and she certainly wishes she had said more. But after years of fighting back, her ambition to argue has faded completely and she cannot summon the energy to do much else.

Mirabel does not show up to dinner that night. 

————————————————————————

She realizes much too late that she’s left her canvas bag at Marty’s house. It really is a huge disappointment, considering she’d been in the middle of embroidering a bright, multicolored butterfly into its side, and now she might never get the chance to finish. It also doesn’t feel great that she’s lost the only friend she’s ever had.

She spends the day, then, writing. Sometimes at Marty’s she would dabble in poetry and a bit of songwriting, which proved to be quite difficult with the lack of any musical instruments. She would usually only create silly songs, anyway, that she’d sing to Manny and have stuck in her head the following day. They were forgotten soon after.

Now, she is not sure what she’s writing. It’s mostly phrases woven into a rhyme that have been circulating in her head for years and she now feels inclined to write down on paper.  Somehow they turn into a sort of poem and she writes more.

She even writes a letter to Marty that she does not intend to send.

It is almost 9:00 when Julieta knocks on her door again. The last thing she wants is to be scolded or be forced to fake an apology for the hundredth time that day, but she does not have the heart to deny her mother’s entry, so she allows it.

She is carrying a plate of arepas with a fragile smile on her face when she sits down next to Mirabel.

“Eat something, mi vida.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“I don’t recall asking if you were hungry.”

Her mother’s tone is light and it’s clearly a joke, but Mirabel does not laugh. Reluctantly, she takes the arepa con queso from her mother and holds it between her fingers.

“What are you doing, hiding up here?”

“I can’t go down there, Mamá. Not yet,” she responds, forcing herself to take a bite of her food. It is delicious, as always, but she is rather nauseous.

“Why not? The sun has already set. All we are doing is listening to Papi play.”

It’s one of Mirabel’s favorite things to do, actually; listen to her father play the piano. Despite his clumsiness and reputation for getting into rather tricky situations, he simply excels at his piano-playing, and he even makes it look easy. When she was little, Mirabel tried to learn how to play but simply was not focused enough to take it very far. It still did not change her love for the art, however, and she would sit on top of the piano while her father played late into the night, smiling the whole time. Even to this day, she will request songs for him and loves listening to him play them almost effortlessly the first time.

She sighs. “I don’t want to ruin it.”

“Ruin it? Disparates. He wants you to hear.”

“And I want to listen. But I don’t—I don’t want to cause any more trouble than I already have. I know I made everything awkward.”

Julieta grabs her daughter’s hand, shaking her head. “It will only be awkward if you make it awkward. We all missed you, mi amor. So much. And I know that for a fact. Antonio has been sleeping in Tía Pepa’s room because he can’t sleep in the nursery without you.”

She chuckles softly. “He’ll have his own room next week. He’d better start practicing sleeping alone.”

“It wasn’t a matter of sleeping alone. It was a matter of knowing you weren’t in the house at all, let alone there with him in the nursery. And Camilo—I don’t think Camilo made a joke the entire time you were gone. Do you know that?”

“That’s pretty hard to believe,” she admits.

“I know. But it’s true! Camilo was so angry at Abuela for saying those things to you that he barely spoke for three weeks. And your father and I didn’t show up for dinner, just like you tonight. We were so worried about you, we couldn’t even stand to go to dinner without you. Even Tío Félix sat by the phone, waiting for somebody to call and tell us they had found you.” Julieta strokes her daughter’s hand. “You see? Everybody is on your side, Mirabel.”

“Not Isabela.”

She sighs. “Maybe not. But the rest of us are thrilled to have you back. I understand if you want to spend tonight alone, but I hope you will join us tomorrow. You are more than welcome. Do you understand?”

It takes a lot for Mirabel to believe any reassurance that comes from her family, but somehow her mother’s words are comforting and register in her mind as true. She nods. “I understand. I just don’t—I don’t know what to do about Abuela.”

She appears concerned at the statement. “Did she apologize to you? I told her to apologize.”

“Yes, but…that’s the issue, Mamá. I know she would not have said a thing if you hadn’t told her to, and that’s—that’s how I know that not a thing was resolved. We are still going to clash and she is still going to blame me for everything, and—I just don’t know if I can handle it,” she explains.

Julieta’s face shows understanding and it is refreshing to Mirabel. “Abuela has not been fair to you; I know she hasn’t. And I’m sorry I told her to apologize rather than letting her do it herself. As a healer, sometimes I feel like it’s my responsibility to fix everything, even if it cannot be fixed. And I think, in this case, you and Abuela need to work through your differences without my interference. But I promise I will be there for you if she crosses any more lines that should not be crossed. What she said to you crossed every line, and I’m so sorry I didn’t see that sooner.”

Mirabel almost feels a wave of relief wash over her at her mother’s words. For once, she understands and she is promising to change. The lack of change has been so discouraging that a weight feels like it’s been lifted from her shoulders, but is placed back on when she considers the possibility of the words being hollow and meaningless like usual. “It isn’t your fault. I just—I don’t know how to get along with her.”

“I don’t know, either, mi amor. But what I can tell you is…I think you two disagree so much because you are so alike.” Mirabel’s face is priceless, and Julieta chuckles. “I am serious! I think your personalities are more similar than you realize, so you know how to push each other’s buttons.”

Julieta pokes Mirabel’s stomach along with her words and she laughs.

“So,” she begins again with a smile. “What do I do?”

Julieta thinks for a moment before responding. “Just don’t press her buttons.”

It’s the weakest advice she’s ever heard and Mirabel is almost irked. “But the issue comes when she presses mine. All my life, I’ve had to tiptoe around her and she just—she walks all over me. Not to mention, I have no gift, and no way to make up for everything she blames me for. I know she is disappointed in me.”

“Now, don’t say that,” her mother says with a furrowed brow. “She is not disappointed in you. But I do think she takes things out on you without realizing. My advice is to not let it bother you.”

Mirabel almost wants to cry. Is that not what she has been doing her entire life? She’s tried not to let Abuela bother her every day since she turned five. To have her mother explain this as if it is some foreign concept is a kick to the knees, as if Mirabel has not suffered enough.

Julieta continues. “I know it’s easier said than done. But if you run off every time Abuela acts like she often does, she will never learn and she will never stop. She’ll only get more angry. If you just…try your best not to make her upset and not to let it get to that point, you might be able to avoid so many screaming matches, yes?”

She understands where her mother is coming from, but the advice is painfully hollow and Mirabel refuses to accept it. “You’re saying I should pretend to be someone I’m not so that Abuela will like me.”

“I’m not saying that at all. I’m saying that—well, I know you know how to provoke her. You and Abuela can get along if you try your best to appease her, just for now.”

She knows she will get nowhere if she tries arguing with her mother and, frankly, she has had enough arguing for one day. But it does weigh her down a bit, the thought that the only solution even her mother could come up with is to sit back and take it. What a cruel lesson to teach your youngest daughter.

“How long is ‘for now?’”

It’s a valid question, in Mirabel’s opinion. In her mind, she’s been trying to appease her grandmother since her fifth birthday when everything became ruined; is it so wrong to wonder when it will end?

Julieta strokes her daughter’s curls. “Just until you go off on your own one day. I know you’re capable of doing anything you desire, mi amor. It’s just a matter of when Abuela sees that.”

It’s not a satisfying answer, but one she knows will have to live with; as always, she has little to no choice. While her mother is trying to be helpful, it’s only coming off as unintentionally placing the blame on her again, and it truly does sink her heart a bit. After she had stood up for her only hours earlier, was Mirabel wrong to expect more from her mother? 

She sighs exhaustedly and sinks into her mother’s embrace. She is obviously not going to be able to change her mother’s advice, and she is tired of talking about it. “Can I ask you something?”

“Anything, mi corazón.”

She hesitates, mentally debating whether it is an appropriate or even a safe topic to bring up. “Do you think I was wrong? To be mad at Marty?”

Her answer does not come right away, and Mirabel finds herself holding her breath.

She speaks quietly. “I don’t know him well. But I know he kept you safe and happy if you stayed there with him for three weeks. That is respectable in itself.”

Of course Mirabel agrees, but it isn’t what she asked and it is highly displeasing.

“I can’t tell you whether you were in the wrong, or whether you should be friends with him. What I can say is that he has gotten you into a lot of trouble. But he’s also given a lot to you, and I can tell he cares about you deeply, and you him. So I think, in the end, it is up to you to decide whether that care and devotion outweighs all the trouble.”

Mirabel ponders her mother’s response. It makes a lot of sense and every word of it is true; the issue is the matter of deciding whether he truly is worth the trouble.

She decides it is too late to make such a decision, and her mother’s presence is more important. So she sighs. “Mami?”

“Yes, Mirabel?”

“What if Antonio doesn’t get a gift?”

She can tell her mother is taken aback by the question but, clearly, has still been expecting it. She pulls away from her daughter but is still holding her hand. “Then…I guess you’ll have a roommate for a few more years. That’s not so bad, is it, cariño?”

“No, I guess it isn’t.” She’s smiling now, uneasily. Although it’s an attempt to make her feel better, it falls short because Mirabel knows that she will be the one to blame if such a thing happens. “And if he does?”

Her response takes longer, as if it requires more calculating on Julieta’s part of what to say that will fulfill her daughter. Mirabel almost braces herself, but it is needless.

“And if he does, I’ll make Papá renovate your room. Okay?”

She chuckles a bit at the image of her clumsy father on a ladder, painting her walls, and she allows herself to smile. Oh, how she misses her father, though, and she truthfully wishes he were here right now instead of her mother. For her Papá’s whole life he has allowed himself to be skeptical of the Madrigals and not sit back and take their questionable treatment like Mirabel knows she is expected to do. It’s tricky, however; her options are to either disobey her mother and stand up to Abuela, or disappoint herself by allowing herself to be subject to such treatment. 

She misses her father greatly now. Surely he would know what to do. 

Julieta leaves the nursery then and Mirabel is alone with her thoughts. It is not necessarily a good thing, but it’s better than having to listen to one more phony apology or another dissatisfying piece of advice. 

Alone now, she falls asleep even on the uncomfortably small bed within minutes and does not even hear Antonio sneak in late.

————————————————————————

Chapter Text

When Mirabel awakes the next morning it is somehow much earlier than she would normally wake up at Marty’s, and it’s slightly jarring. The sun comes streaming in through the window of the nursery and blinds her, so she has no choice but to sit herself up and start the day, whatever that may entail.

On the bed across the room lays Antonio, still sound asleep and unbothered. Mirabel remembers barely sleeping in the days leading up to her gift ceremony; she’s glad things are different for him, although he has more to worry about. She resents her family and, somehow, herself for causing him such distress before his big day.

“Toñito,” she whispers, her voice groggy and hoarse. Her primito is tangled up in his blankets and somehow has ended up laying sideways in the night. Despite the early hour, it’s an adorable sight and Mirabel smiles. “Antonio, wake up.”

He stirs a bit, rubbing his eyes instinctually.

“How’d you sleep, pequeñuelo?”

Antonio is unconcerned about the question and much more interested in the presence of his older cousin. He is suddenly awake and alert, running and jumping onto Mirabel’s bed. She laughs like she hasn’t laughed in weeks and pulls him into her arms, squeezing him tightly.

“You must have gone to sleep late last night! After your bedtime, huh?”

“I wanted to see you,” says Antonio, his face still buried into her shoulder. “But Mamá told me to be quiet ‘cause you were sleeping.”

“You could’ve woken me up, Toñito. I wouldn’t have minded.”

She is smiling ear to ear and, if she could see his face, she is sure her cousin is doing the same. “I missed you, Mira!”

“I missed you too. So much,” she says quietly, hiding the dejected inflection in her voice.

In truth, Mirabel does not feel bad for leaving. She does not feel bad for hiding away and she does not feel bad for yelling at Abuela, and she absolutely feels no remorse for refusing to come home. But after everything, Mirabel still hates herself for leaving Antonio without telling him she would be back. What a cruel thing to do to a child, especially one as important to her as Antonio.

He does not seem to mind much which breaks her heart even more.

“Where did you go, anyway?”

Mirabel knows her response is a crucial one, and she does not want to confuse the child. So she pulls away from their embrace and places her hands on his shoulders gently. “Well…what did they tell you?”

His eyes are still wide with curiosity.

(Oh, how Mirabel has missed those eyes).

Antonio thinks for a minute before landing on an answer. “Papá told me you went to go exploring. And Mami said you were just traveling the world and you’d be back soon. But you were gone an awfully long time, Mira.” 

For once, she is grateful to her tía and tío, that they didn’t tell Antonio the truth about where she was or the fact that nobody knew. She nods her head solemnly. “I know. And I’m sorry. I wanted to come back sooner, but—well, something got in the way.”

“Was it Abuela?”

His question almost startles her. Obviously she had not been expecting such a blunt inquiry from the young child, but the fact that his assumption is correct is even more jarring. She is simply stunned and calculating a response is a struggle.

At last she clears her throat. “What—um, what do you mean, Toñito?”

“I heard that she was mad at you. If Abuela was mad at me, I think I’d stay away, too. She’s pretty scary.”

Mirabel chuckles. “Abuela isn’t scary.”

“Yes she is!” Antonio laughs back in glee. “Her eyes glow in the dark.”

“No they don’t!” It’s refreshing to laugh with her cousin again, she will admit, especially at her abuela’s expense. She knows it is wrong, but Antonio’s opinion has been formed from Abuela’s actions herself, and agreeing with him surely is not against her morals. She decides this quickly. “Abuela is only scary if you let her scare you.”

He appears a bit confused as his head tilts slightly. “So, why did you stay away for so long?”

Mirabel presses her lips together. “Because I let her scare me. And that’s my fault.”

“No, it’s not!” Antonio protests, determination now apparent in his furrowed brow. “She yelled at you. On your birthday.”

It’s a slightly awkward time, but Mirabel smiles a bit. “How did you know it was my birthday?”

His cheeks redden as if he’s been caught doing something he isn’t supposed to. “I heard Tía Julieta and Tío Agustín whispering about it. I was gonna make you a card, but you left.”

“That’s okay,” she assures him. “We haven’t celebrated my birthday in years. And, yes, you’re right. Abuela did yell at me. That’s why I decided I needed some time away for a while. It’s okay to need some time away from your family, you know.”

“It is?” He appears genuinely curious. “I thought you were s’posed to talk about it if somebody makes you mad.”

She smiles because, truly, Antonio is a lot smarter than she gives him credit for. “That’s good, too. But if somebody is treating you unfairly, it’s okay to want some time alone. It’s okay to stay in your room for a few hours, or even a few days.”

“Even if it’s Abuela?”

“Especially if it’s Abuela.” It’s weighing down on Mirabel that she is having this conversation with her Toñito, but she remembers back to when she was his age and she wishes somebody had given her this talk. She owes it to him, especially if Abuela’s abuse continues once she is gone. “Just because they’re your family doesn’t mean you have to sit back and take it. Okay?”

Antonio hesitates before nodding his head. His lips have melded into a frown as he focuses on Mirabel’s face. “Camilo pulls my hair.”

Mirabel laughs. “Then pull his hair back! Let him know he can’t just get away with it.”

“And then he’ll stop?”

The smile is wiped completely off Mirabel’s face at the reality of her decided answer. “Maybe not. But at least he’ll know that his actions are hurting you. From then on, it’s a test of his character, whether he stops pulling your hair or continues when he knows it hurts you.”

Antonio considers her words carefully; his little gears are visibly turning and she realizes she may have given him too much information at once. He must have reached a conclusion, however, because then he smiles and jumps off the small bed.

“Come on, Miraboo. Let’s get breakfast.”

It pains her to ignore his outstretched hand, but she shakes her head. “I’m not too hungry. You go on without me and I’ll join you soon.”

The young boy smiles and nods, then bounding out the door and down the stairs. His footsteps echo all the way down to the bottom, where he is greeted by a friendly ‘good morning, mi cariño.’ The voice sounds like Abuela’s, though it’s patient and understanding and not one Mirabel is used to.

She feels a familiar pang in her heart and she shuts the nursery door.

————————————————————————

For the first time in Mirabel’s life, she realizes just how boring la casa Madrigal is.

It’s always been the people, she supposes, who make her days interesting and not unbearably monotonous like today is proving to be. She is not too keen on the people in the house right now, however, so she stays in the nursery and bores herself to death.

Without her canvas bag, she quickly decides a new project is due to start, although determining what that will be exactly is the tricky part. She considers embroidering something onto the nightgown she is already wearing before she realizes that she is not, in fact, wearing a nightgown.

She is still in an outfit of Marty’s. Apparently she had forgotten to change the night before, or had passed out so early that a change of clothes had never even occurred to her. Either way, she cannot embroider on clothes that are not hers, so she searches through her drawers for something else.

The majority of her clothes she has already worked on, whether she’s sewn dozens of different patterns and words onto its fabric, or just a few threads here and there. The drawer containing her skirts is packed full, however, and she is determined to find something plain that she can use to start fresh.

She digs through each and every skirt until, at last, she finds one. The particular skirt is completely black, which is why she’s never worn it, she suspects. Most of her skirts are cool blues and purples and indigos with colorful stitches scattered on every square inch, solely because those are the colors her parents and sisters wear, and growing up she always looked up to them so dearly. Things changed rather quickly, however, and she did not have time to buy or make skirts of new colors, so although her adoration has certainly faded, she still remains in these colors.

Except for the one fresh canvas she holds in her hands.

If she remembers correctly, she received this lone black skirt two years ago as a gift from Señora Morales down the street. Her daughter was planning to move with her fiancé off to a new town not too far from theirs, and she had boxes upon boxes full of clothes she’d outgrown in previous years. Mirabel had been just thirteen then and the skirt had been a bit too long and tripped her with each step; it didn’t really matter, anyhow, because Abuela forced her to shove it to the bottom of her drawer, claiming it did not fit in with the apparel of la familia Madrigal.

She had never really batted an eye to the situation because she always preferred wearing brighter colors anyway. Now, however, Mirabel thinks it is time to wear what she wants, so she irons the skirt and prepares the most colorful threads she can find.

Her family can have their own clothes embroidered with symbols representing their gifts, but this skirt will be Mirabel’s.

She starts with her name, just like she’d done with her bag. Her favorite blue striped skirt has her name as well, so with as much practice as she has, she flies right through her name and moves onto little symbols and pictures that represent herself and only herself.

She uses bright green thread and embroiders an image of her glasses first.

As a child, she would beg her mother to heal her vision because none of the other kids in the village wore glasses; Julieta would have to calmly explain that she could only heal injuries and illness, and Mirabel would cry until she made herself sick. Sometimes she would be called “four-eyes,” by Isabela, and while it was usually in good nature, it didn’t help to have another trait that made her the outsider of the family.

One day Agustín sat her down on her bed to have a talk. She had recently begun refusing to wear her glasses, even stumbling into walls and falling down stairs, all because she was embarrassed of the green frames she wore. But then her father told her that he’d felt the same way when he was younger, and the only way he got over his embarrassment was by embracing it; he would go around pretending his glasses gave him mind-reading abilities, or that he had supervision because of them. Mirabel began to do the same and she suddenly was no longer embarrassed at all.

She’s too old for pretending now, but her glasses are still one of her favorite accessories, so she decides they deserve a place on her skirt.

She adds a few butterflies here and there as well as simple patterns like stripes and loops, and she sews flowers onto the sides and along the bottom. She leaves the center open for future ideas.

It’s around lunchtime when her mother pokes her head in Mirabel’s door, asking her yet again to come and join them at the table for a meal. She refuses, claiming once again that she is not hungry, though she barely lifts her eyes from the thread she is sewing onto the fabric. She stops by her room again by dinner and Mirabel, again, refuses.

She finds a plate left outside her door only a few minutes later in both cases. At least her mother recognizes that she is not ready to rejoin the family quite yet. Her project is much more important.

Next she embroiders a picture of her accordion. She taught herself how to play it, mostly, when she was around ten years old. Somebody had gifted it to Isabela for her birthday, who had promptly thrown it on the ground and forgotten about it, so Mirabel picked it up discreetly, buffed out all the scratches, and began to play. She was awful at first; she’s sure Dolores wanted to murder her for the first few weeks of learning. But a sweet old widowed lady named Señora Ramos saw her carrying it around town one day and offered to teach her on weekends. It became her favorite hobby within days.

It’s getting late, so Mirabel changes into a nightgown and starts another symbol. It begins as a few vines, dark green and woven all around her skirt, and soon turns into an entire garden scattered about. She even adds in the gardening boots she’d borrowed each time she and Marty had gone to plant new flowers or vegetables or to water the ones they’d already planted. It’s a nice reminder of the hobby she’d recently picked up, although she doubts Pepa will let her help with the gardening now if she hadn’t before.

She is not quite finished when Antonio bursts through the door of the nursery with a grin plastered on his face. She knows this mood he’s in; he’ll act as if he has all the energy in the world and pass out within minutes. Nonetheless, he is excited to see her.

“Where were you at dinner?” he immediately questions, sitting next to her.

She smiles at the young boy, snipping the piece of thread in her hand. “I’ve been working on something. Do you want to see?”

He nods enthusiastically as Mirabel gathers her skirt and holds it taut. Antonio’s eyes turn wide as he examines the project and all its various colors and designs.

“You made that?”

She smiles, proudly. “Yep. I embroidered it.”

“That’s amazing! I wish I could do that!” He stares in wonder at the work Mirabel has done so far, running his tiny fingers along the threads and seams.

She smiles. “Thank you, Toñito. I’ve been working on it all day.”

“No wonder you didn’t come to dinner! Are you gonna wear it tomorrow?”

She ruffles his hair gently and lays the skirt along the top of the dresser next to her bed. “No. I’ll still be working on it tomorrow.”

“It isn’t finished?” questions Antonio.

“Nope. I still have so many ideas! But once I’m finished, I’ll wear it. Maybe I can embroider something for you, too.”

In truth, she already made him an adorable little stuffed animal months ago in preparation for his gift ceremony, but she will not spoil the surprise so she keeps her mouth shut.

For some reason Antonio shakes his head. “I want to do it.“

Her heart melts a bit. “You want me to teach you instead?”

“Yeah! I want to inbroider like you!”

She has to hold back a laugh at his mispronunciation, but squeezes him tightly. “Okay, hombrecito. I’ll teach you and we can do it together. How does that sound?”

Antonio is ecstatic at the idea and begins to bounce up and down on the small mattress, nearly sending himself flying. Mirabel only chuckles at his joy, but secretly wonders if her primito will still be so excited after he has a gift of his own next week.

“Now, I think it’s about your bedtime.”

It’s a miracle Antonio does not protest as he usually does. He just meanders back to his own bed and wraps himself up in the covers, yawning as he does so.

Mirabel knows the drill. Although she’s been gone a while, she does not expect much to have changed, so she stands from her bed and heads over to meet Antonio by his.

He giggles as she approaches him. “Tuck me in, Mira.”

“You’re actually asking?” she questions, incredulously. “You’re not going to make me tickle you tonight?”

He remains grinning ear to ear. “Nope.”

“You’re growing up too fast,” she informs him with a bittersweet smile. Mirabel tightens the covers around him and pulls them up higher so that he is covered from the neck down. Then she gives him a kiss of the forehead. “Buenas noches, Antonio. Te amo.”

“I love you too, Miraboo,” he giggles.

She’s been tucking him in for as long as he’s been sleeping in the nursery. It used to be a rotation—Pepa would do it some nights, Abuela others, sometimes Félix and other times her—but eventually Antonio started asking for Mirabel every night. Occasionally he would even refuse to sleep until his prima would give him a kiss on the forehead.

As he got older, he began to tease her some nights, pretending he was tired and then changing his mind and telling her he would not be sleeping that night. She’d tickle him then and he’d laugh until his stomach ached, and that would tire both of them out just enough.

She isn’t sure how long it takes Antonio to fall asleep this time because she, herself, is out like a light within minutes. The room is dark and quiet, and so content that Mirabel should have no problem sleeping through the night.

The problem arises when she is awoken by the sound of rocks being thrown at the window only hours later.

————————————————————————

It’s either very late or very early. Mirabel can’t tell which one for sure.

The clock appears blurry, which she later realizes is because she had not put on her glasses before attempting to read it, and she does not have a clue of the time except that it is not a time she would particularly like to be awake.

It’s startling, to say the least. Her first instinct is to wonder where the mysterious noise is coming from, as it is sporadic but seemingly desperate. She sits up in her bed and checks on Antonio, who still appears to be sleeping soundly, before looking closely at the source of the noise. It does not happen again for a few minutes, but when it does, it makes Mirabel jump.

They’re only stones and pebbles, but she does not know who is throwing them and why they are being thrown, and she is utterly frightened. Finally she fumbles around for her glasses on the nightstand and shoves them onto her face, standing and rushing to the window.

Casita opens the window automatically and, despite every instinct in her body telling her not to, Mirabel sticks her head out the window and looks for the source of the disturbance.

“Mirabel!”

Okay. Not exactly who she was expecting.

Her grogginess is diminished immediately at the sight of him. “Marty?”

“Lo siento. Did I wake you?”

She has truly never wanted to kill him more than in this moment. “Of course you woke me! Why are you throwing rocks at my house?”

“I need to talk to you.” He’s certainly gotten a lot more assertive lately, although he still stands awkwardly down below with his handful of rocks.

“And it couldn’t have possibly waited until morning?” Mirabel snaps, grasping the window sill.

“No—No, not exactly.”

She groans, backing away and running a hand through her messy hair. “How did you even know which room I was in?”

He is smiling now. “Casita showed me.”

The window gives a quick shrug before returning to its stagnant position. Mirabel almost rolls her eyes.

“Look, I’m sorry, Marty, but it’s the middle of the night. We can talk in the morning.” She is speaking firmly now, hoping to convey that she is unwilling to falter.

“Please, Mirabel.”

“You’re going to wake Antonio.”

“Please. It’s Manny.”

She pauses at the mention of the other young boy she’s grown so fond of and looks back at Marty.

He continues now with difficulty. “He’s really sick. He’s, uh, he’s been asking for you.”

It’s not even a decision to her anymore. She is willing to put off a conversation with Marty until the morning because she knows he will understand; but if Manny is asking for her specifically and he is as ill as Marty has made him out to be, she has no choice. This cannot wait until morning.

She sighs and looks around the small nursery. Antonio is somehow still asleep, which Mirabel is grateful for, and casita is beginning to rattle a few floor tiles and shoving shoes onto her feet, urging her to go. Before leaving, she grabs an arepa off her dinner plate which has remained uneaten.

Finally, Mirabel nods, and casita hoists her out through the window, carefully setting her on the ground next to Marty.

She is still in her nightgown but does not care. The moment her feet touch the ground, the two of them are off running in the direction of la casa Villegas, their path completely unlit. It’s lucky Mirabel knows her way around the pueblito so well, or else they might very well end up lost or hurt.

They arrive in record time, both winded and sore, and Mirabel is the first to enter through the front door. The first thing she sees is Esteban in the kitchen, filling up a small cup with water from the sink. He is smiling but not nearly as lively as usual. She supposes it has something to do with the fact that he is awake in the middle of the night.

“Ay, Mirabel,” he says once she steps further into the house. “So good to see you, chica.”

She smiles, and Marty enters behind her. “Good to see you too. Where’s Manny?”

He nods his head in the direction of the hallway. “Still in his room. He’ll be glad to see you’re here.”

She heads down the hallway immediately at his words and finds the young boy’s room, the first door on the right. As she peers in, she notices that his bed is about the size of hers, but he is more the size of Antonio. At any rate, he looks absolutely ghostly.

Somehow, still, his face lights up at her presence. “Mirabel!”

She so badly wants to smile at him, but he just looks so miserable cooped up in his room. “Hola, Manny. Are you alright, pequeñuelo?”

“I don’t know,” he says to her. His eyes appear to have a certain sadness in them, and it reminds Mirabel of her primito the night before. “I think I’m sick.”

She nods. “I know. What hurts?”

“My stomach.”

Marty is standing still, only a few feet behind her, as she talks to his brother softly. “Just your stomach?”

“I’m kind of cold. And—my head really hurts, I think.”

She turns to Marty, who appears more concerned than Manny is himself. “He can’t keep anything down, and…he keeps waking us up, crying. We don’t know why. Papi’s tried everything.”

Mirabel turns back to face Manny, taking a few steps closer to the bed on which he is laying. “I’m sorry you’re not feeling well.”

He only smiles back at her. “Say it again. About the frog tail. And a kiss to make it better.”

It takes a moment to register what he’s said, but Mirabel eventually understands what it is he wants and why he asked for her in the first place. She chuckles. “I’m not sure it will help much this time. But I do have something for you.”

There is a bit more life in his eyes as she says this. Manny sits up higher against the pillows stacked behind him as Mirabel pulls out the arepa she’s brought for him.

Manny’s expression turns sour almost immediately. “I’m not hungry.”

“I know. But it will make you feel better.”

His eyes are welling up with tears now; it’s clear he and the rest of the family have not slept for a while, and the effects are finally catching up to the young boy in this moment. “I don’t want it.”

“Manny,” intervenes Marty, taking a step towards the pair. “Listen to Mirabel. She’s trying to help.”

“No!” He suddenly throws a pillow at the girl standing in front of him, which Mirabel dodges. “I don’t want it!”

Stress is clearly adding onto Marty’s exhaustion, and he sighs. “Calm down, hermanito. I know you’re in pain.”

The child is sobbing now, grasping the thin sheets on his bed with all the strength he can muster. The sight is like a fist squeezing Mirabel’s heart, and she’s not sure how much of it she can handle.

She turns to Marty, who is also close to tears. “Lo siento, Mirabel. I shouldn’t have asked you to—I’m sorry.”

She shakes her head, turning back to Manny who is still in distress. “You must be so tired, hombrecito.”

He continues crying, proving Mirabel is correct.

“You know, my mamá made this just for you.”

His tears have begun to slow now and he is a bit interested in what she has to say. Marty also seems quite curious, although his side-eye is discreet. Mirabel just hums with a smile, holding out the arepa con queso. “Just take one bite. It will make you feel so much better, and you’ll be asleep in no time.”

He is obviously still skeptical, but she’s gained his trust enough in the past few weeks that she’s managed to convince him. The young boy takes the arepa in his hands and looks to Marty, who nods in approval.

At last, he takes a bite, and Mirabel and Marty hold their breath.

He takes another bite after that one, and eventually he’s finished the whole thing with a smile on his face.

Mirabel is admittedly relieved. “How do you feel?”

Manny thinks for a moment, blinking his eyes. “Your mamá is a good cook.”

Mirabel chuckles a bit, while Marty is still standing uneasily. “Do you feel any better, hermanito?”

“I’m tired,” he then responds, a yawn unwillingly interrupting the phrase. “But my stomach feels better.”

“I told you,” she says with a grin. “I’m glad you’re feeling better. But it’s late; you should be asleep. And I should be getting home.”

“Not yet!” Manny interrupts, suddenly sitting up a bit in his bed. “Stay here. Until I fall asleep.”

Mirabel eyes Marty, who is wearing a guilty smile. It’s obviously a common practice for him to sit with his brother late into the night. Of course it’s different tonight; for one, Mirabel is there with them, and poor Manny had also been miserably sick only minutes earlier.

“Please?”

Even before his plea, she would not have had the heart to tell him no. So she nods and takes a seat on the small rocking chair that sits next to his bed. It’s pokey and uncomfortable, but she doesn’t mind too much.

Marty sits next to his brother on the bed and his eyes are closed in the dark room. It’s clear he has a lot he wants to say, but the setting and time is not correct, so he sits there in silence, waiting for Manny to fall asleep.

He’s out in a mere ten minutes. Marty whispers his name and releases a sigh of relief when he does not respond. “ Finally. Gracias, Mirabel.”

She does not respond; only sits in silence. She is still a bit wary of Marty after the incident and, truthfully, she is unsure of how to act now that they are alone. In all her time in the nursery over the past two days, she’s done a lot of useless thinking, as no conclusion has been reached in all that time.

On one hand, she is still furious with Marty for forcing her back into the circumstances she’d spent three weeks crying to him about and hiding from. She would never admit it, but she resents him now almost as much as she resents herself, and would certainly take an opportunity to scream at him if one were to arise.

On the other hand, she had lied to him. She’d lied to his face after he’d been so good to her, and she can’t say she wouldn’t have run and told his family if the situation were flipped. But it’s a struggle to get past the notion that it’s his fault everybody is so mad at her, and his fault she’s spending her days alone in the nursery.

Then again, her family has always treated her poorly. She supposes it’s time for her to realize that nothing has or ever will change that, and that isn’t Marty’s fault.

She still has no idea what time it is, but exhaustion is starting to overtake her now, too. She stands from the chair and turns to Marty. “I should go.”

He joins her on his feet, though he appears uneasy. “I’ll walk you home.”

She does not have the will or the energy to argue, so she exits the room with dragging feet and Marty follows, gently shutting the door behind them.

The living room is jarringly bright as Esteban has flipped on every light in the house. Mirabel squints as she makes her way forward, and it does nothing to help her heavy eyelids.

Marty smiles at his father. “He’s asleep.”

“Gracias a Dios. How did you two do it?”

It’s quite obvious that Marty is avoiding eye contact with her, but he blushes. “It was all Mirabel.”

“Quite the healer, are you?” questions Esteban. He smiles fondly at the tired girl, who somehow musters the strength to smile back, however weak it ends up being. “His mother was, too.”

She doesn’t respond as she isn’t sure what to say. She remembers Marty telling her all about his mother and her heart breaks each time she is mentioned; what a tragic loss in the family, and yet they have managed to remain close-knit and warm, unlike her own family.

Esteban yawns. “Will you two be up for a while? The kettle’s still hot, if you want tea.”

Marty nods, though he has disappeared down the hallway before either of them have time to respond. It’s awkward now; she stands with her hands unintentionally balled into fists and he is looking around the room at anything but Mirabel’s eyes.

She suddenly hates that it’s gotten to this point.

Marty turns to her after a while. “Do you, uh, do you want…”

She considers the comfort of her own bed, the warmth of her covers, and how tired she is standing there next to him. But she also considers how much she’s missed this place, and how she’d rather be welcome here again. There are more important things, she decides, than her bed.

Her eyes land on the steaming kettle. “Actually, I would like some tea.”

————————————————————————

Now it’s incredibly awkward.

Mirabel and Marty are sitting adjacent on the couch, holding mugs of black and green jasmine tea, respectively. It’s too hot to drink and neither of them is quite sure what to say or do, so they simply sit in silence, staring at various portions of the wall or the floor or the mugs themselves.

It’s Marty who finally speaks up.

“Thank you,” he says quietly. “For everything.”

She still refuses eye contact but relaxes a bit. “All I did was give him an arepa. You should be thanking my mamá.”

“No, it’s—it’s more than that. I mean, you were so mad at me. And you still—in the middle of the night, you still helped me.”

She wraps her fingers tighter around the warm mug. “I’m a Madrigal. Whether my family sees that or not, I am. And that’s what la familia Madrigal does; we help people.”

He furrows his brows, now turning a bit more to face her. “But you shouldn’t have to.”

“It doesn’t really matter, anyway.” Her voice is dull and void of emotion, although she truthfully does feel rather miserable. “I wasn’t helping you. I was helping Manny.”

He ignores this comment at looks at her delicately. “Are they—I mean, how is it? Back at home?”

“I’d rather not talk about it.” She is putting up a front now, afraid that if she lets herself go,  she will be hurt again.

Marty clearly senses her front and deflates. “Mirabel, I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be,” she says too quickly. “I was bound to go home sooner or later. It was smart on your part to use it as revenge because I lied to you.”

All the color quickly becomes drained from his face. “No. It wasn’t like that at all. I just—I think I just panicked. There were posters everywhere, and—and the man at the bakery asked if I knew where you were.”

“Why didn’t you just talk to me, Marty?”

“Why didn’t you?”  His exasperation is apparent, and he’s more worked up now than Mirabel has ever seen him. “I mean, I still could have helped you somehow. I could have done something else. I could have found somewhere else for you to stay instead of—“

“I didn’t want somewhere else to stay,” she interrupts him, a deep frown forming on her lips. “I wanted to stay here with you.”

She watches as his expression softens almost instantly to one of sympathy and he sighs. “All I did, Mirabel, was show up. Yes, I was going to tell them, and I’m sorry I ever tried. But one of your primas or hermanas or something pulled me outside and told me to keep my mouth shut. So I did.”

Mirabel blinks at this revelation. If he really is telling the truth, he never did what she had accused him of in the first place and perhaps her anger was all for nothing. But if somebody had stopped him before he could say anything…

It must have been Dolores. There is nobody else who could have possibly known why Marty was there, or cared enough to stop him.

It must have also been Dolores who had revealed her location in the end. Mirabel finds herself struggling to be upset with her prima, however, because she’d protected her for so long to begin with. It’s funny, really; she hadn’t been able to forgive Marty this easily.

“So you never told them.”

He shakes his head.

“But you were going to.”

“Yes. And—and I’m sorry. But I promise I never wanted to send you back there. I just—I didn’t know what to do.”

It’s a lousy excuse, she decides, but not one she cares to argue with. It’s far too late, or far too early. Still, she ponders all the information he’s given her so far and continues to stare forward; the steam coming from her cup of tea makes her drowsier than ever.

“There was always something—something about you that seemed different to me. Maybe it was from all my years of growing up with a sister like Isabela, but you seemed…genuine, I think. Like I could trust you, even when I’d just met you. And I did trust you, so when—when you…”

She’s struggling to form the words she’s wished to say to him for so long, and it’s a rather frustrating feeling. She takes a breath and resets.

“I have an awful habit of trusting people too easily. I mean, look at my family. All my life, I’ve trusted them to take care of me, and—and to protect me, so I convinced myself that, if it felt like they weren’t treating me as fairly as my sisters or my cousins, it was only because they were protecting me, and that—that it must have been my fault somehow. Then you came into this town and you told me differently, and there I was, trusting somebody on a whim again. But I swore to myself that this wouldn’t be one of those times, so when everything blew up in my face, it felt—it kind of felt like another personal failure. And you know I’ve had enough of those in my life, so…”

She trails off and it’s awkward again.

Marty is too afraid to speak and Mirabel is too emotional to speak, so again they’re sitting in silence. She takes a brave sip of her tea which has been scalding up until now, and it burns a bit, but it does calm her.

“I guess—I guess what I’m trying to say is that you are literally the only friend I’ve ever had, and you hurt me, whether you meant to or not, so I guess—I’m just angry. With you, with myself, with my family. I’m just angry at the world, I think. And I don’t know how to make it stop, because you’re here and you’re apologizing…and I’m still angry.”

She realizes only afterwards how quickly her words managed to spill out, and how much they exhausted her in the process. She almost deflates after her last word as she waits for a response; it does not take more than a few seconds.

“I think…” begins Marty, cautiously, “that you should be angry. I think it’s good that you’re angry with me because I deserve it. But I’m—I don’t know what else to do, I mean…I’m upset with myself, too, and—and I don’t even know how to talk to you anymore. It’s like I made you lose everything, and now I’m losing everything, too.”

“But that isn’t true, Marty.” Now she’s getting worked up as much as she’s been trying to prevent it. “I mean, you have—you have a family who loves you and your own room, and you have this cute little house and a garden you’re actually allowed to work in, and all of that is still here. What, exactly, did you lose?”

“I lost you, Mirabel. I lost everything.”

This time she does deflate.

“After all of it, I knew you wouldn’t talk to me even if I tried, and I knew it was because I ruined everything for you. And now I just—I hate myself. And you hate me too, and I can’t…I mean—I had friends back in Bolivia, but none like you. And I know—I know I hurt you, I just—I don’t know how…”

He’s stopped talking completely, overtaken by a powerful wave of emotion that brings tears to his eyes. Mirabel is surprised to see it from Marty who, despite a few occasional outbursts, has never outwardly shown such an intense reaction.

She isn’t quite sure what to say or do now as he sits, frozen and unwilling to speak. After a few seconds of contemplation, she sets her half-empty cup of tea on the table directly to her left. She then grabs Marty’s mug from his shaking hands and does the same, standing from the small sofa.

He’s not looking at her anymore, but she grabs his hand and pulls him to his feet next to her with a rather stony look on her face. “Come on,” she says carefully. “I want to show you something.”

————————————————————————

It’s a bit counterintuitive, and Mirabel realizes this as she walks hand-in-hand with Marty to their destination.

Their fallout stemmed from Marty breaking her trust, and Mirabel breaking his; yet, for some reason, the most obvious solution to their issue seems to be trusting him with another one of her secrets for the sake of talking where nobody will find them.

It’s a rather long walk—through the forest and the mud, the dripping trees—and Mirabel’s already tired legs begin to ache. But she continues on and Marty follows, still refusing to speak and refusing to make eye contact, though it isn’t quite as awkward this time. They arrive at the river and Mirabel pulls him down to sit on the mossy rocks next to her. It’s not at all comfortable, but it’s secluded and quiet and she knows it’s right. There is a small breeze and it makes Marty shiver, although Mirabel is used to it and finds it rather comforting.

She takes a few minutes and listens to the small waterfall across the river and the tiny waves that make their way down the rocks. In her mind, it’s a blissful little place that brings her immense peace, although she knows Marty is certainly not at peace. His knees are drawn to his chest and he is still as silent as he was on the walk there.

Finally, Mirabel turns to him with a sigh.

“Dios, Marty, stop crying. You’re gonna hurt yourself.”

She takes a handkerchief from the pocket she sewed onto her skirt months ago and presses it to his cheek, blotting the tears on his flushed face. His arms are still crossed and he’s trembling, although she’s not entirely sure it’s from the breeze anymore.

“You know I don’t hate you.”

He rubs his eyes.

“I don’t think I could ever hate you, really. I mean, take my family. They’ve treated me horribly—they still do—and I’m not sure I could ever hate them, either. There are just some people…”

He’s staring now, into the water and the dark sky, and it’s almost unsettling to see his normally enthusiastic eyes filled with such gloom. Mirabel just wants to shake him out of it, to yell and scream at him until he goes back to his usual lively self; but yelling and screaming has gotten them close to nowhere so far.

So she speaks calmly and softly.

“I’ve always been drawn to this river. I’m not entirely sure why, but something tells me it’s because it’s so secluded from the rest of the town, and—and it’s so peaceful. It’s like nothing can touch me here; like I’m always protected.”

He still says nothing. Mirabel continues.

“I used to sneak out here in the middle of the night, just like we’re doing right now, and just sit and watch the sky for hours and hours. On a few really bad days, I’d fall asleep here and wake up right before sunset; usually I’d be splashed by a wave or the breeze would pick up, and I’d rush back home before anybody even knew. I just…I always found it hard to pull myself away from this place. And the stars…I’m not sure why, but I’ve always loved looking at the stars.”

She can tell he’s listening because his eyes drift up a bit to the sky.

“They’re beautiful. Even the ones that are dimmer or smaller, they still shine, and that’s enough to keep pulling me back here. It’s comforting, I think, watching them time and time again. I mean…these very stars are the same stars that were in the sky last night and they’re the same stars that will be up there tomorrow, because no matter what happens—no matter what I’m dealing with in my life or what happens to those around me—the stars keep burning and the river keeps flowing, and this place stays tranquil and quiet. It’s like…when everything is changing and it’s getting to be overwhelming, at least there’s one thing that always stays the same. Does that—does that make sense?”

For a great while, he still does not say a word, and Mirabel’s heart quickens with each passing second. Here she is, spilling out hundreds of her own thoughts with deep feelings attached to them like the waterfall before them, and Marty is just silent. In fact, it almost irritates her in that short amount of time.

But finally, he speaks.

“The smaller ones are farther away.”

She turns her head to face him in her shock. “Huh?”

He takes a rather slow breath. “You said the small stars still shine. But, you know, maybe they aren’t smaller, they’re just farther away.”

His voice is soft and mellow, and delightful to Mirabel. “I’ve never thought about it like that.”

“And, I mean…from a different perspective, those might be the biggest, brightest stars you’ve ever seen.”

She understands him now, clearer than ever, and her heart melts just a bit in her chest.

“And—and the constellations shift, so…technically the stars change all the time,” he continues. “But I think—I think that’s a good thing.”

She leans a bit closer. “What do you mean?”

It’s a trick to get him talking and it works like a charm.

“Well,” he begins. “That means you get to watch new stars with a new purpose…and if you can handle the stars changing every month, you can handle other changes. Sí?”

She’s almost giddy because finally she’s gotten through to him. It’s a strange realization that Marty’s silence might be worse than any conversation they could be having, but the relief she feels now that he’s finally spoken is immense. Mirabel nearly feels like crying at once because she’s making progress; they are making progress.

“Yes,” she breathes. “Yes. You’re right.”

He’s still staring out into the river, although he is not nearly as tense as before. The breeze seems to be calming him now, too, and there’s a sort of comfortable silence between them. It’s a weight lifted from her shoulders now that she’s able to bask in such a peaceful moment when they hadn’t been on speaking terms only an hour earlier; there is still more to be mended but it’s a promising start.

“The stars really are beautiful.” Except Marty isn’t looking at the sky anymore; he’s looking at Mirabel. “I’ve never noticed it before.”

A blush spreads across her cheeks and she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “Marty, I’m really, really sorry that I lied to you.”

“I know.”

“I put you in a position that you didn’t deserve to be in, and I’m sorry for that, too.”

“You don’t need to apologize, Mirabel,” he interrupts with a dull smile. “I forgave you a while ago.”

She blinks a few times.

He takes another breath. “It was just a tough situation all around, and I know that. I know we both did what we thought was right, and—and I’m not going to hold a grudge against you for that. You’ve gone through so much, even in the time that I’ve known you, so…what I really care about is fixing what’s broken between us so we can focus on fixing your relationship with your family, together. You deserve nothing less, Mirabel. And I’m sorry I ever made you doubt that.”

It’s a rather warm and comforting feeling, knowing she’s been forgiven; still, her stomach is in guilty knots. “Well…thank you. But that doesn’t make lying to you right.”

“And it doesn’t make telling your family right, either. But we can’t change what we did, so why dwell on it? I forgive you, and—and I’m going to make everything up to you somehow. I promise.”

It’s like a weight has been lifted from her chest; like she’s afloat on the river. “Okay. Let’s not dwell on it.”

There is silence again as the river flows in front of them. Marty clears his throat. “I hope—I hope you know that the last thing I wanted to do was hurt you.”

There is something about Marty’s voice that just seems so real to Mirabel, and it’s no wonder she trusted him so quickly in the first place.

“Yeah. I know. And I forgive you, too.”

“Okay.” Marty smiles and his gaze lands back on the river. “But I did hurt you. So I hope you’re still angry at me.”

“I’m still furious with you, Marty.”

“Great, because I’m furious with you, too.”

“Good. So we agree.”

He’s smiling and Mirabel is laughing. It’s surely an optimistic start, while they may have miles to go; it’s almost exciting, starting new.

Another bout of silence falls between them but it’s hopeful this time and Mirabel wants to live in it forever.

“Marty.”

He hums in response.

“For future reference, maybe stop showing up to my house unannounced. It hasn’t been working too well for either of us.”

He smiles. “I don’t know, I thought I might try it a few more times. Maybe sneak in through your window and leave in the middle of the night.”

“As long as you’re prepared to suffer the wrath of Alma Madrigal, please! Be my guest!”

“Sí,” he says with a grimace. “On second thought, maybe it’s better you show up to my house unannounced.”

She smiles. “Yeah. That’s probably best.”

It’s quickly apparent that there is not much else to say or do, so they sit as they are and watch the stars. Heaven knows how long it’s been, as neither of them knew the time to begin with and neither of them particularly cares, and the stars are so captivating that a day might have passed and they wouldn’t have noticed. The breeze seems to calm itself and Mirabel is almost afraid she might fall asleep; she dips her hand in the water when she finds herself dozing off, freezing cold and jarring enough to wake her up.

It’s probably been an hour or so when she finally stands, brushing away the moss and dirt that’s accumulated on her nightgown, and Marty does the same. She leads him back to his house and sees him to the door, where he tiptoes on the creaky floorboards and returns.

“Here,” he says, shoving a handful of fabric in front of him. “You left your fabrics, and Papi washed your skirt. Your bag is in there somewhere, too.”

She considers taking the bundle of her belongings from his hands but shakes her head. “You know what? I’ll be back soon enough.”

His face is red once again. “Are you sure?”

“Come on,” she says with a smile. “You aren’t getting rid of me that easily.”

The walk back home is a long one as Mirabel’s feet and eyelids alike feel rather heavy. It’s dark and warm and all she wants to do is collapse in her bed and sleep as long as possible.

When she finally arrives at the entrance of the large house she is forced to use the front door, as casita has closed the window behind her and refuses to bring her back up that way. It’s not too much of an issue, however, as her family is sleeping soundly and she is small enough that she makes relatively little noise as she tiptoes up the stairs.

Slowly entering the nursery, she now sees that it’s 4:23 in the morning but, somehow, she cannot sleep. So she hides under the covers, turns on the small flashlight she usually uses for reading late at night, and gets to work.

Within an hour, dozens of stars have been embroidered on the black skirt, and Mirabel is sound asleep.

Chapter Text

Dolores knows, because Dolores always knows.

Casita has graciously made her room relatively sound-proof, to the point where she can focus on what she wants to hear when she wants to hear it. It’s a crazy coincidence, really, that she is up so early in the morning and happens to hear her youngest cousin sneaking back into the house through the front door.

Part of her wants to approach Mirabel immediately and question her into oblivion; why is she awake so early and why is she sneaking back in and why had she snuck out in the first place?

She decides against it rather quickly, as she hasn’t seen much of her cousin in recent weeks and she really would prefer not to be the one to run her out of the house again. Of course Dolores has noticed her refusal to show up for meals and her general absence, but as long as she is safe, Dolores does not want to get involved.

It doesn’t stop her from being curious, however.

Mirabel eventually emerges from the nursery only to accompany Antonio to breakfast a few days later. He’s become especially nervous about his upcoming gift ceremony, only two days away now, and his response in turn has been to cling to Mirabel until she cannot breathe. She does not seem to mind it, as she appears to appreciate having a little company up in that old nursery for the last few days she can.

Antonio is really the only one she’s said a word to since she’s gotten back from her little endeavor, with the exception of her mother and, of course, Abuela. Dolores supposes she can’t blame her; she wouldn’t particularly want to speak to her family after such mistreatment in previous years. Still, she wishes her cousin would open up a bit so that Dolores could fully understand what has been going on with her lately.

Mirabel still does not say a word that morning at breakfast and stays in her room for the rest of the day. Dolores certainly notices her tía Julieta sneaking up to the nursery with a plate after every meal, and her discontented sigh each time she is forced to do so. She is exhausted, though her daughter is even more so.

Mirabel sneaks out twice more. Dolores stays awake rather late, listening ; otherwise, she would not have known, and she would not have had such a secret to keep. Still, there were times Dolores had heard Isabela sneak out in their childhood and even times she considered doing so herself, so she supposes it is not much of a task to keep one more piece of information about Mirabel from the family.

Occasionally she hears the same voice as before, now identified as Marty, talking with Mirabel at ungodly hours, though it’s rather faint, leading her to believe they are far away. They talk and they talk, and sometimes they sit in silence. But Mirabel is happy, so again, Dolores leaves it alone.

She hears them one night, though it’s still a bit muffled.

“So, what exactly happens at these gift ceremonies?”

“Well…I’m not entirely sure, actually. The last one was mine.”

It’s true that Mirabel’s was the last of the Madrigal gift ceremonies, and seeing as how there was very little celebration after the fact, she supposes Mirabel would not have any recollection of the events of that night, other than the obvious.

“You don’t remember yours?”

“Oh, I remember mine, and a bit of Camilo’s, I think. But it’s been ten years, so it’s all a little fuzzy.”

Dolores certainly remembers. In her mind, her own gift ceremony is a sort of blur filled with streamers and maracas and an overwhelming urge to cry all night; but she almost remembers Mirabel’s ceremony more vividly than her own. Abuela had sent everybody away as soon as that door had disappeared and Mirabel had run off to the nursery. Of course, it was hard for all of them to see how distraught the youngest Madrigal became that night, along with Abuela panicking and Pepa storming and Bruno suddenly disappearing the next day. She remembers making countless stops to bakery along with tío Agustín and Luisa, who would empty their pockets just to buy her a few polvorosas in hopes she would stop crying for at least a few minutes. Julieta was too busy consoling the poor child to bake her much of anything, so the bakery truly was their saving grace in those first few days.

The situation turned sour rather quickly, however, and Dolores chooses not to remember that part.

“Is Antonio excited?”

“Oh, yeah. And I’m excited for him. I mean, it’s basically the biggest day of his life.”

“The biggest day of his life at age five? You Madrigals need to travel more. Take one bite of fresh cuñapé from Santa Cruz, then you can talk to me about the biggest day of your life.”

Mirabel is laughing, from what Dolores can hear, and she suddenly resents the fact that it’s a foreign sound to her.

“Well, it’s important to him because it’s important to my family. It should be fun, anyway.”

“You think Manny would like it?”

“I think Manny would love it. And I’d like you there, anyway. I never did give you that house tour.”

Gift ceremonies are not fun, at least to Dolores; though Camilo’s was quite a riot, and Julieta made such delicious carne asada for Luisa’s, the fireworks tend to hurt her ears. If she had it her way, each gift reception would be a private affair open only to the family.

She’s never been entirely sure why their miracle has to be on display all day, every day. 

“You’re sure they won’t recognize me?”

“The whole town comes to these ceremonies, Marty. Besides, even if they do recognize you, they’ll be much too busy to do anything about it.”

“Okay…then I’ll be there. And I’ll bring Papi. He’s been bugging me about meeting your family, so maybe this will tide him over for a while.”

A wave of guilt arrives right on schedule at the fact that Dolores has been blatantly eavesdropping this entire time, though it is a rather common occurrence for her. It’s the fact that she hasn’t heard her prima’s voice in days, she supposes, that draws her in; still, there’s a level of privacy she feels the need to maintain for Mirabel’s sake. Somehow, however, she can’t sleep that night.

It’s the morning of Antonio’s ceremony when Mirabel is really talking again, though it’s only in bursts of painfully short sentences when she is spoken to first. The house and town alike are bustling and Dolores is having trouble focusing on her own tasks, let alone keeping tabs on Mirabel, but she knows her prima is keeping herself as distant as possible; she will not falter just yet.

Mirabel sets the table and she gathers the deliveries and she cleans up around the house in silence, stopping only to examine the work she’s done and move on to her next task. If Dolores were to guess, she’d say that Mirabel is getting the tedious work out of the way early, since it’s mainly what she is expected to do without a gift. She also assumes that Mirabel is helping out primarily for Antonio’s sake; otherwise she’d still be in the nursery alone.

It isn’t long before Dolores is being summoned by Abuela into the kitchen and her focus is drawn away from her youngest cousin once again. Instead, she’s listening into the town for when their next deliveries will arrive and who is going to show up early or late, and Mirabel is still off in her own world of silence.

It’s only a few hours later when she hears her prima crying, and suddenly she wishes she’d never stopped listening in the first place.

————————————————————————

So maybe wearing her new black skirt on the day of the ceremony was not the wisest decision, but a little rebellion sure feels damn good, and Mirabel does not regret it a bit.

It’s a purposeful decision, really; it’s not as if she wants to irritate them, but she knows they will all be too distracted to do much of anything, as she had assured Marty only nights before. Plus, she’s rather proud of all the work she’s put into it to make it turn out so bright and colorful, so she decides flaunting it is not such a crime.

The first person to notice—or, at least, bring it up—is the very person she would expect.

“Woah,” says Camilo upon her sight, a teasing smirk on his lips. “Who died?”

Mirabel stops in her tracks and turns to him. “Nobody.”

“Then what’s with the skirt?”

She touches its fabric for the umpteenth time that day and her eyebrows furrow defensively. “I made it. Antonio said he liked it.”

Camilo shrugs. “I like it, too! It’s just a little unconventional, that’s all. And I wouldn’t let Abuela see it.”

Camilo has not changed much; that is to say, he has remained the same energetic jokester since they were only kids, though his moral compass has strengthened a bit since then. She’s almost sure he’s never made a joke at her expense, especially not after her failed gift ceremony, and it’s one of the things she respects most about him. She realizes, however, that he might have acted completely differently while she was gone and she would have no way of knowing. After all, this is the first she’s spoken to him in nearly a month, and it’s bizarre, to say the least. They used to talk religiously in their childhood.

She supposes it isn’t his fault that they aren’t as close as they used to be, but it still hurts, especially today. The fact of the matter is that Camilo got a gift, and Mirabel didn’t. That was that.

Still, she can’t help but fondly remember staying up late in the nursery together, cracking jokes and giggling far past their bedtime. Their parents and sometimes Abuela would take turns scolding them, tucking them back in each time they became too loud, until they finally had tired themselves out. It became a nightly routine in the weeks leading up to Camilo’s ceremony, until suddenly it stopped.

Of course she loves her primo, but she’s certain they haven’t laughed so hard together since then. It stings a bit to remember how it used to be in comparison to how it is now, all because of a supposed ‘miracle.’

Mirabel tries to hurry off after their encounter, but a tiny voice yelling from outside the window stops her.

“Hey! When’s the magic gift happen?”

She recognizes the children from her days of helping around town. There are three of them, each with the same eager expression on their faces and the same unfathomable amount of energy.

She smiles, turning in the opposite direction. “Camilo. There are some kids here for you.”

Perhaps it was mean to leave the curious children in the hands of her primo, but she decides it’s finally time for one of the other ‘amazing Madrigals’ to give them the debriefing. She’s tired of disappointing them when they ask about her gift, anyway. Children have no filter, as Mirabel has learned, and it’s not something she cares to deal with on that day in particular, so Camilo will have to fill in.

She certainly isn’t blind to the fact that her family does not know how to act around her this morning. Sure, she’s had a few passing words with her mother and father in the past week, and then there was her little encounter with Camilo, but it’s quite obvious that everybody else is ignoring her. Even Luisa, who is usually her biggest supporter; even Tío Félix who usually jumps at the chance to crack a joke and make her feel better; even Isabela who usually does the opposite and takes every opportunity to make her feel so much worse.

Maybe it’s not such a bad thing that Isabela is out of the picture, at least for today. Much like the children who are being led through the village by her cousin, Mirabel feels her filter is beginning to fade by the minute, and she’s sure she would clash with her oldest sister more today than ever.

The day progresses in a blur as each member of the family is pursuing separate tasks, most of which require darting around the house and the town, and darting right back. Mirabel decorates a few more walls and cleans a few more corners, but mostly she watches.

She watches as Isabela makes flowers upon flowers while Tío Félix and Tía Pepa swoon as they always do; she watches as Luisa is worn down so ruthlessly throughout the day, and she watches as Dolores covers her ears because the whole town is relentlessly talking about tonight.

It’s hours away now, and the house is ready, but Mirabel is not. She’s not sure she ever will be, despite how she’s been preparing for it since the very day Antonio was born. Perhaps it is the anxious demeanor of her entire family that puts her in a rather sour mood; after all, it’s quite a wild concept that her family, along with herself, are all hoping and praying that the youngest Madrigal will not face the same fate as Mirabel.

It feels like a joke.

She realizes quickly that she hasn’t seen Antonio in quite some time, which is an issue for a number of reasons, one of which being that people have already started arriving. She knows where he hides as it’s not the most clever place, and Pepa is storming, so she quickly heads off to the nursery to talk some sense into her primo and convince him to emerge from underneath the bed.

She only makes it about halfway to the nursery.

“Mirabel.”

She turns on her heel and her hands are immediately pressed into fists.

Abuela’s face changes quickly from one of determination to disgust. “What on Earth are you wearing?”

She could not have said that more rudely if she had tried. Mirabel suddenly feels a concoction of resentment and indifference boiling in her stomach, so she shrugs. “A skirt.”

“Please go change, mi nieta. This is a celebration, not a funeral.”

It’s rather strange that she does not fear her abuela much anymore; in fact, she so badly wants to fight back and to make a scene, to show the old woman how much Mirabel has changed in such a short month. She wants to prove that she is not a force to be reckoned with.

But this is Antonio’s day, and she does not want to cause a fuss. Instead, she takes a breath.

“What is it you needed, Abuela?”

It’s clear that she senses Mirabel’s attempt at changing the subject, and she moves on for the present. “I was hoping to remind you of what we discussed a few months ago.”

“About tonight?”

This time she truly does not know what Abuela is referring to; she hasn’t done much ‘discussing’ with her that hasn’t ended in a stream of passive aggressive remarks or a blatant screaming match.

“Yes. About your presence at the ceremony. Do you remember?”

Her stomach sinks as she realizes, yes, she does remember. It was only a few weeks before Marty had moved into the pueblo that she’d briefly brought up the upcoming ceremony, and Abuela had taken that time to set some unsolicited ground rules. For one, she had told Mirabel, she was not to show her face at the ceremony until Antonio’s gift had officially been received, just in case Mirabel truly was the bad luck charm of the family and somehow had caused her own failure all those years ago. She was to stay in the nursery or hide behind the flowery curtain Isabela had created, or not show up at all.

The request hurt back then and it hurts now.

“Yes. I remember.”

“Good. It will only be for a short time. Just until we’re sure.”

“Sure of what?” she mumbles. “That Antonio hasn’t been cursed by me?”

“That Antonio hasn’t turned out like you.”

There are those words again, sharp and piercing and more agonizing each time she hears them. She shouldn’t be surprised, really; she knows Abuela regards her with nothing but disappointment, especially now. Still, being forced to hide away and pretend she is not even part of la familia Madrigal until they are absolutely sure she is not the cause of the depleting miracle is really a new low. It feels dehumanizing.

Abuela waits a few moments for some kind of response or reaction, but Mirabel is numb and too tired now to say much of anything. So, instead, the old woman brushes past her granddaughter and continues on down the hall.

Time and time again, Mirabel has told herself that Abuela will no longer bother her; that she will not let the eldest Madrigal’s actions affect her any more, and that she will finally stand up for herself. Even Julieta had told her not to let Abuela get to her head, and she’s been relatively successful for the past week by simply avoiding her.

Except now she’s crying after a single interaction, and she hates herself for it.

She hates that her own family consistently makes her feel so terribly, and she hates that she lets it happen. If Marty were here, he’d tell her that she is not to blame for feeling the way she feels, and that her family is clearly the issue; but nobody else seems to be so affected by Abuela.

Certainly there is something wrong with her.

So she makes a decision right then and there. Sure, she will keep herself behind the scenes until Antonio’s gift is revealed, and she will let herself cry now because she deserves to cry every once in a while. But this will be the last time; this has to be the last time.

After tonight, Abuela will no longer be the boss of her, and she will no longer keep Mirabel from doing the things she loves and excels at. She will not change out of her skirt, and she will not falsely pretend she is a part of the family. They’ve made it plenty clear that, in their eyes, she is just another member of the town, tripping and flailing and waiting for the day everything comes crashing down. She is not treated like she is part of the family, so she will no longer pretend.

Mirabel picks herself up and continues on towards the nursery. If the circumstances were different, she would fall onto her bed and let herself have a good, proper cry; perhaps she wouldn’t show her face at the ceremony at all.

But a certain someone under the bed forces her to bite her tongue, open the drawer next to her, and wipe her tears for the time being. Antonio absolutely loves the gift she’s sewn for him and she manages to convince him to come out of hiding.

Though, in truth, Mirabel isn’t so sure she wants to come out of hiding quite yet.

————————————————————————

His eyes are wide and hopeless, and his hand is outstretched in a way she finds hard to refuse, so she can’t help but defy Abuela’s orders.

He needs her. That’s enough for Mirabel.

And, sure, she notices the shocked looks on her family’s faces, and she sees the brief flicker of irritation pass Abuela’s, but she does not particularly care, and she leads Antonio down to his glowing door anyway.

It’s almost as shocking when a herd of animals swarms towards them after acquiring Antonio’s permission, and the room erupts into cheers.

It’s bittersweet as Mirabel still cannot help but feel a bit of jealousy at the young boy’s special moment. Marty had been right that calling it the biggest day of his life had been a bit absurd, but she would be lying if she said she hadn’t dreamed of having a day like this to herself for years. She hasn’t had time to find him yet, but once she does she’ll be sure to express all of this to Marty. It seems he’s the only one who even remotely understands.

Antonio’s room is exquisite; the nursery dulls to a stone-cold cellar in comparison, but he is happy, so Mirabel watches with the smallest smile from the crowd she’s now tucked herself into.

“I knew you could do it! A gift just as special as you.”

It’s like another punch right to the stomach as Abuela hugs her grandson and the family swoons at the interaction. Her smile falls immediately, replaced with pressed lips and anxious fists.

When Abuela calls the family in to take a picture moments later, she does not join them. Not a soul notices as Mirabel sneaks away to the entrance of the house, gripping her skirt as she scurries down the staircase and past the crowd. She will not pretend she is wanted or needed anymore; why should she?

Perhaps she will sit out for a while, or maybe she’ll just hide in the nursery and add a few designs to the skirt she’s still wearing, or begin a new project entirely. Maybe she’ll go try to find Marty, who won’t care that she is in a bit of an emotional state. Or maybe she’ll leave the ceremony entirely.

Her inner debate regarding her course of action is cut short when she feels an unfamiliar rumble throughout the floorboards and the tiles. There are cracks growing from the windows and the door, throughout the kitchen and the hallway, reaching each individual room and threatening to darken its glow. It even reaches the candle, which is flickering now and appears to Mirabel as if it could go out any second.

She desperately tries to stop the tiles from breaking, but a sharp pain slices through the palm of her hand, and it is the last straw.

Her escape plans behind her, she rushes back up the stairs she came from and searches through the crowd of people to find her carefree abuela who is moving to the music.

“The house is in danger!” Mirabel cries breathlessly. “The house is in danger, the tiles—the tiles were falling, and there were cracks everywhere. And the candle almost went out.”

Abuela is stoic, her composure being maintained only for the crowd of people that now watch in concern. It is dead silent, as nobody dares react.

Only a moment passes before she meets Mirabel’s eyes. “Show me.”

But the cracks are gone and the house is back to normal and, again, Mirabel wants to cry. Yet another addition to the list of things that are Mirabel’s fault, or a product of Mirabel’s lifelong envy.

“What?” The last of her breath is sucked out of her. “No, that’s…the cracks were there. They were everywhere. The house was in trouble, the candle was…”

Abuela is clearly unhappy as her expression once again turns to one of disgust.

Mirabel takes a breath. “Abuela, I promise…”

“That’s enough.”

Abuela turns to address the guests and Mirabel deflates. It must all be a cruel joke; there were cracks and the candle was flickering. She loves her cousin and she would never try to ruin his big day, unless there was an actual sign of danger, or a true emergency.

The fact that nobody believes her is insulting in itself.

The rest of the party and her family moves away from the scene of the incident and Mirabel is left alone, defeatedly panting and grasping her injured hand. Her mother catches her eye just before she runs off again, and she continues down the stairs to meet her.

“Mi vida, are you okay?”

Mirabel says nothing; how can she?

Julieta gently lifts Mirabel’s injured palm as she winces in pain. She eyes her daughter pitifully and grabs her other hand. “Come on. We’ll get you fixed up .”

————————————————————————

She does not particularly care to speak to her mother, who surely had not even noticed her absence from the family picture, but there is no other way to mend the large gash in her hand, so she leans herself against the counter in defeat.

Her mother rushes around the kitchen to make Mirabel’s favorite arepas con queso as quickly as she can; she’s adored them since she was a child, especially when they’re made just for her and ‘with love,’ as Julieta would claim.

She’s only a few steps into the process when she sighs. “Juemadre, I need more Asadero. Hang tight, Mirabel. I’ll be back soon.”

She disappears around the corner, rummaging through their enormous kitchen which is stocked full of ingredients at every turn which Julieta uses on a daily basis. Mirabel almost wonders whether it is worth it to heal her hand, if it’s going to cause such a fuss. She certainly would rather have disappeared by now.

It’s taking a while, as the spare Asadero must be tucked beneath the rest of the stock. Mirabel breathes deeply as she waits, a familiar ache growing in her chest.

“Mirabel!”

A voice suddenly calls to her from upstairs. It startles her, but she turns to the source of the noise.

“Are you okay, chica?”

Mirabel relaxes as she recognizes the man immediately. “Nothing an arepa won’t fix,” she says miserably. Her hand still stings and her mind is foggy, but it’s rather nice seeing a familiar face that does not belong to somebody in her family.

“Marty and I were trying to find you. I think he got lost somewhere along the way,” says Esteban with a smile.

“I wish I were surprised.” She stretches her injured hand and glances around the corner. “Well, I’m alright. My mamá will be back soon. I’m sure she’d like to meet you.”

“Oh, sí, I’d like to meet her, too. And I’m glad to see the house is still intact.”

She recognizes that it is supposed to be a joke, but all she can manage is a pained smile.

Esteban’s eyes wander around the colorful kitchen as he waits with a curious spark. It’s the first time he’s been inside the house, Mirabel realizes, and likely the first time he’s seen the Madrigals’ gifts in action. In fact, unless Marty told him, she’s unsure how he would have found out about their miracle in the first place. Heaven knows Marty was just as astonished the day she introduced him to their gifts; it’s no wonder he appears so enthralled now.

It’s a few seconds later when Julieta returns, holding a block of Asadero cheese in one hand and a grater in the other. She nearly drops both, however, when she makes eye contact with the tall man standing next to his daughter.

“Esteban?”

He smiles back sheepishly. “Hola, Julieta.”

Chapter Text

Mirabel is certainly not the most attentive person in the world, nor is she entirely confident in all that she does, but she certainly does not hallucinate. She also does not hear voices in her head or imagine things too often.

It’s apparent that she is broadening her horizons today, however, because she is almost positive that she is hallucinating.

“What in the world are you doing here?”

Esteban is almost too casual as Julieta’s mouth hangs open. “What, aren’t you happy to see me?”

She blinks and clears her vision. “No, no, I mean—yes. You just—you’ve been gone twenty years.”

“Hold on,” interrupts Mirabel with furrowed brows. “You know Señor Villegas?”

“You know him?” retorts Julieta.

“You have a wonderful daughter, Julieta,” he remarks with a smile. “She is as much of a healer as you, you know.”

Her expression softens a bit. “Well…thank you. But she can’t heal her own hand.”

At this, she continues on with her previous task, uneasily completing each step necessary to make the arepas con queso the way she normally does. It’s clear she is on edge, however; she comes close to burning her fingertips as she flips them on the stove, which she usually does with perfect ease.

It’s awkwardly quiet as Julieta cooks. Clearly there is some unresolved history between the two of them, and while Mirabel does not desire to get in the middle of it, that does not stop her from wondering what in the world could be keeping her mamá so silent.

Esteban does not seem as affected. After spending only three weeks under his care and her whole life her mother’s, it’s strange to Mirabel that he is the one who strikes up a conversation with her first.

“Did you make that yourself?”

Mirabel’s eyes drift to her skirt which is now a bit dusty from the cracking walls she surely did not imagine. “Yep. Only a few nights ago, actually.”

“I like it! You are quite the talented seamstress. I always meant to learn, but I never got around to it. Life got in the way.”

“Oh, it’s not so hard,” she says with a smile. “I’m sure I could teach you. Antonio wanted to learn, too, but I’m pretty sure talking to animals is a lot cooler than embroidery.”

He opens his mouth to respond, but Julieta turns around and approaches the two of them, presenting a fresh, hot arepa con queso.

She shoves it into the uninjured hand of her daughter. “Eat, mi vida. That looks like it hurts.”

Mirabel miserably hums in agreement, willing herself to take a bite of the arepa. Its taste is splendid as she always expects, though she can’t help but remain distracted by the elephant in the room.

“Well,” begins Mirabel, cautiously examining her newly mended palm. “Based on that weird interaction, and the fact that Señor Villegas here is not at all shocked that you just healed my hand with an arepa con queso, I’m assuming you guys have some talking to do.”

Her mother brushes off her hands on the front of her apron with an unsettling calmness. “I’m not sure where to start.”

“I’m glad to see you again, Julieta,” says Esteban.

“I suppose I’m glad to see you too. Though I’m not sure where you ever ran off to.”

“Bolivia,” he answers immediately. “A little town just North of Santa Cruz. It’s a beautiful place.”

“And you’ve just been…what? Hiding?”

He becomes noticeably defensive. “I have nothing to hide from.”

“Mamá resents you. That’s certainly something to hide from.”

“Well, it isn’t why I left. Besides, I have relatives in Bolivia. They took me in and gave me a place to stay, like Alma with my mother all those years ago. Just without all the conditions.”

Julieta takes a calming breath. “I understand my mamá is not the most agreeable person. And, trust me, I know her expectations of you were unreasonably high. But a lot has changed in twenty years, and…I don’t know. I wish you wouldn’t stay hung up on all that happened. We aren’t kids anymore, Esteban.”

“We weren’t kids when I left, either. I was smart enough to know I was no longer wanted.”

Her lips upturn into a sad smile. “You’re beginning to sound like Bruno.”

“Where is he?”

Her expression softens a bit as she contemplates her answer. “Why don’t you take a seat?”

Mirabel is silent now as Esteban complies, stepping across the kitchen carefully as she and Julieta follow behind. It’s strange, being here with Marty’s father and no sign of Marty, though there are more pressing issues than where he’s run off to, such as the mystery of how their parents know each other in the first place. And if Esteban knows Tío Bruno, perhaps he has information her family has refused to mention.

They sit at the kitchen table and Julieta makes tea for the three of them. It reminds her of that night at Marty’s, though the tea is much cooler and she is not particularly in the mood for it.

“Pepa’s busy,” says Julieta, taking a seat at the table next to her daughter. “We should be alright for a while.”

He grimaces slightly. “Ay, she still hates me?”

“Oh, no, I’m sure she doesn’t hate you. But she won’t want to talk about Bruno; especially not with you.”

Her explanation is clearly directed and Mirabel takes a sip of her tea.

“I was hoping to talk to him personally. Though I get the feeling that’s not an option, sí?”

“Unfortunately,” she nods. “He’s been gone ten years. No sign of him. And not a word of him, either; Mamá forbids it.”

“Alma’s still so strict?”

“Alma’s more strict,” mumbles Mirabel, taking yet another sip.

Julieta bites her tongue at her daughter’s remark and takes a breath. “There’s been no reason to talk of him, anyway. I miss him terribly, but what’s done is done.”

“And that would be…?”

Mirabel eyes her mother, almost wary of what she will say. In truth, she herself does not know the full story, and clearly Esteban has not been debriefed either.

Julieta sighs. “He lost his way in this family.”

“Lo entiendo. That is unfortunate.”

It’s rather quiet now as the three of them almost have too much to talk about. Mirabel especially has so many questions, none of which she is confident have answers.

Julieta’s face lightens. “Enough of that. How about Clara? Is she well?”

He does not respond right away. Mirabel has never heard this name before, nor is she exactly sure what she has to do with her family, but the look on Esteban’s face gives her all the information she needs to know.

Clara Villegas, whom she’s heard so much about and yet has no chance of meeting anytime soon.

“She is not here,” explains Esteban gently. “No. She’s been gone six years now.”

Heartbreak is almost evident on Julieta’s face. “Oh…dios mío. I’m so sorry. I had no idea.”

“Sí, me too. I still think of her every day. Even if she’d been here with me for the rest of my life, it wouldn’t have been enough time.”

Julieta is silent for a moment, taking in the news she’s received. “Such a fuss over Clara and Bruno, yet neither of them are here with us now.“

“And I suppose that’s another reason I left,” he adds. “I did not want to serve as such a cruel reminder of all I’d taken from your family, but I wanted to be happy.”

“You didn’t take anything from us, Esteban,” she says on her breath. “She loved you; I know she did.”

“Sí.” He nods slowly, taking a sip of his own untouched cup of tea. “She did.”

Mirabel can hardly move; being this far into the conversation and still having not a shred of an idea what is being discussed is not necessarily a foreign feeling, but an uncomfortable one. Whether or not they will debrief her is also in question, and she’s not sure she can live with the intense curiosity any longer.

Julieta smoothes her dress. “Even so, you’ve been gone for such a long time. Why did you come back?”

He hesitates as if the answer is not clear even to him. It’s a rare sight, really; he is usually so sure of himself, in drastic contrast to his eldest son. He’s beginning to resemble Marty significantly now.

“Bolivia is great,” he says after a while, “but it is not my home. Our village was becoming dangerous, too, and I knew this was where we had to go.”

“We?”

“My sons. I’m sure Mirabel has told you.”

Her eyebrows furrow. “I’m afraid she hasn’t.”

Mirabel cringes, turning a bit to face her bewildered mother. “Mami, you remember Marty.”

Something seems to click in the mind of her mother. “Marty is your son?”

“He’s already got a reputation here, huh?” Esteban chuckles. “Sí, he’s my son. I’m sure you’ll be glad to know that he absolutely loves it here. And I know he’s awfully fond of your Mirabel.”

Along with her usual rosy blush comes a new feeling, as if all the butterflies from their boundless garden have found their way into Mirabel’s stomach and are celebrating Antonio’s new gift. She’s suddenly grateful Marty is nowhere to be found.

“That poor boy has already gotten tangled up with our family,” says Julieta with a shake of her head. “I haven’t met him fully. But I do know Mirabel is rather smitten as well.”

“Mamá!” Mirabel suddenly wishes she could run away and hide; there must be somewhere in their enormous house.

“Hush, mi vida. Drink your tea.”

“It’s cold,” she grumbles, her face developing the missing heat from her tea.

Julieta ignores her. “I can’t believe I didn’t know you were here.”

“Sí, me too, especially since I was harboring your fugitive for quite some time.”

Mirabel’s blush deepens as she hides her face further behind the mug of tea she is reluctantly sipping. Julieta smiles uneasily. “I suppose I feel better knowing she was with you. If only I’d known sooner.”

Mirabel’s tea has become disgusting cold and she does not much care to heat it up, but the conversation has gone dry and she is not sure what there is to do. She could, of course, ask all the questions that have been brewing in her mind about whatever situation her mother and Esteban have been referring to all this time. She could also, then, ask her mother later, or even ask Marty if he’s heard anything about it.

Another voice beckoning from the top of the stairs decides for her.

“Julieta! We’re almost out of pandebono!”

The shrillness of her tía’s voice is routinely enough to send a chill down her spine. In this instance, however, her entire body feels a bit of a tingle as she knows what’s to come.

Julieta stands quickly, the legs of her chair screeching against Casita’s poor tiles, in an attempt to block the view of their surprise guest.

But it’s too late; Pepa has already spotted the shocked man, and her expression turns to one of outrage and disgust.

“Esteban?”

He once again appears wholly uncomfortable. “It’s good to see you, Pepa.”

In an instant she is rushing down the stairs, nearly becoming tangled in her skirt along the way. “How dare you show your face at my Toñito’s ceremony?”

“I thought you said she didn’t hate me,” he says, desperately turning to Julieta.

She intervenes. “Esteban has done nothing wrong, mi hermana. He’s only come to celebrate. Please hear him out.”

Julieta’s voice is cool and mellow, but Pepa is not receptive. Instead, she surges forward and grabs a handful of Esteban’s shirt, her fist tight and unwilling to loosen.

“You stole her,” she says through her teeth. “You stole her away from all of us and ran off for twenty years!”

“I did nothing of the sort,” he says, his hands in the air in surrender. “I fell in love. Lo siento, I didn’t realize it was a crime.”

“Pepa, please calm down,” says Julieta. “We don’t need another storm.”

“I wish you’d all stop telling me that! How are you not alarmed, Julieta?” Pepa scolds. She lets go of Esteban who is now purely frightened. “You think he’s back to make amends?”

“I think there are no amends to make,” she says, defensively. “I think everything has been blown completely out of proportion over the years, and—“

“What I think is that this man has come back to betray us once again and you’re letting it happen.”

“Pepi, that’s crazy.”

“It’s crazy to think of the family?”

“Will you two stop?” Even Mirabel is surprised to hear it out of her mouth, but for the first time in a week she is glad she’s made her voice heard. Three pairs of eyes all look in her direction; she wants to falter, but she can’t. “This is ridiculous! All you’re doing is yelling at each other. And somehow I was the one accused of ruining Antonio’s ceremony!”

Either their tongues are tied in painful knots or Mirabel has left the three of them speechless. Pepa appears furious, Julieta guilty, and Esteban still entirely apprehensive.

Pepa takes a breath in a desperate attempt to calm herself, bravely being the first to speak. “Disparates, Mirabel. I know you were not trying to ruin the ceremony, but this has nothing to do with that, and nothing to do with you.“

“Of course it has something to do with me! It’s my family too.” Mirabel chokes a bit, shaking her head. “Listen; I don’t know what happened when you guys were young, or how you and Mamá know Señor Villegas, but maybe you should let him talk rather than wasting your breath arguing about it. Besides, he came to celebrate Antonio’s new gift; is that so bad?”

She turns away from the table, unsure of what exactly she is to do. She supposes she could leave, but she’s not entirely sure what will occur if the three adults are alone together. It might result in another terrible storm or, worse, they’ll draw the attention of Abuela and Mirabel will be blamed for it, as she usually is. 

Again, her decision is cut short as Pepa shakes her head behind Mirabel, making a choice of her own. “Forget the pandebono. I’m going back to the party. You two can talk to your hearts’ content, but I’ll have no part in it.”

She smoothes the bodice and skirt of her dress before making her way back up the stairs, a prominent storm-cloud appearing over her head but only spouting a drizzle. The silence that follows is deafening, but Mirabel does not resent it.

Julieta deflates back into the chair on which she’d previously been sitting, her eyes flipping painfully between her daughter and Esteban. “Lo siento, both of you. I never should have let it get that far. I think Pepa is just—“

Her mother is interrupted when Mirabel hears her name being called for the second time that night, this time from a voice that she would recognize anywhere.

“Mirabel! There you are.”

Marty and his timing always astound Mirabel; still, she’s more than happy to see him. Tightly grabbing his hand and following along beside him is Manny, dressed in a silky black outfit with a few colorful seams and embellished pockets.

Despite the previous turmoil, she can’t help but smile when the pair approaches her. Manny breaks loose from Marty’s grip and surges forward, running in Mirabel’s direction until she picks him up rests him on her hip.

She smiles. “Hola, Manny! Don’t you look handsome?”

“That’s what I told him. And who made your clothes, hombrecito?” Marty asks with a knowing grin.

“Mirabel did,” he says. “All by herself!”

“It fits you so well,” she remarks, tugging on the sleeve around his wrist. “I was worried it might be too snug.”

Marty touches the same sleeve with a smile, meeting her eyes. “Oh, no. Fits like a glove.”

“Mirabel,” says Julieta who is now staring only at her daughter. “You made that?”

She does not respond to her mother, but rather continues to watch the boy in front of her who is still grinning with pride.

“Sí, Mirabel has made all sorts of things. I’m not sure she ever sleeps.”

Her face heats up for the umpteenth time that day, and Manny wiggles himself out of her grip, forcing her to gently set him on the ground next to her. He’s spotted his father at last and runs toward him in glee.

“Hola, mi chiquito!” says Esteban, his previous perturbance forgotten. “Where have you two been?”

“Marty got lost,” confesses the child with a smile.

“Sí. It’s a large house.” He spots Julieta sitting next to his father and blushes. “But a beautiful one!”

Casita visibly perks at the compliment and Mirabel wants to laugh, but she finds she’s too exhausted and frankly dispirited to do much of anything.

Marty notices and lowers the volume of his voice. “Are you okay? I saw what happened back there.”

“I know,” she says. “Everyone did.”

“I tried to find you sooner, but…you know.”

She smiles, though it’s rather empty. “Well, I only hurt my hand. I’m alright.”

It’s clear he is not convinced but changes the subject for Mirabel’s sake. “Antonio looked great out there.”

“Wasn’t he incredible?” agrees Mirabel proudly. “I am a little sad to lose my roommate, though.”

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

She hesitates a bit, but the presence of her mother behind her is enough reminder not to let her guard down this late. “I’m kind of tired.”

“Too tired to dance?”

He appears a bit flustered as he offers Mirabel his hand. She laughs. “No. But I’m not really in the mood for dancing.” Mirabel takes his hand anyway. “The fireworks are soon. I usually don’t like them, but we could watch them if you wanted to.”

“Oh, no,” he disagrees with a tint of pink on his cheeks. “Manny hates fireworks.”

“I can take him home,” offers Esteban. “I trust you two. Or Mirabel could come over for tea—well, more tea—if she would like.”

She turns her head to face her mother, briefly considering the guilt she might feel at the prospect of leaving her, as well as her primito, behind. She looks back to Marty. “I shouldn’t leave Antonio.”

“Antonio will be fine.”

She’s surprised to hear it from her mother, and she turns back around.

“Pepa and Félix are keeping him plenty occupied. You’ve done enough for him today, mi vida.”

She suspects that Marty has won over Julieta’s affection in their brief interactions—especially now, knowing who his father is—and that is why she is allowing her to leave and spend time with him for a second time. Even now, after she’d hidden away with them for weeks and enraged the entire family.

“Are you sure, Julieta?” Esteban asks. “It’s alright if she needs to stay for the party. I’m sure she’ll have time for tea another day.”

“No,” she says firmly. “She should go now. It’s been a long night for all of us.”

She lets herself smile and ease up just a bit. Her previous plan to escape the party has resurfaced, this time significantly closer in sight. Marty is smiling too, and Manny is nearly bouncing on his feet.

“Gracias, Señora,” says Marty.

“Come on!” Manny prods, tugging on her skirt as he does so. “Perla misses you!”

It’s so sudden that Mirabel is unsure whether she has really gained permission to go, but her mother’s smile is affirmation enough. She gives Julieta a quick kiss on the cheek before heading off. “Thank you, Mami.”

“Just don’t be gone too long. Antonio will want you to tuck him in.”

————————————————————————

The pueblito is eerily quiet, and all of them notice on the walk back to the Villegas residence. Every able inhabitant is still at the ceremony, dancing and drinking and preparing for the fireworks that will go off any minute. It might be relaxing if it weren’t for the unnerving darkness. Still, Mirabel rather enjoys the walk home and her meaningless conversations with Manny.

Esteban seems entirely unaffected by the previous incident and it almost makes Mirabel more wary. Of course she trusts him—how could she not?—but she also trusts her mother. For Julieta to seem so flabbergasted at Esteban’s appearance certainly means something, and it irritates her more and more with every passing minute that she does not know what it is.

When they arrive, Esteban does make tea and Manny is wholly uninterested. Instead, he grabs the cat and brings her out from Marty’s room, her claws drawn and ears pulled back. Perla manages to escape his grasp, but he is undeterred; he chases the poor feline around for another few minutes before tiring himself out.

The fireworks are still audible when they start, but the distance makes them more bearable for Manny’s small ears, and Mirabel does not bother looking out the window for them. She finds herself much more content sipping her tea—this time piping hot—on their familiar sofa.

It takes a while for Mirabel to gain the nerve to ask Esteban about his past with the Madrigals. It’s not that she’s afraid of what she will find, but rather she is worried she will strike a nerve, or force him to reveal something he does not want Marty to know.

But she wills herself to ask it and does not regret it a bit.

“So,” she says uneasily. “How is it you know my family?”

Esteban smiles at her before switching his gaze to the child on the couch next to her. “Manuel, it might be time to go to bed.”

As they expect, he protests. “I’m not tired, Papi!”

Esteban laughs. “I might have believed your commendable acting skills if that yawn hadn’t betrayed you. Come on.”

He must be a bit more than tired, because the young boy obliges with little persuasion. Mirabel and Marty both bid him goodnight as he is hoisted onto Esteban’s shoulders and carried to his room.

Marty’s father returns only a few minutes later and takes a seat back on the couch. “I’m not sure Manny is quite ready for this conversation, but I’d be glad to tell you anything you’d like to know.”

It isn’t a surprise, but she is grateful for his openness nonetheless. “So…you knew my tío Bruno?”

Esteban looks at Mirabel for a moment before smiling. “I didn’t just know him. He was my closest friend.”

This is news to Mirabel. “He was?”

“Oh, sí. I grew up in the encanto, and we were friends from the time he received his gift to the time we were both grown.”

“I didn’t know Bruno had a best friend. I guess he’s always been painted as an outcast of the family, and…well, I don’t know much about him.”

Mirabel had almost forgotten about Marty and his knowledge of their topic, which is close to none. “Wait,” he interrupts. “You grew up here?”

“Sí. I thought you knew that.”

“I knew you grew up in Colombia, but…here? You knew the Madrigals all along?”

“Of course I did,” he chuckles. “I didn’t want to put any notions in your head before you met them yourself. I know how that goes.”

Marty still appears confused, but he is at a loss of words and, therefore, questions.

Mirabel continues. “Could you tell me about Bruno?”

“Oh, sure. I know your familia doesn’t talk about him much.”

“We don’t talk about him at all,” she corrects him. “It’s an instant storm-cloud over Tía Pepa’s head.”

“In fairness, a lot of things can cause that. With all due respect, Pepa is quite a temperamental woman.”

Mirabel smiles; she’s grown up living with the ever-changing moods of her tía, so it’s almost refreshing to find somebody who relates to the difficulty of it.

“Bruno was not very sociable. A tough one to crack, that’s for sure. When we were kids, he would spend his afternoons reluctantly telling the other children of his visions, and they’d beg him to see one of their own. He’d usually do it, too, and on the occasion that it wasn’t what they had hoped for, those children would stop talking to him completely. It was tragic, really; the only reason he had any friends at all was through Pepa and Julieta.”

Mirabel nods, taking in and relishing all the new information she is gaining about her long-lost uncle.

“That’s why we became so close. I was his only friend that he hadn’t attained through his sisters, and he really appreciated that I hadn’t looked down upon him for his gift. I would never do that; it isn’t as if he controlled the visions he saw.”

“Poor Bruno,” she notes. “No wonder he wasn’t sociable.”

“Sí,” agrees Esteban. “Pepa was always the outgoing one, while your mother and Bruno were both much more reserved. But Pepa was protective and overly skeptical of anybody who would dare look at her ‘hermanito’ the wrong way. She was even wary of me when we first met. That was quite a tough stage to endure.”

Marty is visibly confused; lost in the conversation and trying his hardest to keep up. Mirabel wishes she could spend time explaining everything to him, but she’s so eager to hear more than she barely even thinks about it.

Esteban continues. “Pepa did get used to me. She even considered me a friend for many years—maybe even a decade—once she saw that I wasn’t like the others, and that I’d consistently treated Bruno with fairness. And then there was your mother, who was warm and kind to me from the beginning. I would ride my bike all around the encanto and she’d be there with a fresh arepa whenever I’d scrape my knee, or manage to fall off completely. I was usually on my way to their household anyway, so it was easy to be healed by Julieta.”

Mirabel smiles warmly. “So you were friends with my mamá all those years ago. I can’t believe I never knew.”

His previous grin is more of a grimace now. “I can’t say I’m surprised nobody has mentioned me. We did develop a few…differences after a couple years.”

Marty is now just as engaged as Mirabel; it’s almost like a telenovela is unfolding right before their eyes, being told solely by Esteban. It’s almost thrilling, but it makes Mirabel’s stomach ache a bit.

“What happened?” Marty prods.

He loosens his collar uncomfortably. “We were a bit older than you two—newly eighteen, I think—and somebody new moved into the encanto. A relative of one of the neighbors, Señora Ospina. I didn’t take the time to get to know her, but Pepa surely took a liking to her. They became close as Bruno and I were, though she was vastly different from Pepa. Julieta grew quite fond of her as well, and Alma positively adored her. Actually, I think Alma was the reason she kept coming around to la casa Madrigal in the first place: her own mamá was quite dismissive, and she enjoyed the comfort of the Madrigal family.”

That sentence alone secures a deep pain in Mirabel chest, as she realizes the comparison between Esteban’s story and her own. The fact that Abuela is on the other end of it this time is quite a shock, however. She can barely imagine it.

“Of course I was always around because of Bruno, so I saw her occasionally. She’d bid me good morning and smile at me as we passed each other in the halls of the large house, but other than that, she remained a mystery to me. Oh, but I saw the way Bruno looked at her.”

Mirabel’s heart pounds. She’s sure she knows where this is going. But why had she not heard of this woman in the past if she appears to have played such a crucial role in her family’s past?

Esteban takes a breath. “Oh, yes. He was infatuated with the girl. But far too scared to say anything, even as the years passed and she grew fond of him, too. Bruno was still his shy self, and she was always preoccupied with Pepa’s antics or Julieta’s queries—of course, she was far more interested in her newly found Agustín in those years—and not much came of it for the longest time. But something happened one year, around their twenty-first birthday, and she and Bruno didn’t leave each other’s sides for years after that.”

“So, what happened?” presses Marty again, leaning forward in suspense. “Where is she now?”

Mirabel suspects the answer to that question is not easy as Esteban tenses just a bit. It’s barely distinguishable, but she’s especially alert, so she notices.

“Be patient, Marty. We’ll get there.”

He sinks back into the couch and eyes Mirabel, who is equally as confused and anxious as he is.

Esteban continues. “Alma was thrilled, the most out of all of us. She thought it was a perfect match—that she was the perfect girl for her little ‘Brunito,’—and grew fonder of her every single day, if that was even possible. It’s not as if anybody disliked her anyway; she was utterly charming. Everybody knew the sweet Clara Ospina.”

The color drains from Mirabel’s face as this specific name clicks every single piece into place. Marty looks pale as well, almost dangerously so.

“Clara?” Mirabel says quietly. “Isn’t that…”

“Sí, mi esposa. Marty’s mother.”

Nobody says a word in the time that follows; after such a big reveal, how can they? Mirabel is no longer twiddling her thumbs as she had been for the rest of the conversation, and Marty is not moving at all. Mirabel considers how hard it must be for him, and the entire situation seems larger than she can handle.

“So,” begins Mirabel cautiously. “Bruno was in love with Clara?”

“More than that,” he says. “They were engaged to be married.”

It’s a tricky situation, deciding whether she should continue to pry or let it be. Of course she wants to know the rest of the story, but Marty looks thoroughly disturbed. It’s clear he’s never heard any of this, and he had never particularly desired to.

Still, her curiosity is powerful. She vows to check on Marty later.

She swallows. “So…”

“So you want to know what happened,” guesses Esteban.

Mirabel relaxes a bit as she sees Marty nod from the corner of her eye. She nods along with him.

“I hope you know that I did not intervene. I was happy for them; truly, I was. After all, I was the one who had prompted Bruno to talk to her and to take his chances all those years ago. The issue came from Bruno’s gift itself. Clara never wanted him to use it, but…one day, he got so curious himself. He always felt he didn’t deserve her, so he sought reassurance and hoped to see a vision of their wedding day.”

Mirabel understands now, and it makes her shiver. “But he never saw it.”

“No,” says Esteban, shaking his head. “He saw our wedding instead.”

“Dios mío,” says Marty, his first words uttered in quite some time.

“Sí. He was devastated, and we were all confused. I mean, I’d barely spoken to the girl, let alone sparked any possible romance.” He chuckles a bit as he says it, though he doesn’t appear to believe anything is funny. “But he saw what he saw, and thus far Bruno’s visions had never been wrong, so he believed it. And nobody was more shattered than Clara.”

“But she didn’t do anything,” remarks Marty, a bit defensively. It is his mother in question, after all, which Mirabel finds she frequently needs to remind herself.

“No, she didn’t. It was a tragic situation, truly; she didn’t believe in fate, but Bruno did. And thus marked the end of Clara and Bruno, so it seemed.”

“What about you?” Mirabel questions.

He shakes his head. “I wasn’t aware of any of this. Clara still showed up to the Madrigals’ household early the next day, but Alma answered the door. It certainly was not a warm welcome; Alma yelled at her and called her unfaithful, and threw her out of the house for good. She did not want to go home, so the only place for her to go was my doorstep. I suppose she sealed fate at that moment.“

“So,” says Marty in a desperate attempt to wrap his head around everything. “That’s when you left?”

“Oh, no, we stayed in the encanto for a few more years. It was quite a tough time, though; Alma and Pepa absolutely hated me for what I did—whatever that was—and Bruno was much too ashamed to ever see our faces again. Julieta was impartial, but clearly erred on the side of protecting her brother. As for Clara and me, it was as if we were living in hiding, and neither of us were too fond of it. We were planning on eloping and, in a way, we did; we still ended up coming back, though. After all, I’d grown up here, and I knew it would be hard, leaving the encanto. So, after we married, we stayed a few more years, despite constant glares from Alma and storm-clouds above Pepa’s head at the very sight of us.“

“I guess that much hasn’t changed,” remarks Mirabel.

“No,” he agrees. “It hasn’t. It was a feat, but we dealt with it for a number of years. I wasn’t ready to leave the encanto—to leave my home—and Clara knew that. Then Marty came along, and we knew a fresh start was the only way we would ever feel perfectly content. So Bolivia seemed to be the right place.”

Mirabel isn’t sure what there is to say as Esteban’s lengthy story comes to an end. It’s managed to alter her perception of so many people she thought she knew; on one hand, she understands the family wanting to protect Bruno, but on the other hand, what had Esteban done, really? He’d appeared in a vision, suffered the consequences, and moved on. She finds it hard to blame him for anything.

On top of her own inner turmoil, she’s once again concerned for Marty, who looks utterly sick to his stomach. Perhaps he’s just overwhelmed, or a bit confused about the whole situation, but she silently hopes he does not think less of Mirabel because of the actions of her family.

Mirabel finally blinks. “I—I can’t believe I never knew any of this.”

“Well,” begins Esteban easily, “with Bruno gone, there really was no reason to mention it.”

She nods in a daze, fidgeting with the hem of her skirt. Marty remains silent.

“That’s why I was hoping to speak to him. I thought, maybe, after all these years…ay, but no. What’s done is done. I’m not sure why he left, but I assume he has no intention of coming back if he hasn’t already.”

Mirabel considers this; after all, it’s what she’s assumed nearly her entire life. But she also considers the dangerous possibility that maybe, just maybe, if he did somehow come back, she could help repair the lost friendship that is Esteban and Bruno, and perhaps restore some of the peace between the Villegases and Madrigals. It’s an unrealistic hope, she knows, but not one she is willing to give up on completely.

“I don’t know why he left,” admits Mirabel. “I don’t know why he disappeared, or why he hasn’t come back. I’ve always heard all these nasty rumors about him, too; that he caused all these misfortunes and hurt anybody who dared to talk to him, especially his family. But this…this changes everything.”

Esteban nods solemnly. “Bruno was one of the kindest people I ever had the pleasure of knowing. I truly learned so much from him and, I assure you, none of those rumors are true. He loved his family more than anything in the world.”

She wonders momentarily why her family would tell her such lies. Part of it does come from her cousins and sisters who did not know him too well, she realizes; but Tía Pepa always scowls at the mention of him, and Abuela despises even the mention of his name. If Esteban’s story truly was the cause of all this displeasure, it does not explain why he has been blamed for so many of the family’s issues.

Of course, it’s one thing coming from Esteban; perhaps Bruno has more information himself that could explain all that Mirabel is questioning.

She straightens herself up on the couch, her  leg bouncing anxiously. “Thank you, Señor Villegas. For everything. And I’m sorry that you were involved in that.”

“Don’t apologize,” he says with a charmed smile. “Without your family, I might never have met my Clara.

Her heart melts just a bit at his sentiment. It also reminds her that their son is sitting right next to her, hearing the story also for the first time.

She eyes him. “You okay, Marty?”

He blinks. “I think so.”

“Lo siento. I should have told you all of this sooner,” admits Esteban. “But I thought you at least deserved to know now.”

Marty nods slowly, his eyebrows furrowed. “I wish I could have known her longer.”

It’s like her heart is once again torn into a billion tiny pieces. They haven’t talked about Marty’s mother much since that first conversation all those weeks ago, but hearing all of this now devastates her more than ever. Poor Marty had known his own mother barely any longer than she had known her own Tío Bruno.

It’s this thought that truly motivates her. If not for the sake of her own family, or for the sake of rekindling the friendship, surely Bruno has information about Marty’s mother that he would love to hear, and she is suddenly determined to discover it.

She stands from the couch, brushing  her delicate skirt as she does so, and grabs Marty’s hand. A bit jerkily, she pulls him to the door before bidding Esteban goodnight.

“The ceremony will be over soon, so I should probably get home. Thank you, again, for everything.”

He knowingly smiles back at her. “Any time, chica. I’m always glad to tell you my story.”

She steps out onto the front doorstep and Marty follows, a bit tense and wary of what Mirabel is doing, exactly. The door shuts and she lowers her voice.

“Tomorrow,” she whispers. “Meet me at the church around noon.”

“What?” questions Marty uneasily. “Why?”

“We’re going to find Bruno.”

Chapter Text

Tucking Antonio in that night is not as difficult as Mirabel had expected it might be. Sure, it’s bittersweet to ultimately be saying goodbye to her roommate of 5 years, but he is smiling so widely that Mirabel doesn’t have it in her to be downcast.

The Madrigal household is unusually calm as well, as everybody is exhausted from the events of the night and relatively satisfied with its outcome. After all, Antonio had received his gift and the cracks Mirabel saw in the house had surely been in her imagination.

Mirabel wishes she could say the same, but the truth is that she cannot sleep. All she can think of is Esteban, and Bruno, and Marty who had uneasily promised to meet her at the church the next morning, per her request. She also tosses and turns in her effort to figure out what the plan really is. The truth is, she has no idea what’s happened to Tío Bruno, and seemingly no way of finding out. It had been a spur-of-the-moment decision, trying to find him, and it’s possible she’s bitten off more than she can chew.

The issue solves itself the next morning when Mirabel awakes. The first thing she thinks is a swift, painful, ‘Where is Antonio?’

When she remembers the events of the night prior, however, she eases only a bit and continues on. She’d better come to breakfast, she decides; if not for Antonio’s sake, then for the sake of not being questioned by the rest of the family.

It’s rather nice outside that day, but Mirabel is distracted. While she’s certainly not used to having animals surrounding her, chattering away in full conversation with her youngest cousin, it’s surprisingly not the most pressing issue in her mind.

Though an idea suddenly dawns on her as the animals scurry away from Abuela’s chair.

She approaches Antonio after breakfast, who is about as giddy as Mirabel expected he would be. He’s happy to see her, too; though he hadn’t noticed her disappearance at the ceremony, it must have been strange to sleep in a room of his own without his prima Mirabel by his side.

She smiles widely at the young child, who is being followed relentlessly by a capybara she doesn’t recognize. “Good morning, Antonio!”

“Mira, you came to breakfast!” exclaims Antonio, matching her grin and stopping in his tracks. The capybara stops along with him.

She kneels down to his level, pinching his cheeks as she’s done since his childhood. “Of course I did! I couldn’t miss out on watching your gift in action,” she assures him. “So? Is it all it’s cracked up to be?”

“It’s even better!”

It’s useless trying to ignore the pang that reappears in her chest.

“By the way,” continues Antonio, unperturbed. “Fabian says he likes your dress.”

She examines her outfit at his words; it’s a long skirt with a purple base and, of course, embroidery all along its edges. She hasn’t worn it in a while, and it isn’t her new favorite black skirt, but she had decided it would suffice for today.

“Well, tell Fabian thank you,” she says with an uneasy smile. “Wherever he is.”

“He’s right there, silly!” Antonio corrects her, pointing to one of the birds flying in a pack above them. She isn’t sure which one he is referring to, but it suddenly reminds her of her previous intentions. She must find a way to get to Bruno.

“Hey, Toñito,” she begins, cautiously. “Does Fabian travel much?”

He ponders her question, his eyebrows furrowing in confusion, before smiling once again. “I don’t know! Let me ask him. Fabian!”

Among the flock, a bright-colored green parakeet swoops down and lands right on her primito’s outstretched finger. It seems to be the most natural thing to Antonio, and he is nothing short of delighted to see the little bird. In turn, it chirps a few times, likely greeting the child, and settles in.

“Fabian, do you travel much?”

He tweets back. Antonio is heartily entranced.

“Really? Don’t your wings get tired?”

Another chirp.

Antonio turns back to Mirabel. “Fabian says he travels all the time. He’s been everywhere!”

Mirabel perks up, eyeing the tiny bird and its ruffled feathers. “Everywhere?”

The bird chirps once more, and Antonio giggles. “Well, everywhere in Colombia. And a few places in Brazil.”

Mirabel wills herself not to get her hopes up; after all, who’s to say the information Antonio is spewing back to her is at all accurate? He’s only had his gift for less than a single day. Still, despite herself, she can’t help but wonder…

“Does he know anything about Tío Bruno?”

Antonio pauses momentarily, pondering her question, before repeating it to the bird. The bird tweets and chirps, and Antonio nods his head along with him.

At last, the chirping stops and Antonio looks back to his prima. “Fabian says he doesn’t know him.”

She deflates just a bit; of course she hadn’t been expecting such luck to be on her side, but with this being her only idea of how to find her lost tío, it’s rather defeating. What is she going to tell Marty?

The bird continues to chirp and Antonio beams, “But he can probably find him. Give him…three to ten business days!”

“What?” Mirabel exclaims. The bird appears to be mocking her—or maybe it’s just her imagination—and a fire begins to burn in her chest. “Fabian, I don’t have that much time.”

Antonio giggles and the parakeet does its own version of a cackle alongside him. “Just kidding. He says to give him a day or two. If you promise to bring him some apples, he can make it a few hours.”

The fire in her chest subsides at her cousin’s words, and a new sense of hope floods her. The little bird suddenly flies off his perch on Antonio’s finger and begins to soar in the opposite direction from the rest of his flock.

Mirabel’s eyebrows raise teasingly. “How do we know he won’t just fly away?”

At this, Antonio smiles knowingly with a wave of his hand. “Trust me. Fabian and I go way back.”

With this problem seemingly on its way to being solved, Mirabel realizes she has an hour to kill before she had asked Marty to meet her. Her options are limited, as the rest of her family has been ordered to return to their routine duties, though it’s unclear what, exactly, that entails for Antonio. Still, he runs off to do his own thing and to explore every aspect of his brand new gift, and Mirabel heads into town.

It’s strange, really; the town is completely unchanged from the previous night. After all the fuss over Antonio and his new gift, and the party that might have lasted all the way through the night if it weren’t for Antonio’s bedtime, the rest of the town has returned completely back to normal this morning. Mirabel certainly doesn’t remember it being this way after her gift ceremony. Of course, she spent most of that day—and the next ten years—stuck up in the nursery, but she’s always assumed she had been the talk of the town for at least the next week. That’s certainly the way her family made it seem.

She spots Camilo in town first, who is doing his usual job of babysitting for the new mothers in town. There is not an abundance of them, but the few mothers who do live in the encanto certainly relish every minute they can get to themselves. Camilo has always been good with kids, anyway.

She gives him a quick wave which she expects him to return. Instead, his eyes widen at the sight of her and he gestures for her to come closer. She looks around to make sure that, yes, he is referring to her, and sneaks off to meet him.

He’s holding the baby of Señorita Quintero, who is likely back home cramming in hours worth of missed sleep in the short time Camilo has. It’s not as if Mirabel can blame her; she remembers Tía Pepa storming so much the week after Antonio was born due to sheer exhaustion. Although it was certainly jarring to see Camilo shapeshift into his own mother, it did help calm the young child significantly.

The baby in his arms must have fallen asleep rather quickly, as Camilo has already had time to shapeshift back into himself. Still, he looks worried now, despite his best efforts to keep the child from stirring.

It’s rare to see Camilo so disturbed; Mirabel approaches him carefully. “What’s wrong?”

He’s a terrible liar and he knows it; a bright pink blush appears on his face. “Psh, nothing! I just thought we should talk! You know, cousin-to-cousin, like we always used to…no particular reason.”

She is unamused. “Camilo.”

“Fine,” he grumbles. “But you can’t tell anyone.”

“I can’t tell anyone what?”

He looks around, wary of the nearby listeners who are nonexistent, and lowers his voice. “I think something’s wrong with the magic.”

Her expression remains unchanged. “I know, Camilo. You think that whole ordeal with the cracks in Casita was just for fun? I wasn’t making it up—“

“I know you weren’t,” he says defensively. “I’ve always believed you, but—but Luisa and Dolores think it’s something worse.”

“Luisa and Dolores?”

He nods in affirmation. “Luisa snuck off right after breakfast, so I followed her and…let’s just say, she’s freaking out more than Tío Agustín that time Antonio’s pet bumblebee escaped.”

She once again is not quite sure how to react, and it takes her a moment to process all that he’s said. “Why?”

Camilo swallows. “Apparently last night, when you saw the cracks, Luisa felt…weak. Like she was losing her gift.”

“Losing her gift?” Surely the size of Mirabel’s eyes resemble saucers. “Why would she be losing her gift?”

He shakes his head in defeat. “I don’t know, but apparently Dolores does. She came looking for Luisa, too, and they started whispering to each other for, like, ten minutes. It was weird.”

It’s impossible, she finds, to stop her mind from becoming flooded with questions neither she nor Camilo know the answers to. “Whispering? About what?”

“Obviously I don’t know if they were whispering,” he deadpans.

Mirabel smiles awkwardly. “Yeesh. Sorry I asked.”

“Well, whatever it was, Dolores wouldn’t tell me, and neither would Luisa,” he continues, ignoring her remark. “Mamá and Tía don’t seem concerned at all, but…I don’t know. I’m worried about the encanto.”

Mirabel furrows her eyebrows in concern. “What could Luisa and Dolores know that we don’t?”

Camilo hums unsurely. “I don’t know. But if I had to guess…”

He trails off and Mirabel eyes him. “What?”

“Think about it. What’s the one thing Luisa and Dolores were old enough to remember that we weren’t?”

It clicks almost instantly in her head and makes so much sense that Mirabel wishes she had thought of it herself. “You think it’s about Tío Bruno?”

“Hey, I don’t know. It’s just the one taboo topic in the Madrigal household; I’m sure they’d have no reason to be whispering about that.”

She would roll her eyes at her primo’s sarcasm if she wasn’t so used to it; instead, she bites her lip in deep thought. “There must be more to the story, then.”

“Honestly, Mira, I haven’t even been able to figure out what the main story is. And, trust me,” he grimaces, “I’ve tried.”

“Then maybe I’ll be able to get the story out of Luisa.”

“Go ahead,” he suggests, “but she’s busy rerouting the river. Good luck getting anything out of her.”

Mirabel finds herself grumbling at the face of defeat. “Fine. I’ll ask Dolores, then.”

At this, Camilo raises his eyebrows, still minding the delicate baby sleeping in his arms. “You think you’ll be able to get her to crack?”

“Well, I have to try,” she insists. “If there really is something wrong with the magic, I’m sure Dolores knows.”

————————————————————————

Of course Dolores knows, because Dolores always knows. Dolores always knows, whether she wants to or not.

She had only been eleven when Mirabel’s gift ceremony had taken place and Tío Bruno, whom she’d been rather close to for the majority of her childhood, suddenly vanished and was no longer considered a part of the ‘Amazing Madrigals.’ She had only been eleven, and it was rather tough listening to her family go back and forth between screaming in anger about her tío’s visions and sobbing due to his disappearance.

Of course Dolores knew of the vision he’d had and what it entailed for her youngest prima. Dolores knew he had left to protect Mirabel, and she knew he likely did not plan on coming back.

But it confused her, really; he wasn’t gone. The fact of the matter was that Bruno hadn’t disappeared at all, and all the turmoil and strife that came as a result of his so-called disappearance was for nothing.

It was rather convenient, how preoccupied the Madrigals became. Mirabel obviously was unavailable, and Camilo and Luisa hadn’t left her side in the nursery since she’d locked herself up in there; Julieta and Agustín did their best to comfort her for all of the next few weeks, while Abuela frantically searched for a cause and mourned the assumed loss of her youngest son. Meanwhile, of course, Félix spent the majority of his days trying to calm down his perpetually-storming wife, usually to no avail.

This left Dolores alone.

Only she wasn’t really alone, and a new sense of determination filled her.

She had managed to find the hinged painting on the wall fairly quickly, with minimal searching, and carefully crawled into the opening it revealed. The inside of the wall was dusty, and she nearly choked holding back a plethora of coughs that would have surely blown her cover; still, she continued on towards the source of the sound she’d been hearing.

It was rather strange; each time she got closer, the noise would move away, leading Dolores further and further into the depths of the wall until, finally, she could go no further.

Defeated, she slinked back out the way she came—nearly getting lost multiple times along the way—and aborted her mission. It was certain that Tío Bruno did not want to be found, and Dolores had decided she would respect that, as much as it would drive her crazy.

The noises in the walls persisted, and Dolores soon realized that her tío had not thought this living arrangement through too thoroughly. After all, how was he to find food, or keep himself company? If he’d wanted to leave, why hadn’t he done it, fully and properly?

But Dolores loved her tío and refused to watch him suffer any more than she knew he already had. So, every morning and every afternoon and every night, when the Madrigals would eat one of Julieta’s freshly cooked meals, she would sneak a plate of leftovers into the hole in the wall. It was no surprise when she would find it there later, every morsel of food completely gone.

It became fun after a few years. She remained the only one aware of Bruno’s presence in the walls and, in a family that shares everything with everyone, it felt damn good. Often Dolores would feel guilty, but Bruno clearly did not want her to say anything about his whereabouts. She was simply complying to his wishes, she would tell herself. Plus, it was always fun to listen to the telenovelas he would create, complete with a cast of rats which kept him company. She supposed Bruno was happy enough.

Dolores was sixteen when the noise in the walls stopped.

Her first thought was that something was wrong with her gift. After all, Bruno had been in the walls for five years now; there was no way he had left.

But she could hear the rest of the town just fine, and nobody else in the family mentioned issues with their gifts; she ruled out this possibility quickly, which was a relief on its own. Still, something else must have been wrong if the walls had gone dead silent in such a short amount of time.

That day was no different, as Dolores still left a plate of lunch inside the wall for her tío. However, it remained untouched, as did the plate she left out for dinner and for breakfast the next day.

It didn’t take long to push Dolores to edge, so much so that she revisited her mission from five years prior and climbed through the hole in the wall herself. After a rather long and treacherous into the depths of the wall, Dolores reached a small room, equipped with minimal furniture and a hand-drawn plate, on which the name ‘Bruno’ had been written.

But the man himself was nowhere to be found, even despite Dolores’ calls for him. A conclusion was reached very quickly in her mind: Bruno was gone.

She listened hard the rest of the night to no avail; not only had he left Casita, then, but he’d left the encanto altogether. What had driven him to do so, Dolores was unsure, but it broke her heart all the same.

Dolores is twenty-one now, and the noise in the walls has returned. It’s no surprise, then, that her little secret manages to slip out. On one hand, she’s glad it’s Luisa, arguably the most trustworthy Madrigal, who finds out. She has the best ability to reason, in Dolores’ eyes, and does not completely flip her lid when the truth gets out. However, Luisa is rather emotional, and Dolores sometimes worries her emotions will get the best of her.

It’s early in the morning the day before Antonio’s ceremony when she first hears it. She’s sure she’s hallucinating at first; is that really the same rustling and nervous-chanting she used to hear? She must appear rather nervous, because Luisa—who has just woken her up, filling in Mirabel’s usual role—questions her almost immediately. Dolores brushes off her discontentment as well as she can, and Luisa appears to buy it.

If it really is Bruno, Dolores decides quickly, she will not let him starve; she takes him breakfast that morning, returning to the routine she used to have all those years ago.

With a gift like hers, Dolores later kicks herself, because how could she not have heard Luisa standing there?

The strong Madrigal clears her throat. “What, uh…what are you doing?”

Dolores is sure she jumps a foot in the air, nearly sending the food on the plate flying. She considers making up an excuse to tell her prima; maybe she was only trying to catch a rat, or playing a harmless prank on Camilo.

But Luisa is certainly not dumb, and Dolores is certainly not subtle. Instead, she grabs her prima by the hand, yanks her into her sound-proof bedroom, and spills everything. She tells her cousin about the prophecy, about his living in the walls and leaving, about his rat telenovelas, and the way Dolores used to sneak him food. She tells her all she knows, and that sure feels damn good, too.

To say Luisa is flabbergasted is a dangerous understatement; in fact, Dolores is worried her jaw might become locked in its agape position considering how long it is held there. Surprisingly, however, Luisa is overjoyed that her long-lost tío is okay, and even more so that he’s returned. It is a feat, however, convincing her to keep it a secret; she’s simply dying to tell Julieta and Agustín and Abuela and every other Madrigal who has missed him for all these years, and Dolores practically must beg her to stay quiet. Eventually, she obliges.

The day of Antonio’s ceremony, Dolores hears a sound worse than her uncle returning to the walls. It starts as a rumbling noise that progressively becomes louder and harsher, and then becomes a crisp cracking noise, moving up and down the house. Along with the cracking and the rumbling comes her primita’s awful screaming, begging and pleading for Casita to stop breaking down. Inside the walls, she hears Bruno panicking, too, but the rest of the party appears oblivious.

It crushes her heart to watch Abuela dismiss Mirabel the way she does, and Dolores shares a concerned look with Luisa as it happens. She wants to stand up for her cousin, and to reveal the entirety of the ugly secret she and Luisa are harboring, but who is she to ruin her hermanito’s big day? She could never.

Dolores certainly notices Luisa escaping into the town after breakfast the day after the ceremony, and she notices Camilo following after her, too. She’s clearly in distress, and a distressed Luisa is often a blabbermouth, so Dolores panics and follows the two of them, hoping to calm Luisa enough to convince her to keep the secret.

She learns quickly about Luisa’s deteriorating gift and it only adds to her alarm, though Dolores is sure she had felt perfectly fine when the cracks had been noticed. Still, there must be something wrong if Luisa had been physically affected. If Camilo hadn’t been there, she certainly would express her newfound suspicion of a flaw in the magic; however, Camilo is much too concerned for Luisa to leave so quickly after he’s arrived, and he is a rather stubborn Madrigal. It’s not as if she’s afraid of Camilo making things worse, but rather she does not want to worry him, especially after how badly he’d been affected by Mirabel’s disappearance.

He eyes her as she whispers to Luisa, however, and Dolores knows that she has not gotten off scot-free.

A knock on her bedroom door, which she’d snuck off to, comes only ten minutes later, and Dolores is a bit surprised to find that it’s Mirabel and not Camilo. She opens the door regardless.

“Dolores, hey,” she says, gasping for air. She must have run here, Dolores guesses.

“Mirabel—“

“Can I come in?”

She’s being rather assertive, considering she hadn’t even talked to the rest of the family much in the last week. It would be refreshing if she didn’t look so desperate.

Dolores looks around, scanning the hallways for other listeners, and lets her primita in. Mirabel seems to relax a bit as she enters the large doorway.

“Let me guess,” says Dolores with a knowing smile. “You’ve been talking with Camilo.”

The look on Mirabel’s face is one of guilt and it tells Dolores all she needs to know.

She shakes her head. “Dios. You should know by now never to listen to mi hermano. He doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”

“That’s why I’m here,” reasons Mirabel. “Camilo may not know what he’s talking about, but I know you do. And you know that something is wrong with the magic.”

It’s a wild accusation, but a true one. Dolores turns a dull shade of pink and quickly tucks a stray strand of hair behind her left ear. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about Tío Bruno.”

That’s certainly not a phrase she hears every day.

“What does Bruno have to do with any of this?”

“Exactly,” she says in exasperation. “That’s what I’m trying to figure out. I know that Luisa felt weak yesterday when I saw the cracks—which were totally real, by the way—and I want to know what’s going on.”

Dolores suddenly finds it difficult to deny her prima the information she’s hoping for, but perhaps she can get away with a shred of the truth.

She sighs. “How much do you know?”

Mirabel appears stunned to have gotten through to Dolores at all; however, she composes herself rather quickly and clears her throat. “I, uh—I know Tío left the day of my gift ceremony. But I don’t know why.”

Dolores nods solemnly. “So you don’t know about the vision.”

Clearly, she does not. “What vision?”

“The vision Bruno had that day.”

Mirabel shakes her head.

“I don’t know exactly what it was,” admits Dolores. A lie, but one she can live with so as to protect Mirabel. “But I know it wasn’t pretty. It showed the magic failing somehow—I don’t know how—and something terrible happening in the encanto. That’s when he—that’s when he left.”

Based on the look on Mirabel’s face, she is obviously having a tough time processing Dolores’ information.

“But why? I mean, it was just a vision. Weren’t those pretty normal for him?”

“He was probably worried about being blamed for it—whatever it was he saw.”

Mirabel blinks. “What? But that wouldn’t have been his fault.”

“There’s a reason we don’t talk about him, Mira, and it’s because of how people viewed him.” Dolores sighs. “You’re right, it wasn’t his fault, but all of the encanto liked to blame him for his bad prophecies coming true, anyway. Take Señor Flores, for example; Bruno told him he’d lose his hair, and when it happened, he was so angered that Bruno never wanted to return to the church. And then there was Osvaldo Ortiz, who gained a few pounds, like Bruno predicted, and suddenly he was calling Tío a bad omen. Oh, and don’t forget about Señora Pezmuerto, whose fish died, and—“

“Let me guess,” interrupts Mirabel. “She blamed it on Bruno.”

Dolores nods. “She did. I don’t know for sure if that’s why he left, but with a gift like his, it seemed to bring more harm than good. All those prophecies none of us could understand.”

She shakes her head and Mirabel appears thoroughly unsatisfied. “So you think Bruno’s vision is coming true now?”

Dolores’ eyebrows furrow. “I think it’s possible, but I don’t know why. I just know that Luisa’s been affected, so there must be something wrong.”

It’s clear that Mirabel was hoping for more concrete of an answer than she’d received; nonetheless, she continues. “What do you think is wrong? I mean—with the miracle?”

“I’m not sure,” she confesses, “but I don’t want you to worry. You’ve been through enough, primita.”

It’s true that Mirabel looks plainly exhausted standing in front of Dolores, though she is rather good at hiding it.

Realization appears to dawn on Mirabel. “Those storms,” she begins, cautiously. “Those two terrible storms last month…Tía Pepa didn’t have control of those, did she?”

Dolores shakes her head.

“And both of those happened while I was…gone, right?”

She squints. “Did they? I can’t remember, but—“

“Dolores,” interrupts Mirabel, her voice quieting to a sort of squeak. “What if it’s me?”

“What?”

She’s focused now, her eyes fixed steadily on Dolores’. “What if I’m the reason the miracle is dying? I mean, think about it; none of this started happening until—until I left, and then—“

“Disparates, Mirabel,” says Dolores immediately. “This isn’t your fault.”

At her realization, Mirabel appears downright dejected. “But what if it is? I mean, I don’t even know how I’d go about fixing it, unless—unless I found Tío Bruno somehow. But now Camilo is freaking out, and Luisa is freaking out, I’m sure you’re freaking out, and I don’t even know where Bruno is, even though I promised Marty I’d—“

“He’s in the walls, Mirabel.”

It’s possible that Dolores did not think before blurting out what she just blurted out. She’d only wanted to put an end to Mirabel’s hysterics before they got too out of hand; however, the secret is out there now—for the second time in two days—and she cannot take it back, as much as she wishes she could.

Mirabel’s mouth falls agape, almost perfectly mirroring the way Luisa’s had the day before. “He’s…in the walls?”

Dolores is tense now, afraid that if she moves she might reveal another groundbreaking secret to her prima. It takes a few seconds for her to relax, giving into the permanence of what she’s revealed. “Sí, he’s been living in the walls of Casita.”

“He never…left?”

“Oh no, he left,” corrects Dolores. “But he’s back. I didn’t want to tell you, but—“

“No,” interrupts Mirabel, a thrilled smile falling upon her face. “No, I’m glad you did…Now I know where to find him! Maybe he knows what’s wrong with the miracle.”

Mirabel has turned to leave and is halfway through turning the doorknob when Dolores stops her.

“Mirabel,” she says desperately.

Mirabel whips back around.

“You can’t tell anybody. Tío Bruno left for a reason, remember?”

She nods in understanding, unable to wipe the grin off her face. “Thank you, Dolores.”

The door slams behind her as Dolores is once again left alone in her room. Dread and excitement compete inside her chest as Mirabel runs off, likely to either find Bruno or find that boy she’d become so attached to; either way, it leaves Dolores a bit wary, but a bit exhilarated, too.

Maybe Dolores is not as great a secret-keeper as she previously thought. Still, she’s surely earned herself a star prima award, and perhaps even contributed to the restoration of the encanto. She finds it hard to worry much.

After all, Dolores tells herself, if there’s one person who can save the miracle, it’s her primita.

Chapter Text

“Explain it to me again.”

Mirabel resists the urge to grumble at Marty’s request. Instead, she shakes her head, though she can almost feel her patience wearing thin. “For the last time. Dolores has known where Bruno has been all these years.”

“And we’re going into the walls…why?”

“Because that’s where he is.“

“So your tío has been living in the walls of your house?”

“Yes,” she says in exasperation. “Focus, Marty. We have a lot to do.”

“Lo siento,“ breathes Marty. “This is a lot to take in.”

“I know. That’s why I need you with me.” He appears confused, and she flashes him a grin. “Moral support.”

Marty tries to match her grin but it turns into more of a grimace. It’s not as if Mirabel can blame him for being apprehensive; they’d met at the old church only five minutes ago, and now he is struggling to keep up as Mirabel darts through the town in the direction of Casita.

But this is still the easy part, Mirabel decides. They’ll be faced with the task of sneaking in—sneaking Marty in—to the Madrigal household in the near future. And then, of course, there is the issue of whether or not they’ll be able to convince Bruno to tell them anything at all. She doesn’t remember much of the man, so she hopes against everything that he is willing to talk, if even for just a few minutes.

“I’m not sure this is such a good idea,” mumbles Marty. His voice is rather small, as if his nerves are getting the best of him as they often do.

Still, Mirabel pulls him along down the street the remaining few blocks towards their destination. “Me neither. But I have to find out what’s wrong with the miracle, and this is the only way I know how.”

She’s winded as they arrive after five minutes of rushing past everybody in town, and Marty still seems incredibly uncomfortable. It’s not as if it’s unlike him, but it is also proving to be rather inconvenient at this point; of course, she’s entirely convinced Marty’s unease is her family’s fault, so the blame is partially hers.

She looks around once they reach the front door. “My sisters and cousins are in town—at least, most of them—but you’ll still have to be careful. If Abuela sees you…”

She trails off, and it’s evident that Marty has no interest in hearing the rest of her sentence. He cringes. “Sí, I’ll stay behind you.”

Once she’s sure the path is clear, she slinks in, shrinking to the best of her ability. Marty is taller than her, though, and she realizes this might have been a mistake rather quickly. Still, they walk as slowly and silently as possible through the echoey entrance, away from the kitchen and up the stairs until they’ve finally reached the hiding place Mirabel had been planning to make use of.

She drags him behind the large plant near the railing, nearly receiving a face full of leaves in the process; still, she gestures for him to remain silent and investigates the area surrounding their mediocre hiding spot. When she’s relatively sure that the coast is clear, she grabs his hand once again and pulls him up, leading him in the direction of the bedrooms of her familia.

Once again Marty is following behind as Mirabel leads him through Casita; she is utterly determined not to get caught, and she’s thankful he’s managed to stay silent thus far. This is not her craziest endeavor, Mirabel decides, but it is certainly up there.

“Okay,” she whispers. “We’re safe. Now we just need to…go into the walls, I guess.”

“Sí,” he deadpans. “How, uh…how are we supposed to do that?”

Perhaps it’s because she didn’t think she’d get this far that Mirabel realizes she had not planned this out completely. The information she’d managed to force out of Dolores had been minimal, after all, and she realizes far too late that it might have served her well to search for entrances into the crawl space before she had an accomplice to sneak around. But it is too late, and Mirabel begins searching.

It’s Marty who notices the hinges on the painting and alerts Mirabel to its presence.

She examines it, peering into its opening cautiously. “What do you think it is?”

Marty twiddles his thumbs uncomfortably. “Looks like an entrance.”

“That’s convenient.” With a shrug, she motions for Marty to follow her into the hole that lies behind the faux painting. The hinges creak and the hole is rather small, but Mirabel feels she has never been so determined in her life.

Marty coughs. There is dust in the air and covering their surroundings and resting on the ledges of wood they slink through. Nobody has touched these walls in years; of this, Mirabel is sure. Maybe Dolores was wrong. Maybe Bruno has not returned after all, and this whole feat has been for nothing.

Then she sees the wax.

There is a fresh drip of wax resting on the piece of wood in front of Mirabel’s foot. Bruno has been there with a dripping candle and he has been there recently, and Marty seems to notice this, too; his eyes meet Mirabel’s knowingly. She swallows and continues down the treacherous path in front of them, concealing her fears for the sake of the miracle.

“Tío Bruno?” Mirabel calls out. Her companion follows silently behind, jumping every few seconds at the sight of a shadow or the sound of a rat, and he is sure she is crazy.

As they continue on, however, something seems to change. Cracks begin to appear in the walls alongside them; some are long and narrow, some short and yet seemingly deep, and the sight of each one makes Mirabel sink into herself just a bit more. She only stops fully in her tracks when she sees the few cracks that are filled with plaster.

Bruno has been here cleaning up her mess.

The memory of the cracks forming in Casita echo within the abyss of her mind and she begins to feel this is all her fault. The house is crumbling—the miracle is dying—all because of her.

“Tío Bruno?” she says again, weakly this time.

Her voice becomes increasingly small, as if her overwhelming nerves are infringing on her ability to breathe. She’s beginning to feel like Marty.

They continue down the rickety path inside the walls in spite of all of their instincts, until Mirabel stops suddenly. She is breathing hard and trembling, and Marty thinks that surely something is wrong; what has happened to the fearless Mirabel?

“Marty, we have to go back.”

His confusion is not lost on her. “What?”

“I can’t do this,” she sputters, slowly backing away from the path she’d been so eager to explore mere minutes ago. “I’m sorry.”

“Mirabel—“

It’s as if the walls are closing in on her out of the blue and she is sure she is destined to suffocate. How Marty remains unaffected is lost on her, as Mirabel feels like there is a fire burning in her throat and engulfing the world around her and there is nothing that can tame it except turning back.

“We shouldn’t be here,” she says again, her head now shaking vehemently. “I’m—I’m sorry.”

Marty grabs her hand. “Hey, take a breath. It’s okay.” She recognizes his voice and the fire seems to shrink a bit. “We can go back.”

“But then we’ll never—we’ll never save the miracle.”

“Who ever said it was your responsibility to save the miracle, anyway? You shoulder the world, Mirabel. Take a breath and let’s go back.”

She swallows the lump in her throat and nods desperately, turning on her heel along the narrow strip of wood she is standing upon and attempting to heed Marty’s suggestion.

A voice rattles against the walls, however, and she turns back quickly. It’s a small squeak of surprise and it comes from many feet away, yet the noise is loud and jarring, and Marty has jumped a mile into the air.

His eyes widen now and Mirabel chokes, stumbling only slightly. “Tío Bruno?”

Before she can question him any further than she has, he all but disappears into the darkness of the walls, his green ruana scooping a breeze behind him. Anxiety not forgotten but shoved away to the best of her ability, Mirabel looks at Marty, releasing her hand from his. “Come on!”

Before he can process any further, Mirabel is running down the narrow hall, chasing after the man in the wall. Marty’s mouth hangs agape briefly before he follows her, barely keeping up with her desperately fast pace.

It feels as if they are racing through a labyrinth and Marty fears more for Mirabel’s life than his own—after all, she is far more driven and even moreso careless than him—but the clear sight of her tío had sparked her ambition, and Marty knows better than to convince Mirabel not to pursue a cause for which she is so determined.

For what feels like a lifetime, Bruno disappears around every corner, and Mirabel subsequently chases him around every corner, her skirt nearly catching on every loose piece of wood or nail sticking out of the wall. “Hey!” she shouts after her tío, her voice echoing through the abyss into seemingly only Marty’s ears. His breath is shaky as he attempts to keep up.

Suddenly Mirabel stops and Marty nearly loses his own balance. A chasm awaits beneath them that Bruno has somehow managed to avoid, yet Mirabel has stopped in her tracks because of it. She huffs. “We can make it. But we’ll have to jump.”

“Are you sure that’s—“

Before Marty can finish his sentence, she has retreated slightly before throwing herself across the treacherous abyss, jumping from several pieces of wood along the edges and landing safely on the other side. She brushes off her skirt before looking back towards the nervous boy opposite her.

“Jump, Marty!”

He backs up. “No, no ninguna manera. You’re crazy.”

“Come on, we’re so close! You have to!”

“No way!”

“Marcelo Villegas. We can’t turn back now!”

“I kind of thought we were going to,” admits Marty, still retreating from the face of the chasm.

“Please,” she begs, eyeing the remainder of the labyrinth. “I don’t want to do this alone.”

At these words, Marty shuts his eyes tightly, breathing an exasperated sigh and cursing under his breath. “Dios, the things I do for you.”

Mirabel smiles. “I promise I’ll catch you!”

Shaking his head, he eyes the darkness beneath him and immediately looks back up, running straight towards the chasm and following the same path to get across. At last, he lands safely and grabs the hands of Mirabel who stands waiting for him, and they both breathe heavily and smile at his triumph—

And then the floor gives out beneath Marty.

Feeling his feet begin to flail, Marty cries out and Mirabel gasps, tightening her grip on his hand. Though the floor remains beneath her feet, she falls upon the fragile wood and her hand remains extended as Marty dangles from the ledge, now trembling with fear.

“Mirabel!” cries Marty.

She grips his hand tighter. “Hold on,” she says desperately. “Just hold on.”

“Pull me up,” begs Marty, willing himself not to look at the darkness beneath him.

“I—I can’t,” admits Mirabel, her voice strained.

“What? But you said—“

“I said I would catch you and I caught you!” Mirabel says through a strained breath. “But I can’t pull you up or I’m going to fall, too.”

Marty says nothing and continues to struggle; his efforts to pull himself up are to no avail, however, and he remains halfway through what is seemingly a fall to his death, with no hope but the grasp of his friend.

Mirabel suddenly feels another presence to her left and she suddenly thinks she must be hallucinating. Bruno Madrigal sits beside her, his hand now reaching down into the dark chasm in hopes of helping Marty as well.

Desperately, Marty reaches his other arm up and grabs the hand of Bruno; with his help, Mirabel is able to pull Marty up from the dark abyss and he lands on the ground beneath him, now safe and far more afraid than he’s sure he has ever been in his life.

Mirabel and Marty stand quickly, out of breath and backing away from the ledge of the floor beneath them as Bruno awkwardly looks towards his niece, then to Marty, then back to his niece.

He looks nervous as he finally speaks. “Did you say Villegas?”

Mirabel does not even realize that she is silent in her absolute shock at seeing her tío, fully and properly now. Marty discreetly taps her thigh and she snaps out of whatever trance she had been in moments before, finding quickly that her eyes do not, in fact, deceive her; Bruno Madrigal stands in front of her holding a dim candle and some sort of ruana—she does not recognize its pattern but can tell it has been heavily worn—and he seems far more shocked to see her than she is to see him. He is nothing like they had all described him; he stands nearly shorter than both Mirabel and Marty, and he is thin and frail and appears more nervous than the two of them combined. He is nothing to fear at all.

Mirabel coughs, remembering the question she has been asked but being unsure of how to answer. “Uh…no?”

Bruno’s previously paramount curiosity seems to disappear, as even upon Mirabel’s denial of her mention of such a familiar surname, Bruno says nothing except, “Okay,” before performing a sort of ritual in which he knocks on the wood panels around him, crosses his fingers, and sucks in a large breath of air which he does not release.

Mirabel’s eyes meet Marty’s and both exhibit confusion. “Um, what—“

“Bye,” interrupts Bruno, his held breath now released but his fingers still crossed tightly. He breezes past the pair of teenagers and continues down the path before them.

Mirabel stumbles. “Wha—N—Hold on!” She follows after her tío who is now moving at a much more reasonable pace, and Marty follows after. “Wait, wait—Tío Bruno!”

He does not turn back to look at his niece, however, but stops upon several blocks of wood, knocking them—and occasionally himself—with his fists, saying, “Knock, knock, knock, knock, knock. Knock on wood.” His cheeks once again puff up with a breath of air being held and his fingers cross once more.

They follow him further and further down the narrow pathway, eyeing several other repaired cracks in the walls along the way and eventually reaching a slightly homier area, equipped with Bruno’s own chair and a table and even a makeshift stage, of which Mirabel is unsure of its purpose. Still, she and Marty marvel at the change of scenery.

She takes a breath and tries again. “Tío Bruno—“

“How did you find me?” squeaks Bruno, interrupting her intended line of questioning.

Mirabel clears her throat nervously. “Uh, Dolores may have had something to do with it.”

“I should have known,” he curses. “Five years, she keeps my secret. Five years! She feeds me, she listens to my telenovelas, she stays quiet for five more years after that and now she tells you? You, of all people. You, who will climb into the walls just to find me. You, who especially isn’t supposed to know. This is all my fault. I never should have—“

“Bruno!” Mirabel interrupts, derailing the conversation significantly. “Tío Bruno. Please. I’m sorry, but we—we need your help with the miracle. I’m not even sure if you can help, but I—well, we thought it might be worth a try.”

“Woah, woah,” says Bruno, now turning to face his niece with slight concern. “Back up, kid. What about the miracle?”

Mirabel breathes heavily, barely daring to take her eyes away from her uncle, whom she has not seen since she was too young to remember but who now seems to be evoking every memory out of her. “Something is wrong,” she admits. “I don’t know. It’s dying.“

It’s as if he does not want to admit that she is right; he does know something about the miracle. However, his eyebrows furrow and his hands fidget, and eventually he sighs. “Yeah. I know.”

“You—you know?” Mirabel says. It’s not as if she’s shocked that he knows; she is simply surprised that her suspicions had been correct for once.

“But I don’t know much more than you.” He sits down on the green armchair in the middle of the small room now, his eyes wide and alert. Mirabel approaches him, followed by Marty. “Not about the miracle, at least.”

“Then tell us what you do know,” pleads Mirabel.

“I know you weren’t so pushy last time I saw you,” remarks Bruno with raised eyebrows.

Upon his reluctance to fulfill her request and slight insult, Mirabel huffs. Soon, however, she becomes distracted by her surroundings as Marty points out several details of the room which she had previously failed to notice. For one, it looks quite lived-in: this room is not nearly as dusty, there is a rather fresh, half-eaten arepa sitting upon a shelf, and several more ruanas sit against the wall, waiting to be worn. There are also several rats within the room but they are friendly; it’s as if they think they live there, too. Mirabel turns to her tío once again.

“Wow. You really do live in here?”

“No,” says Bruno firmly after releasing his breath once more. “No, I live over in Belmira. But I used to live here.”

Mirabel continues to look around with wonder. “Belmira?“

Bruno nods. “I left around your tenth birthday. Started a new life there, you know? Much better neighbors but, uh, no free food, which was a downgrade.”

“But we—we thought you left the day of my gift ceremony,” she continues in confusion. “Why did you…leave but not leave?”

She is met with silence and she resists the urge to grumble in annoyance. She and Marty have made it this far; she’ll be damned if she can’t at least get information out of her tío.

“Tío Bruno,” she says firmly. “What was in that vision?”

He swallows. “You know about the vision?”

Mirabel nods gently, now making eye contact with Marty, who speaks up at last. “That’s just about all we know, señor.”

Bruno sighs nervously, looking around the small living space as if searching for any intruders who might be listening. “I can’t tell you about the vision. I can’t tell anyone. I’m sorry, Mirabel.”

This time Mirabel sighs in dejection, locking eyes with Marty who looks nearly as defeated as her. “Please, Tío,” she begs again. “I can’t save the miracle unless I know what’s wrong.”

“Maybe it’s for the best, then,” argues Bruno. “What makes you think it’s your job to save the miracle, sobrina? And who says there’s even a way to save it?”

Mirabel huffs once again. “I just don’t—I don’t want to be blamed if something happens to it.”

Bruno blinks. “Why would they blame you?”

“Why don’t you ask them?” Marty says in his first contribution to the conversation in ages. If there is one thing he will comment on without fail, Mirabel has realized, it is her own mistreatment within her family. Her hypothesis holds up even now.

She clears her throat. “They don’t exactly have much…tolerance for me right now.”

“Or ever,” adds Marty with resentment.

Bruno eyes both Mirabel and Marty nervously. “It’s that bad?”

Mirabel sighs. “It’s worse. I mean, it’s been bad for a while, but—but it’s worse now than ever. I seriously don’t think any one of them would mind if I just stayed in here with you for the rest of my life—you know, if I left but didn’t leave, like you. Or even if I really did leave.”

“So why don’t you?” questions Bruno bluntly.

“I tried. I mean, I never left the encanto, but…I hid away for a while,” she looks at Marty. “I think it just made everything blow up in my face.”

He considers the information she’s given him and is at a loss for words.

Mirabel’s rambling unintentionally continues.“Plus, I mean…I don’t really want it to turn into more of a ‘We Don’t Talk About Mirabel’ type of situation, so…” She realizes what she’s said the second she stops talking and her face heats up dangerously. “Woah. Sorry. I just meant—“

“I know what you meant,” he assures her with an uneasy grin. “I wouldn’t wish my fate on anybody. But, Mirabel…there’s only so much you can take, you know? You and I both know how our family can get. Just because they blame you doesn’t mean you’re to blame. And—and there’s only so much you can do…about the miracle, I mean.”

She is thoroughly dissatisfied; Marty’s eyes meet hers, hoping to send some sort of message that subtly says to stay calm. However, her eyes only begin to well up against her own will.

“Please, Tío,” she begs. “Please. I think—I think I really am the reason it’s dying and I need to know everything so I can make it right. No matter how they treat me…they’re my family and—and I don’t want to hurt them. I need to figure out how to stop it or else—“

Mirabel stops and takes a breath, partly because she is choking on an unwelcome sob and partly because she is unsure of where to go from here. At last, she begins again.

“I messed everything up. I know I did,” she says softly. She feels Marty’s hand tenderly placed on her shoulder and she eases up slightly, though emotion still overtakes her. “I met Marty and I saw how a real family acts, and I rebelled against my own family, and—and I know I made everything worse, but I just…I didn’t want to be the black sheep in La Familia Perfecta anymore.”

Bruno doesn’t look her in the eyes; he can’t.

Mirabel continues. “But if it isn’t worth it—if none of this has been worth it, and I really am hurting my family…if I should apologize, and let everything go back to the way it was before—just tell me. I need you to tell me.”

Again, Bruno has no answer for her. No answer for the poor Madrigal who didn’t get a gift and who has never heard a clear answer in her life. Mirabel sighs but she does not resent Bruno. She could never resent him because he is her.

Bruno is misunderstood. Bruno is the outcast. Bruno is her .

“I never wanted to see that vision,” he explains to her with desperation. “I never wanted to see any vision. But your abuela was worried about the magic, and she—she begged me to see the future, the night of your fifth birthday. She begged me to reassure her that things would be fine. But you know how it is, and—I saw an unclear future. I saw casita broken, crumbling. And then I saw you, standing right in front as if—as if the whole thing had somehow been because of you and I—I knew how things would look. I knew how they would treat you.”

Mirabel could hear the exhaustion in his voice. This clearly was not any better a memory to him than it was to her. “So you left…to protect me?”

“Well, anyway, it didn’t help much. You’re still the scapegoat and I’m still the taboo Madrigal and nothing’s changed. And, you know, nothing probably ever will change, so you might as well just—“

“But you didn’t really leave,” she interrupts, refusing to accept Bruno’s attempt at ending the conversation and any of her efforts to save the magic. She ends up looking through the crack in the wall near Bruno’s makeshift table and plate, complete with a messy inscription of his name. She sees their dining table, as tidy and clean as ever despite the events of the previous day. 

Bruno catches the confused gleam in her eyes. “No, not right away. I only planned to stay in here a few weeks, maybe. I planned to just…figure things out for a while, you know? Decide where I would go and then leave and never look back. But then I had one last vision before I left, and I saw another ceremony—not yours or Camilo’s, so I figured it had to be a new kid. Antonio didn’t come along for five years, so…that’s how long I waited.”

Mirabel tucks a curl behind her ear. “You lived here for five years?”

Bruno nods. “I figured my gift wouldn’t work outside the encanto so, you know, I wanted to wait until he was born. That way I would know exactly when to return.”

“But you didn’t even know Antonio,” points out Mirabel gently. “And you still came back.”

Her tío shrugs, now not meeting her eyes. “My gift wasn’t helping the family, but, uh, I love my family, you know? I didn’t know Antonio, no. But he’s still my family.”

Mirabel takes a breath, pondering upon his words. The story makes complete sense and even makes Mirabel admire her tío more now than ever; however, she stills feels a sense of dread for the fate of her poor uncle. All he has ever done was done to protect her, or to protect the miracle, and yet he remains cooped up inside the dusty wall or halfway across the country in Belmira.

She shivers. Bruno clears his throat and stands from his chair.

“Well, now you know everything,” he says in a strangely cheerful tone. “You two should probably go and get back to, uh, whatever it is you were doing, you know, because, uh—well, I don’t really have a good reason, but if I did, you’d be like, ‘I should go, because that’s a good reason.’”

He attempts to hoist the pair of teenagers towards the path they came from, but they both resist. Mirabel turns back to face him. “Uh, Tío Bruno? You should, um…you should probably know something—“

“It really was great to see you again, Mirabel. You’ve grown so tall,” he continues obliviously. “And you, mystery kid. Such a pleasure to meet you.“

“Tío Bruno—“

“And good luck with the miracle, sobrina. I would say you can come back and visit, but—“

“Tío Bruno, we know about Clara,” she interrupts abruptly.

Bruno freezes and Mirabel is briefly afraid she’s ruined any chance they have of leaving on good terms with her tío. However, he barely reacts. “You, uh…you do?”

“Sí,” chimes Marty nervously, feeling it is his place now to contribute. “We do.”

Bruno sighs now as if they have evoked memories he’s worked tirelessly to repress. Still, Mirabel persists.

“Earlier, when you asked if I had said Villegas…I lied. This is, um…this is Marty Villegas. Clara and Esteban’s son.”

Bruno studies Marty now, who is blushing nearly as red as the lettering on Mirabel’s skirt. A hint of a smile appears on Bruno’s face, although it is rather pained. “Wow, kid. You have her eyes.”

Marty smiles. “Papi says that, too.”

“How is your father?” Bruno questions quietly.

Marty smiles more now, eyeing Mirabel as if asking permission to speak to her tío. She smiles back and he continues. “Very happy. He misses you, señor.”

“Tío Bruno,” interrupts Mirabel. “I need you to have another vision.”

“What?” he says, jarred by her request. “No.”

“I know you don’t do that anymore,” she says quickly, almost pleadingly. “But it might be the only way to save the miracle. Now that I know what you saw, I need you to see more. I need to make sense of your vision somehow.”

“Don’t you get it, kid? It doesn’t matter what I saw,” counters Bruno, his head shaking. “There’s no way to change it now. And, anyway, I’m not sure you can save the miracle. I’m not sure anybody can.”

“Well, I have to try,” she says desperately. “Please, Tío.”

He is silent for a few seconds as if considering her request. Mirabel decides she must have quite a way with persuasion, as it is moments later when Bruno sighs in defeat. “Fine. But we’ll need to be careful if we’re using my vision cave. If your abuela sees me—or anyone, for that matter—“

“They won’t,” she assures him. “If anyone knows anything about sneaking around Casita, it’s Marty and me.”

Marty smiles in glee, now finding himself almost excited at the prospect of witnessing one of Bruno’s visions.

Once again, Bruno sighs. “All right, all right. Let’s go have a vision.”

Mirabel nearly jumps. “Let’s go have a vision!”

“Lead the way, kid,” says Bruno through a smile. “And watch your step.”

Bruno’s method of receiving a vision is slightly unorthodox, Mirabel thinks; however, she quickly realizes she is unsure of what an orthodox vision-receiving method would look like anyhow, and she clears her mind completely. Bruno appears utterly nervous prior to the event—he is likely out of practice, Mirabel decides—and she briefly feels guilty for causing such discomfort. She reminds herself that this may be only way to save the miracle, to save her family and herself from utter turmoil, and she relaxes slightly. Almost as nervous as Bruno is Marty, who is jittery and jumpy and is driving her absolutely crazy; however, again she reminds herself that she has dragged him along and she is ultimately grateful for the support.

After a few minutes of preparation, Bruno sits. “You ready, kid?” he asks.

Mirabel meets his eyes. “Are you?”

He shrugs, lights a few fires upon the sand, cracks his knuckles, and grabs hands with both Mirabel and Marty.

Mirabel thinks it might just be a sandstorm at first; the sand beneath them begins to swirl around the trio in a circular motion. She looks towards her tío, whose eyes have now begun to glow green; she should be startled, but she is mystified.

The sand creates a dome around them and soon a vision, glowing green like Bruno’s eyes, appears right in front of them. She wants to look at Marty, to make sure he has not dissolved in fear, but she is too stunned by the vision to look anywhere else.

The first thing that appears is the candle upon the window, only its flame is flickering and beginning to die. Seconds later, the window pane itself cracks.

Next are brief images of further disarray: the encanto splitting right down the middle, the house crumbling from the roof down.

Then Mirabel appears. Just as Bruno had said, she stands directly in front of Casita, who appears normal at first but soon becomes engulfed in cracks as if—

As if it is all because of Mirabel.

“It’s just the same thing,” says Bruno through the chaos. “I’m sorry, Mirabel, but—“

His train of thought is interrupted as the vision continues, flashing a new scene which had not appeared in his previous vision. Mirabel watches in bewilderment.

The scene in front of them is now a glaring image of Abuela, who is holding the candle which still seems to be flickering and weak, only Mirabel appears now, smiling uncharacteristically, as she takes the candle from Abuela. Upon their exchange, Casita appears behind her once again—only now, the cracks are patched and the candle is no longer flickering. The miracle has been restored—

Because she has made amends with Abuela.

“What?” Mirabel whispers.

“That’s it, kid,” says Bruno. “I think we found your answer.”

“But—but that doesn’t make sense!” cries Mirabel. “I’ve tried to make amends with Abuela and the miracle is dying anyway. No, there has to be some other answer—something we’re not seeing!”

Marty squints his eyes and suddenly points up towards the image in front of them. “There! Mirabel, look!”

In front of them appears a golden butterfly, flitting through the air seemingly towards something. Mirabel gasps.

The butterfly quickly flies to a new scene, in which Mirabel is no longer holding the candle and is no longer standing in front of a cracked Casita; the house still appears, but it is different somehow, almost as if it has been built brand new. She is accompanied by someone new as well, whose expression appears almost as shocked as Mirabel’s. Within the vision, she sees herself look out towards a large crowd of people—however, the scene narrows in on a familiar face.

Marty.

He smiles at her and Mirabel turns back to her unidentified companion with tears in her eyes; she then reaches out towards her and envelops the girl in a hug. Behind her glows the candle, brighter and stronger than ever before.

“I don’t understand,” yells Mirabel through the wind. “I need to…hug someone to save the miracle?”

“That’s what I’m seeing,” confirms Bruno.

Mirabel furrows her eyebrows. “But—but who?”

Bruno concentrates now as Mirabel squints, hoping to make out the face of the girl she appears to embrace.

Her face is suddenly in view and Mirabel’s heart sinks.

“Isabela?” she shouts in disbelief.

Marty covers his ears beside her as the vision reaches its end. Though she had hoped to find answers, Mirabel finds herself drowning in a larger pool of confusion than before.

“Hey, your sister! That’s great!” Bruno says unknowingly.

She huffs beside him, half-inclined to storm out of the vision cave completely. Upon locking eyes with Marty, however, she manages to calm down enough as to not upset the situation further.

Still, Mirabel is thoroughly displeased. “How on Earth am I supposed to save the miracle by hugging Isabela? Isabela, who hates me, who will barely even be in the same village as me, let alone—“

“Mirabel, please, just calm down a second,” implores Marty, holding out his hand in a signal to stop.

“No, I can’t,” she says stubbornly. “Not when the key to fixing the stupid miracle is a stupid hug with my stupid—“

“Forget about Isabela,” says Marty. “What about that first part of the vision?”

“What, the part with Abuela?” Mirabel asks, almost breathless from her outburst.

“Sí, the part with your abuela.”

“Marty, don’t you remember? I did everything I could to appease her. I apologized to her for leaving because she treated me so unfairly. There is no way that making up with Abuela will save the miracle.”

“No, no,” agrees Marty. “You’re probably right. But…think about it for a second. Does your abuela even have a gift?”

Mirabel stops, confused by his insinuation. “No, technically not. But she’s the candleholder; she doesn’t need one. The miracle is her gift.”

Marty smiles. “Your abuela is the candleholder?”

“Yes,” says Mirabel, now in exasperation. “She keeps the candle safe, maintains the integrity of the miracle, yadda, yadda, yadda. But I don’t understand what that—“

“Mirabel!” Marty cries. “In that vision she was handing you the candle. Don’t you understand?”

She does understand now, and all of the sudden she has the urge to grab Marty and pull him in and squeeze all the air right out of his lungs. “You—you think I’m—“

“You’re the next candleholder,” announces Marty in glee. “That’s why you didn’t get a gift. That’s why the miracle started dying when you left Casita. You didn’t destroy the miracle—it was weak because you were gone!”

Mirabel laughs joyfully at their realization. “Dios! Marty, you’re right!”

Upon their bought of glee, Bruno cuts in nervously. “But, uh, what about the rest of the vision? That part with Isabela and—and the whole crowd and everything?”

“I don’t know,” admits Mirabel, sinking only slightly. “Maybe…maybe they’ll throw me a new ceremony? I don’t know. But it doesn’t matter. I have to go tell Abuela—“

“Mirabel,” interjects Bruno, his feet feeling rather unstable against their sandy landscape. “Are you sure this is a good idea?”

This causes Mirabel to pause now, her joyful hysterics forgotten. “What do you mean?” she questions, before smiling. “We finally have an answer to everything. We finally know why I didn’t get a gift. This is my chance to explain everything to Abuela and—and save the miracle.”

“Yes, you’re right. You’re right. But maybe…maybe you shouldn’t have to.”

His words are either lost on Mirabel or simply jumbled within all the information she has received in the last five minutes. She stands, dumbfounded. “I—I don’t understand,” she confesses at last.

“I just mean…” Bruno bites his tongue nervously but wills himself to continue. “All I’m saying is, even though you finally have an answer as to why you didn’t get a gift…you shouldn’t have needed one.”

Mirabel’s heart nearly plummets upon his implication and her own realization that perhaps he is right; she never should have needed a gift to earn Abuela’s love. She never should have been required to earn it in the first place.

Suddenly the idea of being candleholder sits in Mirabel’s head as more of a burden than a solution.

Still, she takes a deep breath and smiles. “Thank you, Tío Bruno,” she says. “For everything.”

“You’re welcome, kid,” he says with a slightly uneasy smile. “And, hey, after you save the miracle…come find me.”

Mirabel grabs Marty’s hand now, preparing to lead him out of Bruno’s treacherous vision cave and sneak him back through the house which, somehow, does not seem like such a feat anymore.

Mirabel smiles. “After I save the miracle, I’m bringing you home.”

Chapter Text

It’s lunchtime when Mirabel and Marty return from their journey into the walls, and she can tell Abuela is in the house; it’s riskier now than ever, but with the help of Mirabel’s skirt which acts as a cover of sorts and her abuela’s inclination to pay little attention to her anyway, they manage to sneak Marty out and quickly hide behind Casita before slinking away back through the village.

They both still remain on a slight high from their recent findings within Bruno’s vision cave and it manifests through a giddy trek back to Marty’s house, in which neither of them can seem to keep still for longer than a few seconds and Mirabel particularly bumps into far more people than usual.

They stop once they reach the well-kept garden in the front of the Villegas estate and Mirabel smiles. “Could we meet by the river? Maybe after dinner, to watch the sunset?”

Marty blushes now and nods. “Sí, I would love that. And you’ll tell me how it goes?”

“Oh, yeah,” she confirms, her head bobbing up and down and her curls subsequently following in a similar motion. “I’ll stop and get some polvorosas on the way…to celebrate!”

She bounds off then, waving a quick goodbye to her friend and taking off onto the cobblestone path towards Casita and her family.

She arrives five minutes later, breathless and sweaty now as she bursts through the front door and down the hall to the kitchen where the Madrigals have already gathered for lunch.

All eyes fall upon her as she nearly skids to a halt upon the slick floor, grasping the doorframe and panting in exhaustion. Still, she ignores the staring and the exhaustion and looks up. “Abuela!” Mirabel exclaims. “Abuela—“

“Mirabel,” says Abuela, now standing from her chair at the head of the table. “What on Earth is going on?”

“It’s okay, Abuela, I—I know how to save the miracle! The magic, it’s—“

“What are you talking about?” questions Abuela. “There is nothing wrong with the magic.”

Mirabel breathes heavily still; the rest of the family watches on from their seated positions at the table as she steps forward. “No, Abuela, the cracks—the cracks I saw during Antonio’s ceremony—they were real. They were real and I know how to stop them!”

“Mi nieta, I am not having this conversation with you again,” says Abuela firmly. “I said there is nothing wrong with the magic. That is that.”

Mirabel resists the urge to shout in frustration at her dismissal of the situation; instead, the desperation of her plea to Abuela intensifies as she feels her face begin to heat up. “No, please, Abuela, please. If you’ll just listen—“

“Mirabel,” she interrupts quietly and resentfully, but Mirabel is undeterred.

“No,” she says adamantly. “When I was gone, and Pepa couldn’t control the storms…there was a reason for that. And—and during the ceremony, when Luisa felt weak, there was a reason for that, too. I thought it was just because—because there was some sort of issue with the magic itself, but then we saw this vision, and—“

Mirabel realizes her mistake when it is halfway out of her mouth and she can longer withdraw it. Abuela’s eyes widen and Mirabel feels her heart drop to her stomach.

“You saw a vision?”

“N—No. Well, yes, but—“

“You‘ve seen Bruno?” accuses Abuela.

Mirabel feels as if she has shrunken ten sizes just in this moment alone; she backs up slightly, terrified by her grandmother’s narrowed glare.

Nervously, Mirabel clears her throat. “I thought that, maybe—maybe he would have the answers. And I was right! We saw this vision where the house was crumbling, the—the miracle was dying, but it was saved because you gave me the—“

“That is enough, Mirabel!” Abuela’s voice is several times louder now and Mirabel jumps a foot in the air. Behind Abuela, Julieta now stands from her chair at the table while Dolores covers her ears in pain and Pepa cradles a frightened Antonio; the rest of the Madrigals watch on. “I do not care what you think you’ve found. You have consistently disobeyed me—disobeyed your mother and the rest of the family—and it has done nothing but hurt this family and its name. And now, to go behind our backs like this? I will not tolerate it any longer.”

Mirabel feels as if she will no longer have a voice if she attempts to speak; her heart pounds right in her face now as she takes a shaky breath. “I was just trying to help the family.”

“You’ve helped the family enough.”

Abuela’s words are another punch in Mirabel’s stomach and she feels as if she has physically been weakened; still, her hands ball into tight, angry fists at her sides. “So you think it’s my fault.”

“I believe your disobedience and willful ignorance has caused the family name to—“

“Why do you care so much about the family name?” interrupts Mirabel, now positively irate. “How—how can you stand there and tell me the miracle is dying because of me when I’ve done nothing but try to save the miracle?”

“You have done nothing but disrespect me! Leaving this family without a word for weeks…running off and finding Bruno without our permission…not to mention fraternizing with that disrespectful boy—“

“You only shunned Bruno because he learned the truth about this family! Just like you shunned Clara because you couldn’t handle that the miracle had finally backfired—“

“What do you know about Clara?” Abuela suddenly interrupts. She is no longer yelling as she had been mere moments earlier; her voice has fallen into an unsettling calm now, as if she could bare a hole through Mirabel’s forehead with only her glare.

“Enough,” replies Mirabel firmly.

“And whom did you pry this information from?”

“I did not pry,” she argues. “He told me everything willingly.”

“Who?”

“Esteban Villegas.”

The previous deep red on Abuela’s face is drained from her complexion at the mention of Marty’s charismatic father. “Esteban Villegas?”

“He told me about Bruno’s vision…the way you all turned your backs on Clara…he told me she was devastated because you blamed everything on her.”

Abuela’s expression appears to return to its previously livid state, although it is clear her intense demeanor has been slightly shattered. “Had she not been unfaithful, I would not have blamed it on her.”

“She wasn’t unfaithful. You pushed her away. You pushed her into the arms of Esteban.”

“And she found happiness there,” snaps Abuela with conviction. “Why should I pity a woman who lived a life of happiness?”

“It doesn’t matter that she lived a happy life! You still hurt her, and—and she isn’t the only person who’s been hurt because of this miracle. Look around!” shouts Mirabel. “Look at Luisa. She is constantly exhausted because…because the entire village puts her under so much pressure that she can barely breathe! And Dolores. Do you think Dolores likes shouldering the secrets of the entire encanto? Do you think she enjoys being forced to listen to every crack in the walls, every fault in the miracle every hour of the day? And—and Camilo…Camilo barely even knows who he is anymore!”

Around the pair, Casita begins to tremble and the walls release a familiar cracking noise. Julieta grabs Agustín’s arm and Pepa braces herself against the wall, and yet Mirabel is far too wrapped up in her argument with Abuela to care in the slightest.

“We have been blessed with this miracle and I will not have you insulting its name and the name of your Abuelo Pedro!” reprimands Abuela. The cracks in the walls deepen and Antonio begins to wail.

Still, with newfound confidence, Mirabel takes a menacing step forward. “Abuelo Pedro blessed us with our miracle because he loved this family. He would be so ashamed of all of us if he knew—“

“All of us, Mirabel? No. Abuelo Pedro would be ashamed of you.”

The thundering sound of the spreading cracks throughout Casita reach a climax as a large chasm appears on the ground directly between Mirabel and her Abuela. As the very walls of Casita begin to crumble around them, the Madrigals find themselves thrust into an immediate state of panic; the previous argument is forgotten as each of the Madrigals desperately attempt to dodge the falling pieces of the dear house that contains all the memories from their childhoods.

Camilo finds himself shapeshifting rapidly to avoid falling debris and Isabela grows glorious vines from which she swings in an attempt to escape the deteriorating house herself. In a matching state of panic, Mirabel manages to find an escape route that, if she is quick enough, should allow her to escape Casita with just enough time to—

Mirabel stops. A quick glance above her introduces her to the catastrophic reality that is the death of the miracle itself. Sitting in its usual windowsill, the candle begins to fall with the crumbling infrastructure and flickers like there is a mighty wind.

Mirabel is supposed to keep that candle safe. Hadn’t she and Marty and Tío Bruno just discovered her role as candleholder a mere hour earlier? She is supposed to protect the candle and the family and she is supposed to save the miracle.

Mirabel’s head whips around towards her family, who are now being forcibly pushed out of the house by Casita itself, its tiles serving as waves which prevent any of Julieta and Agustín’s attempts to stay in the house and go after their daughter. The family is safe but the miracle is not.

With newfound conviction, Mirabel bounds towards the candle, which by now has nearly been knocked completely off the windowsill and bares only a dull flame. Casita assists in her attempts to reach it at first, providing a ladder made of the railing from the second floor and hoisting the tiles of the roof up so that she can almost reach the candle, almost, almost…

Her fingertips are centimeters away from grabbing the remnants of the candle and assumedly all that remains of the miracle itself when a familiar voice sounds in the back of her mind.

You have done nothing but hurt this family and its name.

The voice is Abuela’s, and it is real and familiar and so loud within Mirabel’s head that she briefly looks around as if her grandmother is somewhere nearby, saying these things into her ear.

It will only be for a short time…until we’re sure that Antonio hasn’t turned out like you.

Mirabel resists the urge to physically cover her ears now, although she knows it would do little to prevent the sound of Abuela’s voice from ringing between her ears. She has never been able to block the voice out before; why should she try now?

Abuelo Pedro would be ashamed of you.

The unwarranted thought suddenly makes Mirabel hesitate, her fingers unwillingly curling away from the candle and, subsequently, causing her to lose her momentum towards grabbing it. Casita seems to notice her falter as Mirabel is suddenly thrust from her position on the makeshift ladder to the floor of Casita and the candle above her finally ceases its flickering and loses its flame completely.

Casita’s tiles do not force Mirabel out of the house as it had her family; instead, it uses its last bit of strength and control to cover Mirabel with two doors thrown off of their hinges as the remains of the house crumble around her and leave her surrounded by a pile of debris and rubble which somehow still seems to have a vague semblance of home.

At once, the world around Mirabel goes quiet.

The rubble settles and the dust clears and she can hear the distant, quiet cries of her mother but she finds herself unable to move, or speak, or think, or do much of anything at all. The candle has gone out—the miracle is dead—and it is all her fault. For once, it truly is all Mirabel’s fault.

Trembling, Mirabel stands quietly, uneasily, and escapes the remains of the destroyed house, coughing and sputtering a bit as she does so. Most of the town has arrived to investigate the destruction they have either heard or seen from their own homes, and their faces—of those that Mirabel can vaguely see—exhibit pity or terror or shock or a combination of all three.

As Mirabel steadies herself on another unhinged door which has managed to survive the destruction, Abuela’s voice dulls the ringing in her ears once more.

You’ve helped the family enough.

With several wobbly steps and short, shaky breaths, Mirabel flees the scene.

Although their house is relatively far from that of the Madrigals, at least in comparison to most of the other homes in the encanto which are close in proximity, the noise that comes from the destruction of Casita is strikingly loud and is enough to alarm all three members of the Villegas residence. Marty is in the garden when he hears it, loud and clear, though what ‘it’ is he is unsure of at first.

Esteban remains inside with Manny but the noise startles both of them; standing from his previous position on their sofa, Esteban opens the front door and is met with the puzzled face of his eldest son. Esteban’s curiosity quickly turns to confusion as well as the shockingly clear sky comes into view.

“Is it not storming?” Esteban says to Marty. “I thought I heard thunder. Must have been in my head.”

Marty shakes his head, unable to remove his gaze from the direction of the sound. “No, Papi. I heard it, too.”

Esteban looks around their front yard for a moment before his eyebrows furrow. “Marty, why don’t you come inside?”

Suddenly on edge, Marty does not try to disagree with his father, setting down the small rake he is holding and taking a few steps in the direction of the door. However, his relocation is cut off when one of their neighbors, a rather young-looking woman named Señorita Rojas, rushes over to their property.

“Ay, did you hear?” says Señorita Rojas, slightly unsettled and out-of-breath. “Did you hear that loud noise?”

“Sí,” responds Marty. “We thought it might be thunder, but—“

“No, no,” she interrupts. “La Casa Madrigal has fallen! Señir Ortiz said he just saw it crumble.”

Upon hearing the words of his neighbor, Marty feels that his heart has begun to pound directly into his face and that perhaps his feet have become glued to the floor.

“What?” cries Marty. “What happened? Is everyone okay?”

“Lo siento, I don’t know,” responds Señorita Rojas sympathetically. “All I know is that Casita has been destroyed.”

Unsatisfied, Marty whips around to face his father, whose face sports a similar expression of consuming worry for all of the Madrigals but, of course, especially Mirabel.

“Papi—“ begins Marty, gently but desperately.

“Go,” interrupts Esteban with a familiar knowing expression on his face.

Marty’s relief is tangible as his feet become unglued from the ground beneath him. “Gracias, Papi. Oh, thank you!” He does not even wait for his father’s response before he bounds off from their property down the cobblestone path.

“But be careful,” shouts Esteban. “Be careful, Marty!”

Marty arrives at the site of la Casa Madrigal in record time, barely even out of breath as he joins the enormous crowd of people that has formed at the scene. He spots the majority of the Madrigals, all of whom appear deeply distressed and focus on nothing aside from comforting each other, yet there is no Mirabel in sight. He forces himself through the crowd to get a closer look, even approaching the rubble at one point, in search of Mirabel, but his hunt is futile. A deep pit settles into the bottom of Marty’s stomach.

The only Madrigal who stands alone is one Marty recognizes well: it is Mirabel’s abuela. Though stoic and relatively emotionless as she examines the site of the fall, Marty is sure she is the most distressed out of all of the Madrigals, although he finds it hard to pity the woman after all he knows she has put Mirabel through.

He is not sure what consumes him in that moment, but Marty suddenly finds himself approaching Abuela with desperate, terrified steps.

“What happened?” cries Marty, approaching the old woman against his better judgement. She says nothing but looks at him in disdain and slight confusion. Still, he persists. “Señora, what happened? Where is Mirabel?”

“The miracle,” she says weakly, as if her knees are near giving out. “It is gone.”

“What? No,” he says. “No, that wasn’t supposed to happen…she was supposed to save it. Mirabel was going to save it, señora.”

Abuela does little but close her eyes in distress. “Lo siento. She has destroyed our miracle.”

All of the sudden, every ounce of Marty’s confusion and worry and even desperation manifests in the form of pure, unkempt anger. His eyebrows furrow and his face begins to heat as if he is on the surface of the sun, and he takes a step closer against his own will. “En serio? You’re blaming this on Mirabel?”

Abuela appears angry now too, though it takes form as slightly more restrained. “Ay, some nerve you have!”

“Lo siento, but you can’t seriously think this is Mirabel’s fault. Didn’t she…didn’t she tell you?”

“She has told me all I need to know. Mirabel is no longer part of this family,” she says coldly, and Marty feels himself struggle to restrain himself from lunging towards to woman.

“How can you say that?” Marty all but sobs, his voice cracking and breaking with emotion. “How can you disown your own granddaughter, let alone the—the next candleholder?”

The boy’s words appear to stop Abuela in her tracks. She tilts her head somewhat downwards to meet his eyes. “What?” questions Abuela gently. “What did you say?”

“The candleholder,” he repeats with intensifying desperation. “The vision. We—we saw a vision, me and Mirabel and Bruno, and you were handing her the candle. Mirabel is…she is the next candleholder, the—the protector of the miracle. That’s why she doesn’t have a gift, señora; she is like you. Didn’t she tell you?”

Again, Abuela is silent, her frail hands and wrinkled fingers beginning to shake at her sides. “No. No, she didn’t tell me.”

Marty notices now a few of Mirabel’s family members have gathered around the pair and have begun listening into their conversation. Marty recognizes the young woman with long hair and a pink dress now covered in dust as Mirabel’s sister, and the older woman next to her as her mother. Another boy, about Mirabel’s age, appears to be listening as well, his ruana also powdered in dust and his hair sporting tiny pieces of rubble from the fallen house.

Seeing that Abuela has now entered a nearly catatonic state in shock, Marty looks towards Mirabel’s mother, who is grasping onto Mirabel’s oldest sister, and takes a step in her direction.

“Señora,” he says now to the slightly younger woman. “Where is Mirabel? Is she hurt?”

“I don’t—I don’t know,” says Julieta, her voice weak and quiet as if the life has been sucked out of her. “I don’t know. She’s gone.”

“What do you mean she’s the candleholder?” questions the boy now, whom Marty assumes to be one of Mirabel’s primos.

“I mean she is the next protector of the miracle. Or she—she will be, after your abuela. That’s why she doesn’t have a gift, and that’s why the miracle is destroyed now. She was trying to save the miracle and save the family and—and you all shunned her.”

Marty is emotional once again, feeling all the anger towards Mirabel’s family which he has kept hidden away beginning to bubble up and surface.

“Why must you speak to our family this way?” It is Abuela once again chiming in, although her tone is not harsh nor irate, but rather dull and almost guilty.

“I am sorry, señora, for being disrespectful. I know it isn’t my place. But now Mirabel is gone, and you need to know what you’ve done to her,” says Marty, taking a breath and gathering his thoughts as the few members of the Madrigal family continue to stare in his direction. “I’ve seen it all first-hand,” he begins. “I know, without a doubt, Mirabel cared so deeply for the family, and for the miracle, despite not having a gift and despite feeling as if she did not fit in with the rest of you. She cared so much, and the fact that she felt all of you didn’t care about her in the same way, it—it tore her apart. Lo siento, but it did. And when she ran away and was staying with me, she would cry to me, just wishing that she could return home and that things would miraculously be different. That—that her family would value her, even without a gift. But that never happened, and—and even though that never happened, she loved you guys—all of you—and she somehow still shouldered the burden of the miracle faltering. All she wanted was to save it—to fix the miracle and to save her family.

“So we found Bruno and we realized the truth…she was so excited to tell you, but I guess she never got the chance, and that’s why I’m telling you now. Mirabel is the next candleholder. She has been the one keeping this miracle intact, and you need to find her and apologize for everything—for the way you all treated her the last ten years of her life and for everything you have put her through—or else there will be no more familia Madrigal. Lo siento. It’s the truth.”

Marty’s tirade ends and he is out of breath while the Madrigals continue to stand stagnant and stare at him, and for a split second he braces himself for Alma’s livid response, but it does not come.

“Ay,” says Abuela, almost completely silently. “She—she tried to tell me…she was going to tell me she was the next candleholder and I became angry with her. This is my fault.”

Marty does not have time to respond as he is stricken with surprise at Alma’s response and acceptance of guilt for the current situation.

“We need to find her, Mamá,” says Isabela, whose expression has morphed from worry and confusion to pure determination. The way Mirabel had described this particular sister does not seem to line up with her reaction now, but Marty assumes there must be a reason for her sudden shift in attitude.

Julieta nods quickly, her grasp on her daughter tightening. “I know, mi vida. We will do our best. But she might not want to be found.”

“Well, we have to try,” insists Camilo, now taking a few steps towards Marty. “What if she left the encanto for good?”

“No, she wouldn’t do that,” responds Marty almost instantly. “I’m sure she wouldn’t leave the encanto. Señora, where might she be around town? Is there anywhere you think she might have gone?” He directs his question to Julieta, who still appears immensely distressed and ponders his question for a moment.

Julieta opens her mouth as if she is about to speak but quickly closes it once more. At last, after another brief pause, she responds. “I don’t know. I’m sorry, I don’t know. Maybe she is at your house, Marty?”

He nods slowly, unconvinced. “Sí, maybe.”

“I’m going to start searching the town,” announces Isabela. “We’re losing time. We need to find her before sunset or else it will be too dark. Come on, Camilo.”

Camilo quickly follows behind Isabela as she turns away from the group and heads towards the town’s main cobblestone path, but Marty quickly stops in his tracks.

“Wait,” he says. “Wait, what did you say?”

Isabela turns around and shoots him a bit of a funny look. “I said we need to find her before sunset. Before it’s too dark and we can’t—“

“No, no, I heard you,” says Marty, now in an inspired daze. “You’re right, it’s getting close to sunset. We were supposed to meet somewhere, to watch the sunset tonight.”

“You think you know where she is?” Julieta questions, almost in disbelief.

Marty shakes his head now now, sharp and quick. “No, not for sure. But I know where we need to look. Out in the woods, near the river.”

A knowing look is shared between each of the Madrigals except Abuela, who is still standing silently off to the side, likely grappling with her newly accepted guilt about the situation.

“Camilo, Isabela, why don’t we ask around town while Marty goes to the river? You’ll bring her back here, sí?” says Julieta, her eyes locking with Marty’s.

“I’ll try my best,” he promises.

Julieta nods now and begins in the direction of the town. Camilo follows closely behind, but Marty notices that Isabela does not move, her expression unreadable. After a few moments of uncertain silence, she speaks softly.

“Can I go with you?”

Marty is slightly stunned, but clears his throat. “Um, sí, but I don’t think that—“

“I know,” she interrupts. “She won’t want to see me. But I need to talk to her.”

Although he remains slightly suspicious of Isabela’s intentions, he nods slowly. “Okay. But we should hurry.”

Isabela agrees and brushes off a bit of remaining dust from her formerly bright pink skirt. Once Marty is sure he is remembering the location correctly and is therefore traveling in the correct direction, he takes off down the path with newfound determination.

Mirabel’s eldest sister follows closely behind.

The trek off the beaten path and through the mossy woods does not seem nearly as time-consuming as it had the last time Marty had made this particular journey, although perhaps it is simply the adrenaline coursing through his body that provides him with excess energy even in the midst of their dire situation. Either way, he is relieved that the journey feels shorter, and despite a few pauses they are forced to take to allow Isabela to step over some particularly large roots, they arrive unscathed to the destination in which Marty suspects Mirabel has taken refuge.

The moss-covered rocks come into view first, but the trees obscure the rest of the location. Marty takes a step forward first, pushing away several branches and hanging leaves until, at last, his suspicions are confirmed.

Mirabel sits on the edge of the rocks, her knees hugged into her chest. Marty’s heart skips a beat.

Turning around to face Isabela who is staring at him in suspense, he nods. “Let me talk to her first.”

There appears to be no protest from Isabela, who simply remains silent and nods in approval of Marty’s suggestion. Slowly, the boy pushes back the branches once more and this time slinks through the trees to approach Mirabel.

Careful not to frighten her, he takes rather noisy footsteps to alert the girl of his presence, and it works; gently, she turns around.

“Marty,” she says, and begins to melt.

At once, Marty is wrapping his arms around Mirabel as she dissolves into sobs, clinging onto handfuls of Marty’s ruana and burying her face into his shoulder.

Unknowingly, Marty releases a sigh of relief, accepting the embrace. “Dios, Mirabel, I—I thought you were…” Unable to finish his horrific thought, he grasps Mirabel tighter, his hand finding her dusted curls and resting on the back of her head. “I’m so glad you’re here, I’m—I’m glad you’re okay.”

“I ruined everything,” insists Mirabel through thick, hiccuping breaths.

“Mirabel, you didn’t—“

“The miracle is dead. I was supposed to save it.”

Unsure of what to say, he allows her to cry for a moment and takes his own time to simply be grateful that Mirabel is alive, regardless of her emotional state. Grasping her tightly, he embraces her warmth and her familiar scent and thanks the universe for bringing her back to him.

After a moment, Marty takes a breath. “You did not ruin everything. I promise.”

Mirabel refuses to let go of her grasp on Marty still and simply mumbles into his shoulder. “Yes, I did. I’ve failed everyone.”

In turn, he becomes almost desperate now, at last releasing the emotional girl from the embrace and grabbing both of her hands vehemently. “No you haven’t! Mirabel—“ He meets her eyes now and notices they are absolutely bloodshot, void of the typical spark he has grown used to. He is sure he has never seen her like this; even in her distress during her stay at the Villegas residence, he is certain there had been substantially more life, more hope in Mirabel’s eyes. He takes another calming breath. “Mirabel, you know it isn’t true. Everything that your abuela has told you, about disrespecting the miracle or hurting the family name…none of that is true. She only said all of that stuff because…because she needed somebody to blame everything on other than herself. I wish you could see that this is not your fault.”

Mirabel shakes her head now, violently enough that her curls bounce and manage to shake off a bit of dust that remains from Casita’s fall. Tears still flow down her pink cheeks like raindrops down a window, but her eyes are wider now. “But what if it is?” she says, almost as if an idea has struck her. “I mean, I—I was supposed to protect the miracle, wasn’t I? As the—the candleholder?” She sniffles and her grasp on Marty’s hands tightens. “I couldn’t even do that. I ruined the house, I—I tore the family apart…Maybe Abuela was right about everything.”

Genuine shock overtakes Marty’s expression against his will. “Mirabel, how can you even…” Finding himself unable to fathom what has just come out of his friend’s mouth, he blinks, shakes his head gently, and squeezes her hands once more. “Mirabel,” repeats Marty with desperation. “I don’t understand what’s gotten into you. You know your abuela is unfair to you and you have never believed a word she has said, not in the entire time I have known you. Why do you suddenly believe that you’re such a failure just because your abuela said so?”

“I don’t know,” she admits tearfully. “I don’t know, I just…I didn’t mean for everything to go this far.”

“It only went this far because of how she treated you. You are not to blame for all of this,” he says for what feels like the hundredth time in the past few months. Still, as many times as it takes to make Mirabel truly believe it is how many times he will say it.

“Maybe not entirely, but—but they’ll blame it on me anyway.”

Mirabel sounds positively dejected and it frightens Marty to his core; still, he knows he must convince Mirabel of her innocence before the erroneous notions currently being juggled in her mind become doctrines within her subconscious.

However, before he gets a chance, a twig snaps behind them and both of their heads turn in the direction of the noise. Marty holds his breath as Isabela comes into view, and Mirabel looks and Marty now, shocked.

“Why would you bring her here?” she says now, only slightly accusatory but awfully perturbed.

“She just wants to talk to you,” he explains gently. “I told them, your family. About the vision, and your gift. I told them everything.”

“It doesn’t matter,” insists Mirabel, defeatedly. “None of that matters now. Just…tell her to go back to town, back with—with the rest of the family.”

“Mirabel—“

“I’ll come find you later, just go. Please, Marty, take Isabela and go.”

Her pleading makes his heart shatter slightly, and while he has half a mind to ignore her wishes and stay by the river with her until sunset, he knows she is not herself and perhaps it is his responsibility to give her the space she needs to think everything through. Decision made, he stands and approaches Isabela, eyeing her and motioning towards the path back home, but Isabela does not budge. One eyebrow raised, Marty questions Isabela’s protest, but she shakes her head.

“Just…let me try,” whispers Isabela.

“Are you sure?” Marty asks, and Isabela nods and furrows her eyebrows.

“Yes. Just let me try,” she repeats.

With reluctance, Marty allows her to step through the trees as he had mere moments earlier and approach Mirabel. If anybody might get through to Mirabel, Marty is sure, it certainly would not be Isabela. Still, he is desperate, and he suspects the Madrigals are desperate as well, so he does not say a word.

As Marty takes off down the path back to his home, Isabela sits gingerly next to her youngest sister on the edge of the rock, remaining silent for a moment and listening to the sound of the rushing water in front of them. After a minute or two, Isabela takes a breath.

“You know, if you’d asked me yesterday, I would have agreed with you. That you’d ruined everything.”

Mirabel does not even look at her sister but says in her dejected tone, “Isabela, please—“

“Just shush,” interrupts Isabela. “What I’m trying to say is that you changed my mind. You were right. About everything.”

This admittance causes Mirabel to raise her head from its previous position buried into her arms and look at her sister.

“When you ran away, I thought you were being so selfish. You know, I thought that you were abandoning the family because you were jealous of all of us, but…I think I was the one who was jealous of you.”

“Jealous of me?” questions Mirabel, a genuine spark of curiosity now present in her inflection.

“Uh huh.”

“Why? I mean, you—you’re the one with a gift. You’re the one with the perfect life.”

At this statement, Isabela nearly snorts. “Are you kidding?” she says incredulously. “I would do anything to give up my gift. It’s not so easy being this perfect all the time, you know.”

“Yeah, okay, Isabela.”

Realizing her mistake, Isabela turns to face her sister more directly now. “I didn’t mean it like that. I just meant…you might not think I see how Abuela treats you, but I do. I know she’s too hard on you. And that’s why there’s so much pressure on me to be perfect all the time, you know? Because I know that if I’m not, Abuela will start to treat me like that, too.”

Mirabel cannot muster a response at first, partially in shock that Isabela is opening up to her the way she is and partially because she had not thought of all that Isabela is telling her; perhaps she had not realized how difficult it must be for her sisters and cousins, trying to avoid the wrath of Abuela just as much as she does.

Without waiting for a response from her sister, Isabela continues. “So, I know I’m supposed to be upset and—and afraid because the miracle is dead, but I’m not. I’m relieved. And I’m sure I’m supposed to be mad at you for stirring all of this up, but instead I’m…I don’t know, grateful, I guess. Standing up to Abuela the way you did takes a whole lot more courage than I’ve ever had.”

The smallest bit of a smile peeks through on Mirabel’s face as she looks at her sister. “Well,” begins Mirabel gently with a sniffle, “I’m glad to hear you don’t hate me.”

Isabela returns the smile, a foreign sight in the eyes of Mirabel but genuine nonetheless. “No, I don’t hate you. And neither does the rest of the family. Honest,” she assures her sister. “But they need you to come home. Mamá is worried sick.”

“I know,” admits Mirabel with a tinge of remorse in her voice. “I just…I don’t want to face Abuela again. I don’t think I can do it.”

Isabela sighs, sharing Mirabel’s slight apprehension towards coming face-to-face with Abuela once more considering the catastrophic outcome of the last conversation had between them. She looks out towards the river once more. “We’ll do it together.”

Mirabel raises her eyebrows at her sister.

Isabela shrugs. “Clearly I have some things I need to say to her, too. So we’ll do it together.”

Slowly, Mirabel begins to nod and looks out towards the horizon with her sister, feeling a rather heavy weight lift off her chest for the first time in what feels like an eternity.

“Okay. We’ll do it together.”

The flowing river in front of her seems significantly more tranquil now just as the rest of the day ahead of Mirabel no longer seems so daunting. As the two sisters continue to relish the peacefulness of the flowing water, for the first time, Isabela takes her hand.

Unintentionally, the pair of sisters do not return to the former location of the Madrigal residence until the sun has begun to lower in the sky. The Madrigals remain at the site of the tragedy, some of them being comforted by various members of the town, while others remain huddled next to each other, simply looking downcast at the rubble that they used to call home.

The first to notice the return of the pair is Julieta, who jumps up immediately and rushes towards them. “Oh, mija, you found her. Mirabel, are you okay?”

Sinking into the embrace her mother has offered her, Mirabel sighs. “I’m okay, Mamá. But I need to see Abuela. Where is she?”

Gingerly, Julieta grabs her daughter’s shoulders and releases her from the hug. “She’s in town looking for you, mi vida. She should be back soon, before the sun has set completely.”

Looking towards Isabela, Mirabel nods. “Okay. We’ll be back too. I promise.”

With Julieta’s approval, the pair begins down the familiar cobblestone path in search of their grandmother. It is a foreign feeling to Mirabel, to be willingly in search of the woman whom she has come close to despising in the past few months, especially with the support of her eldest sister. Still, she feels a new sense of confidence as she prepares to confront Abuela, and she does not even tremble when she and Isabela find her searching around the bakery and approach her.

Abuela’s expression is nearly unreadable, a jumbled amalgamation of deep concern and cautious confusion.

“Mirabel…gracias a Dios,” says the old woman upon seeing her formerly lost granddaughter. Her voice sounds slightly broken and is void of its typical determination.

Mirabel takes a rather long breath, her previous air of confidence dimming only slightly under the gaze of her abuela.

“Mirabel and I want to talk to you,” says Isabela, noticing her sister’s inability to find the proper thing to say.

“Yes. I would like to speak with you both as well,” agrees Abuela, although Mirabel assumes the statement is directed more strongly towards her. Cautiously, Mirabel takes a step forward towards her grandmother.

“Listen, Abuela,” she says, her voice slightly timid but not nearly as shaky as in the past. “I know…I know you think this is my fault. I know you think that I’ve—I’ve disappointed the family and that I’ve ruined everything and—and that might be true in your eyes. I don’t know. But…but I just need you to know why I did everything I did.” Abuela says nothing, barely even meeting her granddaughter’s eyes, and Mirabel continues with only a moment of hesitation. “For years I tried to be somebody I’m not, and I couldn’t…I couldn’t do it anymore. I don’t have a gift. I will never have a gift, and my whole life I have felt like I am just—just worthless because of it. And I know it isn’t true, but that’s how it felt, being the only Madrigal whose birthday wasn’t celebrated and who was left out of family photos and…well, you know.”

Mirabel awaits an angry response from Abuela to Mirabel’s accusations of her, but it does not come. Instead, she appears almost apprehensive, although the nervousness in her eyes is so minuscule that she might have missed it had she blinked.

Mirabel continues. “So I tried for years to make up for not having a gift, to—to make you like me, but when nothing seemed to work, I knew there was no way I would ever compare to everybody else in the family, so…so I tried to distance myself from the family. I know that wasn’t the right thing to do, but I didn’t know how else to handle it. I’m sorry for that. Really, I am,” she admits. “And I didn’t mean for all of this to blow up the way it did. I love this family and I never…I never meant to hurt any of you. But I need you to know that I can’t just…act like everything is fine anymore. We are broken, and that is the truth. I’m—I’m sorry if that upsets you, and you can blame me all you want. But we are broken.” 

Mirabel’s speech ends and she finds herself shrink once the moment is over, trembling only slightly now that the truth is out in the open and Abuela is free to react in whatever way she might choose.

Her response is far from immediate; once again, Abuela’s face morphs into an unreadable expression, and Mirabel’s heart pounds directly in her face as she waits for her grandmother to gather her thoughts. Next to her, Isabela takes her hand.

At last, Abuela takes a breath, looking away from the two young women in front of her and down to the ground.   

“Your friend…” begins Abuela, her voice thin and hollow and positively despondent. “He came looking for you after Casita fell. He told me about the result of Bruno’s vision, and of your position as the candleholder. And I suppose I see now that…you do have a gift, although I could not recognize it previously. Your gift has simply not yet presented itself. And that…that truly changes everything.”

While her heart continues to pound, Mirabel feels her knees loosen from their formerly locked position, though the lump in her throat hardens significantly.

Abuela continues. “And, yes…it is true that I have been hard on you. But it has been for good reason, mi nieta. It has been in order to protect our miracle, and everything it is for. And now, knowing your role as the candleholder, it is clear that the pressure I have put on you has been entirely necessary. You are the future of the miracle. You must protect it as I have.”

Her heart sinks upon hearing her grandmother’s unwavering position on the matter, but her voice does not falter. “But, Abuela, don’t you see? You’re completely losing sight of who the miracle is for,” insists Mirabel. “Abuelo Pedro gave us this miracle to protect us, to keep us safe. Us, your family. You depend too much on how the miracle presents itself that you never—“

“Ay, Mirabel,” interrupts Abuela, her tone shifting now to one of annoyance and almost resolution. “As I have told you many times, I do not wish to argue as you do. We will never agree. I believe we have come to that conclusion. So we must learn not to fight, if not for our sake than for the sake of the family.”

“How can you say that when the miracle is dead, and the family is all in pain, all because of your actions? Abuela, how can you seriously not see the effect of everything you have done?”

“Mirabel,” warns Isabela from beside her, placing a gentle hand on her trembling wrist. “It’s okay.”

The action grounds her, and Mirabel manages to take a deep breath to avoid another emotionally heated argument which will surely only end in more damage done.

“I know fighting with you will be pointless. You will never understand. But I just wish—“ Mirabel stops short, a wave of fresh tears cutting off her words. “I wish you could see how much this has hurt me. And everyone in the family. But I know now…you will never see that.”

As Mirabel had suspected, Abuela appears quite taken aback by her youngest granddaughter’s response, furrowing her eyebrows at the young girl in front of her.

“Sí. I suppose I will not.”

Mirabel is unsure of how to continue until she hears the short, hollow breath of her sister beside her.

“I know that I will never get the apology I deserve from you. I have given up on trying. But—but it’s not only me who you’re choosing to dismiss. Isabela will tell you, she has been deeply affected, too. It’s not just me who has been hurt by you, and this miracle.”

The silence that follows is almost deafening, but Mirabel stands firmly on the ground now, refusing to back down from her position of defending her family. Abuela appears almost hurt, but her defensiveness presents itself the most strongly.

“Isabela,” says Abuela, shifting her gaze to meet the eldest of her grandchildren now. “Is there something you would like to say as well?”

After a moment of hesitation, Isabela nods slowly. Mirabel holds her breath, almost afraid this whole experience has been a set-up and that Isabela will turn on her and side with Abuela, too. But Isabela’s voice begins to tremble in an unfamiliar way, and her fears ease. “Abuela,” begins Isabela softly. “It…doesn’t feel like much of a gift anymore…always having to be so perfect. It feels like a curse.”

Abuela sighs, bringing a hand to her face and wiping sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand. “Ay…not you as well.”

“I’m sorry,” says Isabela gingerly. “I know you didn’t mean to, but…you’ve put a lot of pressure on me—on all of us. And especially on Mirabel. It is not her fault that the miracle has died. Really, Abuela.”

Again, Abuela remains silent, almost contemplative. Her eyes meet Mirabel’s and a twinge of incredulity is evident in her gaze; then again she meets the eyes of Isabela and shares with her a similar look of disbelief. At last, she shakes her head.

“Well. I suppose it is possible that my putting so much pressure on you to be perfect has somehow led to the downfall of this miracle,” says Abuela, her eyes focused primarily on Isabela and skimming past Mirabel. “I understand it has not been easy. But you must see that I am only doing what has been necessary to protect this miracle. There will be tribulations along the way. Lo siento, but that is the way of life. Perhaps blaming Mirabel has not been completely fair, but neither is blaming me. I am the matriarch and I must be strict to protect everything we have.”

At Abuela’s final words, Mirabel finds herself wanting to cry. All the effort she has put into finding Abuela, and admitting her feelings, and standing up for herself has been completely in vain. Abuela has not understood her at all. Abuela has not even listened.

“I know you are resentful of me,” she says pointedly towards Mirabel. “I know you are both upset. But we all must learn to get along.” She suddenly speaks very decisively. “If this miracle is to be saved, we must put our differences aside and work together to remain a family. The happy, loving family this village depends upon. And that will require work from you two as well. I do not know if we can rebuild this miracle…but we must try. And that means no more running away to the houses of enemies, or bitter arguments at dinner. I will try my best not to incite any arguments myself. But you must stop provoking me, Mirabel.”

“Provoking you? Abuela, that’s not fair—“

“Mirabel,” she says again, firmly. “We will not argue. We will return home. Let us go—now.”

Extremely begrudgingly, Mirabel decides to bite her tongue though letting out a low growl of frustration, realizing quickly that there is nothing she can say to get through to her grandmother. Everything had truly been a waste. Her acts of rebellion, her futile attempts to save the miracle, her countless arguments with Abuela—they have all accomplished nothing except bringing them back to where they started, this time without their miracle and with a deeper fire of hatred and anger burning in Mirabel’s stomach.

There is something dehumanizing about the entire situation, in which both of the girls have been completely dismissed, and Mirabel sinks a bit deeper into herself. 

The walk back to the rest of the family following their conversation is made in melancholy silence, and Mirabel finds her hand making its way to Isabela’s once more, the weight of the events of the day finally taking a toll on her. She loses herself in her own thoughts as they continue down the path, her previous feeling of anxiety morphing into what can only be described as dread. Why, she is unsure. 

She reasons with herself at first. She certainly should not have expected Abuela to apologize. Cruel, dismissive Alma Madrigal would never be caught dead apologizing for treating her unfairly or for blaming the fall of the miracle on her or frankly for any of her actions, and yet Mirabel still feels unsatisfied with the outcome of the evening despite her low expectation. The resentment which walks the line of hatred that she feels towards her grandmother refuses to soften in the slightest and, in fact, she feels it might have grown. 

It’s the principle of the situation which depresses her, she supposes. It should not have taken a huge, explosive argument and the destruction of their house and, of course, Isabela’s involvement in the ordeal for Abuela to consider that maybe, by some off-chance, she had perhaps been partially to blame for everything that had happened. Mirabel resents it, because why must it take so much for Alma to accept the tiniest shred of her own blame but so little for her to pin the blame on Mirabel? 

And, she supposes, nothing can ever quite make up for the way she has been treated for the past ten years. No amount of apologies or admittances of guilt, had Abuela given them, could have ever made up for the pain she has felt ever since she had been identified as the giftless Madrigal. She tries her hardest to cling on to the smallest bit of hope that comes with Isabela’s applogy, but all she can seem to focus on is how small that bit of hope seems to be. Without an apology or vow to change her ways from Abuela, the hope remains minuscule.

She is completely deep in these depressing thoughts when they reach the former site of Casita. For the first time in as far as Mirabel can remember, her family greets her as if she is the special one, each of them opening their arms for an embrace and expressing their relief that she is alive, that she is okay. Not a single person mentions the argument with Abuela, but a select few do make a quick comment about their discovery of her role as the candleholder and how they are so proud of her. The giftless Madrigal at last has a gift.

It’s such a foreign feeling, Mirabel realizes, to feel so loved by her family as she does at this moment. It’s such a foreign feeling that Mirabel feels a sour taste begin to seep into her mouth.

She glances towards the remains of Casita and thinks for the first time that, maybe, the miracle had truly been destroyed long ago.

Abuela puts her hand on Mirabel’s shoulder.

Yes, she decides, definitively now; Casita’s fall had not been the death of the miracle. No, the miracle had been destroyed long ago. And perhaps this time, Mirabel thinks with a twinge of hopelessness, there truly is no way to fix it.