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There are only a couple of hours left to go before the ceremony, the long tables set out on the lawn, the band warming up in the courtyard, the guests already trickling in, when Bruno finds himself and his cloak at an impasse. He is dressed in traditional wedding attire, a pair of white linen pants and a white guayabera shirt, his hair carefully brushed and his beard neatly trimmed. He’s expected downstairs for a family photograph, the first Madrigal portrait to include Dolores’s groom Mariano, and the very last thing he wants is to cause the young couple even a moment’s inconvenience on their special day. There’s just one thing standing in the way of his looking presentable: The stupid cloak won’t let him go.
Since he’s started wearing it every day, he’s noticed the length of green wool felt developing a personality of its own. Most of the time, it hangs around his body in a relaxed state, like ordinary fabric, but increasingly, it grabs and pokes, exploring the world with its thumblike corners. At night, when he throws it over the back of his favorite red chair, the cloak has begun to protest by winding itself around his wrist and making him twist his arm free. In the morning, he barely has enough time to change into a fresh shirt before it’s leaping back up onto his shoulders with what can only be described as canine enthusiasm.
Bruno is grateful, of course, for his favorite sobrina’s most generous gift; The cloak’s healing magic has given him a whole new life, reducing the pain that once kept him from leaving the house to something far more manageable, and teaching him the strength, and grace, and steadiness he never knew his body was capable of. In so many ways, Mirabel’s kindness has freed him; If only it would let go of his left leg right now, so he could run downstairs to be in this damn photo.
He kicks, trying to shake it off, as the cloak winds its way in a corkscrew fashion towards his torso. He tries pulling it off manually and it tenses, threatening to cut off the circulation to his foot. The wool fabric is both luxuriously warm and dense, a heavy felt that began its life as a blanket. When it reaches his waist, spiraling up his torso like a boa constrictor, he has to take deep breaths to stop himself from panicking. He yanks at it with both hands and the coil relaxes, the hood reaching up to stroke the side of his face in what he guesses is an apology for squeezing him too hard.
“Let go of me,” he says out loud. “Casita?” He asks the infinitely distant ceiling of his tower, from whence falls a constant trickle of glittering sand. “Casita, are you doing this?”
Taking its usual place around his shoulders, the cloak unfurls itself down his back to cover most of his body. He flicks it aside but it disagrees, hugging him closely from behind and pulling its hood over his head.
Bruno stamps his feet, which feel stiff and constricted in closed leather shoes. “Casita!” he yells. “I don’t have time to play games with you. I was supposed to be downstairs, dressed appropriately, like ten minutes ago.”
The tiles on the walls flutter as Casita begs ignorance of his predicament. The cloak massages his shoulders, relaxing against him in what he can only interpret as a sigh of relief as the drawstring ties itself in a neat bow around his throat.
“You are not invited to the wedding,” he hisses, grabbing a fistful of fabric and shaking it.
The stress is already giving him a headache, and he hasn’t even left his tower yet. All he wants is to look normal, act normal, and stay out of Dolores and Mariano’s way. Why does that have to be so difficult?
The hood draws itself over his eyes, tempting him with the promise of healing his headache before it gets worse. And it will get worse, he knows. Crowds, noise, stress, alcohol— Almost every element of what worsens his symptoms is bound to be present at a big Madrigal party.
“Nope,” he says, pulling the hood off his head and trying to fix his tousled hair. “Not today.”
There’s a knock at the door, which swings open on its own to reveal a fully dressed-up Mirabel.
“Tío Bruno?” she calls, stepping into the room. The white dresses she sewed for herself and her sisters are crisp and simple, so as not to upstage the bride, while still elegant enough to distinguish them as members of Casa Madrigal. Her hair is pulled tightly into a knot at the base of her skull and woven with leaves of white poinsettia, it being the Christmas season, a borrowed pair of Julieta’s finest silver droplet earrings dangling from her ears. “Are you ready?” she asks him. “Everyone’s waiting for you to take the picture.”
Bruno sighs through his nose. “Sorry,” he says. “I’m having some wardrobe difficulties.”
Mirabel steps closer, lifting her skirts out of the sand. “What do you mean?” she says. “You look great.”
He tugs at the cloak. “Well, I can’t wear this, obviously.”
“Why not?” She frowns.
“It’s not wedding attire.” He unties the bow from around his neck and resumes trying to throw the cloak off his back, speaking to her through gritted teeth as he fights with it. “I don’t want to ruin the photo.”
Mirabel rolls her eyes. “Come on,” she says. “I really don’t think anyone will mind.”
“No,” Bruno huffs, shaking his arm as the cloak clings to it for dear life. “The whole Encanto is going to be at this party. I refuse to be the only person there dressed as a Grimms’ Fairy Tale.”
Mirabel chuckles.
“Oh you think that’s funny?” he asks. “I swear, you kids have no respect. You see a, a poor old man struggling and that makes you laugh?”
“Oh, please.” She fixes his collar while he kicks the ball of fabric into the sand. “You’re not even old.”
“Yes I am,” he says. “I’m ancient.” He exerts a bit of magic to make the sand hover around his ankles. “I’m a pile of dust.”
“Well, you’re a very handsome pile of dust,” she says. “And you look just fine for the photo.”
The cloak grabs his leg again and he curses. “Casita!”
“I don’t think it’s Casita,” she observes, touching her chin. “It came from Casita, but once you took it out of the house, I think it sort of split off into its own thing.” Her tone is mild as she files away this new data point, conveying interest in the workings of the magic, but zero sympathy for his plight.
“Casita!” Bruno shakes his fist in the air. “Control your child!” He turns to Mirabel with pleading eyes. “Seriously, can you help me with this?” he asks. “It won’t let go of me!”
“That’s because it looooves you.” She gives him a mocking smile and reaches down to grab it by the hem.
“Yeah, yeah.” He unwinds the other end from his leg as she pulls, and between the two of them, they manage to yank him free.
“Woah,” says Mirabel, as it wriggles in her arms like a giant fish, trying to make its way back to him. Thinking quickly, she tosses it into the bedroom and orders Casita to shut the door.
“Thank you,” Bruno pants, putting his hand against the wall. His temples throb and he closes his eyes, the tiles cool under his palm. There’s a rustling sound from inside as the cloak moves itself around the floor. “When I get back here, I better not find anything wrong with any of my books!” he calls. “Or I’ll cut you up into ribbons!” He pounds on the door until the rustling stops and turns on his heel to head downstairs.
“I didn’t really mean that,” he tells Mirabel as they reach the landing. “I was just trying to scare it.”
She looks up from brushing a fine layer of sand from her white shoes to laugh at him again. He can’t win.
The flash bulb makes Bruno wince, but Pepa insists that they get several takes just in case. He tries to relax as the group breaks apart, praying that his eyes will be open in at least one of them. Someone pats him on the back. Someone else presses a shot of aguardiente into his hand as every member of the family except for little Antonio shares in a toast.
Pretending to inspect the bottom of his glass, he surreptitiously watches Pepa, who is locked in a whispered argument with Dolores over the arrangement of orchids in her hair. The bride herself, who sat for hours yesterday for a set of intricate braids, swats her mother’s hand away from her head.
A part of Bruno understands what Pepa is feeling: It’s nerve-wracking to think of silent little Dolores, who once hid behind her mother’s skirts, all grown up and forging a life of her own. Another part of him sympathizes more with Dolores: As the first of her generation of Madrigal children to marry, she must bear the brunt of both Pepa and Alma’s anxieties.
The back of his neck prickles with danger and he sidesteps, leaving Mariano to swat the empty air. It takes him a moment to realize that, after receiving one from both Félix and Agustín, the groom was merely going in for a hug. “Oh. Sorry,” he says. “You startled me.”
“Ay, Tío Bruno.” Mariano grins and holds his arms open. “Can I call you Tío?”
“Sh-sure.” Bruno submits himself to the hug, trying to convince his magically enhanced reflexes that this isn’t some sort of attack. “Of course.”
Mariano releases him, only for Félix to elbow him in the ribs. “You’re not going to give Mariano a hard time are you?” he asks. “Like you did with us when we joined the family?”
Bruno looks between Félix and Agustín, sensing a joke he’s not part of. “I didn’t give you a hard time,” he sniffs.
Agustín gives his shoulder what Bruno guesses is supposed to be a good-natured, fraternal shake. “The day I married Julieta,” he recalls, “you looked at me with your glowing eyes and told me that if I ever broke your sister’s heart, you’d trap my soul in an orb of glass for ten thousand years.”
“I was being facetious,” says Bruno. “I can’t really do that.”
“Well.” Agustín laughs. “I believed it at the time!”
Bruno sighs. How come no one can ever tell when he’s joking?
“Don’t worry,” Félix stage whispers to Mariano. “I think he’s mellowed out by now.” He gestures around the courtyard at the family, all dressed in white. “Just remember that the Madrigal women are protected by a terrible wizard, who will chop off your cajones if you ever mistreat them, and you’ll do just fine.”
“Tío Bruno?” Isabela appears at his elbow, her arms overflowing with yellow chrysanthemums. “Would you help me over here with these floral arrangements?” she asks him.
“Um, sure.” Bruno follows her beneath the shady colonnade, confused. “But didn’t you already do all of that yesterday?”
“I’m rescuing you,” Isabela mutters out of the side of her mouth. She puts the bundle of chrysanthemums back where it belongs. “They don’t mean anything by it, you know. But I could tell they were making you uncomfortable.”
Bruno exhales. “Thanks.” He looks around, taking a moment to admire the arrangements. The courtyard is decked in orange and yellow flowers, the columns and banisters wrapped in matching turmeric colored ribbons. “It looks fantastic,” he says. “Like a, like a sun exploded in here. In a good way, I mean.”
Isabela smiles. “Well, Mirabel consulted on the design,” she demures.
Bruno watches as she fixes a frond of white poinsettia behind her ear. “How are you?” he asks her.
“Oh, you know.” She moves as if to lean against one of the columns and stops herself, afraid of getting yellow pollen on her white dress. “I’m alright.” She compromises by putting her hand against it, and glances over at Dolores and Mariano. “I mean, obviously today is a little bit awkward for me,” she admits. “I almost married that guy!” She smirks, as if to say, can you believe it. “I’m happy for them, of course; I’m just trying to keep a low profile.”
“Yeah, me too,” Bruno concurs, his eyes following Pepa up the stairs and around the balcony. An ominous cloud hovers above her head, but at least there’s no precipitation. His plan for today is to remain out of her line of sight, at least until she has a few drinks in her.
Much as he’s appreciated his sister’s effusive apologies and declarations that she no longer blames him for what happened at her wedding, Bruno never expected the peace to last. Pepa is reliably mercurial.
“What are you two doing over here?” Julieta asks, collecting their empty shot glasses.
“Hiding from our social obligations,” Isabela jokes.
The front door opens, removing the barrier between the courtyard and the party already in progress on the lawn. The band has set up on a wooden riser, playing a gentle string piece as the people mingle. These things always start out so civilized, Bruno thinks wryly. He doesn’t need his foresight to know they’ll be pulling people out of the river by the end of the night.
Isabela rolls her shoulders, correcting her posture, and gives him a wink. “See you out there,” she tells him, before running off to join her sisters.
Bruno closes his eyes, feeling Juli’s hand on his shoulder.
“You’re tense,” she says.
“Don’t tell me that.” He shrugs her off. His eye sockets are already throbbing, and its not even five o’ clock yet. “I already know. And now, thanks to you, I know that other people can tell. Which only makes it worse.”
She looks at the shot glass in her hand. “Maybe you shouldn’t be drinking,” she suggests. “I know you’ve been feeling a lot better lately, but that doesn’t mean you need to push it.”
“Oh, great,” he says. He knows she means well, but it galls him anyway. “So, so the sixteen year olds are allowed to drink now, but I’m not?”
“No, it’s up to you, obviously,” she says, annoyed. “It’s your health. I’m just pointing it out.”
“Sorry,” he relents. He presses on his eyes, causing green sparks behind his lids. “You’re right,” he says. “I’m tense.”
“What is it?” She softens.
He blinks away the sparks, noticing the contrast between Juli’s white dress and elegant hairstyle and her still picking up their glasses like a servant. “Don’t we have people for that tonight?” He points.
“Stop avoiding the question,” she says.
“Oh, come on.” He widens his eyes at her, indicating that it should be obvious. “You know as well as I do that if anything goes wrong, and I’m anywhere near it, Pepa is going to kill me.”
Juli’s brow wrinkles. It’s usually her inclination to mediate, but on certain topics, she’s learned it’s better not to get between her two siblings. “It’s a party,” she says. “Relax. What could go wrong?”
“What could go wrong?” Bruno sputters. “You’re asking me what could go wrong? The possibilities are endless!”
“You used to say that fate was set in stone,” she counters. “Now the possibilities are endless?”
“I’ve adjusted my philosophy,” he says.
“To one that makes you even more anxious?” she asks.
“You can blame Mirabel for that.” Bruno follows her across the courtyard and towards the kitchen. “She’s the one who kept insisting to me that I had free will. So I looked into it, and it turns out, she was right: I’m actually the only person who has free will! Which, when you think about it, means that pretty much everything is my fault!”
“Here we go.” Juli deposits the shot glasses in the sink and pours herself a glass of chilled wine.
“Look at you,” says Bruno. “Blissfully following your predetermined course of action, as dictated to you by the laws of cause and effect. Not a care in the world.” He puts a thespian hand on his chest, half joking; But only half joking. “Now look at me. If I so much as foresee myself eating chocolate ice cream, I have to think: Gee, I don’t know, maybe I’d prefer strawberry instead. But then if I choose strawberry, there could be a cascade of consequences throughout the entire timeline, so maybe chocolate will just have to do.”
He grabs a pandebono from a party tray on the counter and stuffs it into his mouth. One great thing about being less sick all the time is that sometimes he’s actually hungry.
“It sounds like Mirabel did a number on you.” Juli offers him a chilled glass with just a few fingers of wine in it.
“That girl is a menace,” he says, taking a sip. “You’re going to have a Hell of a time marrying her off.”
Juli laughs, slapping the back of his arm. “Now that’s a cursed thing to say at a wedding!” she says. “I shouldn’t laugh at that!”
Bruno crosses himself in mock solemnity, and Juli has to cover her mouth. She’s one of the only people who gets his jokes.
The brief ceremony takes place in the church, with all decorum. Dolores and Mariano recite their vows as little Antonio carries their rings down the aisle on a satin pillow. Together, they light their wedding candle. Bride and groom kiss, to whoops and cheers, and the temporary stillness is shattered, the party spilling out into the streets again. Back at Casa Madrigal, the band starts up again and dancers fill the lawn, the tempo increasing as the sun begins to set.
Bruno sits at the end of a table with Julieta and Agustín, eating a plate of beans and plantains to soak up some of the alcohol. When they get up to dance, leaving him there by himself, he looks around and is relieved to find that no one is looking at him among the sea of guests all dressed in white. Pepa is seated with Alma, sharing her pride and joy as Dolores dances with her father. Bruno is happy to sit back and watch, unnoticed, as the party throbs around him— happy to be there at all, to take part in the life of the family again.
There’s just one person whose notice he can’t seem to escape, even when he wants to. Mirabel’s presence announces itself to his mind a few moments before she emerges from the dance floor to sit down across from him. The poinsettia leaves have fallen out of her hair, her tidy updo coming loose around her ears.
“Hey, why are you sitting here all alone?” she asks him, still breathless from dancing. Her cheeks are glowing, sweat trickling from her hairline. “Aren’t you going to join the party?”
“I think this is about my speed.” Bruno knocks on the table. The pressure in his head is getting worse, but it’s still at a level he can more or less conceal.
She glares at his wine glass. “Are you drunk?” she asks.
“No.” He considers his equilibrium. “Maybe a little.”
Her eyes narrow in disapproval.
“Not that it’s any of your business,” he adds.
She grabs a pandebono from one of the platters between them. “I’m just checking up on you,” she says. “How’s your head feeling?”
“You know,” he says, “your attempts to mother me would be more credible if you didn’t talk with your mouth full like a teenager.”
“Whatever.” She swallows and sticks her tongue out at him. “Stop avoiding the question.”
She takes another bite and he watches her chew, trying to decide whether to tell her the truth. “It hurts,” he says. “But I’m choosing to ignore it.”
“Bruuuno,” she says, exasperated. “Whyyyy are you like this?”
“Listen, Niña.” He sits up sharply. “I know what I’m doing, okay? I’ve been dealing with this since before you were born.” He moves his glass away from the edge of the table before someone can knock it over. “Life is full of tradeoffs,” he tells her.
She crosses her arms, unsatisfied, but not sure how to argue with him.
The song changes, and he gets up from the table to offer her his hand. “You want me to dance?” he says, like it’s a threat. “Because I will. And once I get started, you won’t be able to stop me.”
Mirabel smiles and follows him to the floor, where they become part of the crowd. Bruno takes her by the hand and spins her around, enjoying her startled laughter. He can feel the drums in his sternum. She turns, her skirts spinning clockwise and then counterclockwise around her. The grass is cool with silver dew, and soon the air is twinkling with fireflies. If his head didn’t hurt so much, it would be pretty idyllic.
When the number ends, she punches him lightly on the arm. “Tío!” she says. “I didn’t know you were such a good dancer!”
“I’m alright.” He curls his toes inside his shoes, still wishing he had sandals on instead. “But I’m better at it now, with my Gift.”
“Oh right,” she says. “Of course. That’s so cool!”
He gives her a joking little bow, having successfully distracted her from asking him about his pain. It’s fun to show off a little, and maybe worth a headache to make her smile. This is what she and Juli don’t understand: Sometimes he does things he knows will hurt, because they’re worth it.
The crowd parts to let the bride come through. By now, Dolores is barefoot, her layered silk skirts hemmed with grass stains. “Tío Bruno,” she whispers under the hiss of maracas as the next number begins. “You’re the last Madrigal man who hasn’t danced with me.”
“Go on.” Mirabel gives him a shove. “If you don’t dance with the bride, it’s bad luck.”
Bruno snorts. “You just made that up.”
“So what?” she says. “All luck is made up.”
Before they can get into the philosophical implications of this, the horns have started blaring and Dolores is leading him by the hand to the center of the floor, where there’s an opening in the crowd like the eye of a hurricane. Bruno’s heart stutters as he is suddenly aware of being at the center of attention.
“Are you nervous?” asks Dolores.
Bruno searches the faces around them for Pepa, afraid to find her glaring at him.
“Why should I be nervous?” he deflects. “It’s your wedding.”
Dolores raises an eyebrow. Of course, she can hear his heartbeat.
“How does it feel to be a married woman?” he asks her.
“To tell you the truth,” she says, “I can’t wait for this party to be over so I can be alone with Mariano.” She sways this way and that, not following any particular step. She’s not as much of a dancer as Mirabel, but tonight it’s her duty to lead the guests. “You know I don’t love these big parties,” she confesses.
“Too loud?” he asks.
She squeaks, her eyes going wide. “Don’t tell Mamá I said that!” she whispers.
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he says.
Pepa is the one who planned the wedding, while Dolores, who probably would have preferred something more low key, is obviously going along with all this for her mother’s sake. Bruno suspects this is Pepa’s way of having a vicarious do-over.
“Anyway.” Dolores lowers her eyelashes. “A party is just a party. I married the man of my dreams. That’s what really matters.”
“He seems like a great guy,” Bruno agrees. The bass is pounding in his temples, making his jaw clench. He doesn’t feel like dancing anymore.
“Mamá and I might not see eye to eye on everything,” she says. “But there’s one thing I’m glad she taught me.”
“What’s that?” he asks.
Dolores raises her chin, a certain boldness replacing her usual shyness as she imitates Pepa: “She said, ‘Dolores, don’t even think of marrying a man unless he treats you like a queen.’ And she was right.”
Bruno’s feet stop, his hands flying to cover his eyes. “I’m so happy for you, Lola,” he says. “Permítame, I think I need to go sit down.”
“What’s wrong?” She takes him by the arm, leading him through the wall of dancers.
His vision is blurring, but he can feel the people’s eyes on him as he staggers back to the table. “Thank you,” he says, trying to keep the migraine out of his voice. “You can leave me here.”
“Are you sure?” Dolores asks.
He nods at the blur of color where her face should be. “It’s your night,” he says. “Go on. I’ll be fine.”
A shape that must be Mariano appears and draws her back into the throng. Alone at the edge of the party, Bruno gets up from the table and makes his way across the lawn. Even in this condition, he’s grateful to find that his reflexes won’t let him fall, as somehow his feet manage to carry him back to the front door.
“Casita,” he groans, pointing blindly in the direction of the kitchen.
Getting the message, the tiles deposit him in front of the sink and he vomits into the basin. There’s an awful sweetness to the vomit, which he attributes to the plantains. He grips the edge of the counter, anticipating another wave.
A ring of throbbing white light fills his field of view, tinged with rainbow colors at the edges. He can barely see the basin in front of him through the visual distortion. It feels like the nerves connecting his brain to the backs of his eyeballs are being crimped with pliers.
His belly lurches, as a string of acid so viscous it touches the bottom of the basin before breaking dangles from his lips. His throat bobs, his diaphragm contracting in preparation as he pleads for his stomach to empty itself already and put him out of this misery.
Saliva gushes under his tongue and he vomits again, squeezing it all out this time. Mortified at the thought of Julieta finding such a mess, he fumbles for the knob to turn on the water. He tilts his head under the faucet to rinse his mouth out and spits. Guts empty, his body is left shaking.
He turns away from the sink and feels along the wall towards the courtyard. The pressure in his head is mounting, and he regrets not drinking more water at the party, for all the good it would probably have done him.
All he can think of is his bed, but climbing the stairs turns out to be impossible. Casita tries to nudge him there, but the motion makes him buckle in half, and he slides along the back of the staircase, steering himself headlong into the coat closet. Trying to catch himself as he collapses, he ends up pulling some of the coats on top of him on the way down.
He curls on his side, a jacket he thinks might belong to Agustín falling across his face. Casita is kind enough to close the door, leaving him in total darkness. This isn’t the most commodious hiding place, but it beats the humiliation of being found in this state. He drags his cheek against the floor, which is lined with boards of cedar to keep out the moths, inhaling its sharp evergreen scent.
There’s no telling how long it will last. He lets the magic in, hoping it might relieve some of the pressure if he has a vision. Driving the heels of his hands into his eyes, he finds he can actually feel them heating up behind their lids. His teeth creak, grainy images fluctuating before his mind. Two figures emerge from the green mist, resolving into full color. It’s Dolores and Mariano, a scene from their future together.
The vision releases him and he hugs his knees, not that surprised to find it didn’t really help. His shoulders are hunched towards his ears, his whole back tensing as the pain in his head builds and peaks. The distant, muffled sounds of the party are gone, and all he can hear is a metallic, high-pitched ringing that makes him want to crack his skull open against the floor just to make it stop.
It was his hubris to ignore what Julieta and Mirabel were trying to tell him. He thought he could just go to the party, and drink, and dance, and have fun like everyone else, as if his whole life hasn’t taught him the exact opposite. He thinks of all the summer dances he longed to go to when he was young, and all the times he had to give up and slink back home, until he finally stopped trying to go at all. This is what happens to him when he pushes himself too far, when he tries to keep up with everyone else. It’s not fair, but that’s the way it is, and he’s too old to still be so heartbroken over it.
The pain ruins things for him. It has ruined so many things, both big and small, that he couldn’t possibly count them. Why did he think for a second that this night would be any different?
He tilts his face against the floor, cursing himself, and pitying himself, and cursing himself for pitying himself. The truth is, he couldn’t have known for certain that this was going happen. (Well, not without peeking.) He was making a calculated risk.
He works his jaw, trying to stop his teeth from grinding. He’s torn between the hope that someone will come rescue him, and the fear that they will find him like this, hiding in the walls again. Two steps forward, one step back.
Time passes, probably not more than fifteen minutes, but to Bruno it feels like forever. Somewhere above him, the stairs creak. He wraps his arms around his head, but nothing can block out the ringing sound. His magic rages, throwing itself against the limits of his body, his vast and powerful senses trying to jam their signal through the wet and flimsy tubes of his human nerves. A stripe of light falls across him and he whimpers, drawing the jacket back over his face.
“Bruno!” Mirabel stands in the doorway of the closet, the courtyard lanterns throbbing behind her. “You can’t hide from me, you know,” she says. “Casita tells me everything.”
“Nnnn—” Bruno pleads with her. “The light.” The pain is so intense he can barely speak, and it’s compounded by the shame of having her see him this way.
Her silhouette kneels and reaches for him. “It’s okay,” she murmurs. “Here you go.”
The coats are pulled off of him, leaving him exposed to the glare for one horrible moment, but then she opens her arms and a shadow falls over him. The cloak wraps itself around him, infusing him with its healing magic, and he covers his face with both hands, trying to stifle a groan of relief.
“Better?” Mirabel touches his shoulder.
He peeks at her from between his fingers and pushes himself, still shaking, up off the floor.
She’s trying to act brave for him, but she looks scared. She’s never witnessed one of his more severe episodes before, and he can tell she’s disturbed by it.
“Yes,” he rasps. “Thank you.”
There’s a cylindrical umbrella stand next to him that he must have knocked over at some point, spilling the umbrellas out onto the floor. He turns it upside down and sits on the flat bottom, using it as a makeshift stool and leaning forward on his elbows. The cloak drapes itself around him, the fabric rippling gently down his back as the hood pulls itself over his head. Just like the pain, the relief comes in waves, pushing outward from the center of his chest to his extremities. He sucks a breath in through his teeth, struggling not to embarrass himself any further in front of her, but it feels so good he could cry.
“That looked like it was really bad,” she says. “How often does it get like that?”
“I don’t know.” He sighs into his hands. “It varies.”
She tucks her legs under her, her skirts fanning out on the floor. “Why didn’t you tell me?” she asks.
He buries his face in the green fabric, inhaling its scent of wool and smoke, and presses on his eyeballs, trying to absorb more of the healing energy into his aching sockets. The cloak strokes his face, seeming to understand his request, and slowly he opens his eyes, adjusting to the lantern light.
In some ways, he preferred the days when they didn’t talk about it, because back then he could plan around the pain on his own terms, without being interrogated over it. Now, he has Juli and Mirabel telling him to take it easy all the time, and that makes him annoyed with them, which he doesn’t want to be.
“I know you don’t like asking me for help,” she says. “But I’m the Keeper of the Miracle, so. You’re just going to have to get over it.”
He sits up, letting the hood recede enough so that she can see his eyes. “But I’m supposed to be the one taking care of you, Mija,” he says. “Not the other way around.”
She’s wearing her hair down, having given up on the ribbon at some point. There’s a single curl stuck to her forehead with sweat, which makes Bruno realize how hot it still is even now that it’s dark out. He still has the chills.
“We’re family,” she says. “We take care of each other.”
Bruno’s chin hits his collarbone. “Félix said something earlier,” he tells her, “about me protecting the women in this family.” He rubs the inside of his elbow, where he can feel his pulse fluttering. “And it made me feel so inadequate,” he confesses. “It felt like he was making fun of me; Like he doesn’t see me as a real man. I know that isn’t how he meant it. But still.”
“Oh brother,” says Mirabel. “So this is about your machismo then?”
“No,” he says. “I mean, yeah, okay. Maybe part of it is.”
She smiles at him through a skeptical squint.
Bruno clutches his other elbow, crossing his arms over his belly. “In a way,” he says, “it was easier to accept my limitations before, when I thought nothing could help me.”
The driving headache is mostly gone, but his body is still tense and sore. Pain pools in the grooves of his back, under his scapula and along his spine. As he talks, the cloak gently squeezes and probes him, working the knots out one by one.
“I gave up on being a real man a long time ago, heh.” He makes himself laugh. “But now that I can do all these things I couldn’t do before, I guess it feels like I’ve got a second chance at it. Except that, I can’t do any of it without this.” He shakes the edge of the cloak. “Having it makes me feel strong; But needing it makes me feel weak.”
Mirabel leans forward, propping her chin on her fists, and studies him for a while.
“Do you think I’m weak because I wear glasses?” she asks him.
“Of course not.” He blinks.
“So, what’s the difference?” She swats at the end of his cloak, which pools between them on the floor.
“Well, for one thing, your glasses aren’t magical and sentient.” He raises an eyebrow at her. “And for another, they don’t reinforce your pre-existing reputation as an evil wizard who terrorizes the town.”
“Fair point.” She curls her lower lip. “So, you don’t like the way it makes you look?”
“I mean, I like the color,” he says. “You did a great job on the embroidery. But the cut, you know, the length, is a little bit over the top. I look like I live in a gingerbread house and eat children.”
“Well, it kind of needs to cover all of you,” she points out. “For the pain relief to be really effective.”
“Yeah,” he sighs. “I know.”
Maybe he should try thinking of it in the way she suggests: A permanent extension of his body, like wearing glasses, or walking with a cane. He runs a hand over the fabric and feels it press back against his palm. He can either spend the rest of his life in it, making the most of his body, his health, and his powers, or he can go back to letting the pain ruin those things for him. It seems like such an obvious choice, but tonight, he made the mistake of letting shame decide. He wanted so badly to fit in just this once, to keep the stares off of him, to keep Pepa happy, that he tried to convince himself the pain was worth it.
“This conversation isn’t over,” says Mirabel, getting up and brushing off her skirts. “But for now, do you want to come back to the party?”
“Maybe,” he says to her knees. “Give me a minute, yeah?”
She holds the door frame. “Okay,” she says softly. “I hope I see you out there, Tío. I know it’s where you want to be.”
He hunches forward, watching her go, as he sits in the darkness, curtained on both sides by coats. The shoes are still bothering him, so he kicks them off and peels away his thin dress socks. His tangled hair is damp with cold sweat and his mouth still tastes like stomach acid, so he’s long past the point of being presentable anyway.
“Looks like it’s just you and me, huh?” he asks the cloak. “I guess that’s how it’s going to be.”
One of the corners twists towards him like the head of a sock puppet, seemingly aware of being addressed.
“It’s fine,” he says. “You’re just like a, a pair of glasses. Right?”
A pair of glasses that clings to him like a lover, massaging his whole body with warm, healing magic.
“Dios mio,” he says. “This is just too weird.”
He opens his hand, letting the corner draw circles on his palm like a curious finger. It traces his fortune lines, making him flinch when it starts to tickle.
“I mean, no offense,” he adds. “I’m not complaining or anything; I’m just not really sure what to make of you.”
The thing has definitely started to develop more of a personality lately. And given that it’s a personality that wants nothing more than to help him, he’s starting to feel a little guilty about locking it up in his room.
“I guess if I’m going to talk to you, I should give you a name.” He rubs his beard. “How about ‘Mantita?’ Is that too obvious?”
Mantita squeezes his shoulders in what he chooses to interpret as a sign of approval. He doubts if it really understands his words, but it seems to understand his feelings and intentions.
“Anyway, I really appreciate what you’ve done for me,” he says. “What you do for me,” he corrects.
The pseudo finger pokes his chin and he closes his eyes, allowing it to explore his face. At the same time, Mantita rubs his back over his heart, the place where the core of his power sits. The tingly, sensitive feeling he has come to associate with the more pleasant side of his own magic makes him sigh. The knots in his back continue to unwind, the fibers of his trapezius muscles bunching and twitching before releasing each one in a burst of heat.
“It’s just frustrating, you know?” He flexes his hands, feeling the magic race along his arms. “Is this the real me, underneath all the pain?” he asks it softly. “Is that even a question that makes sense?” The tremor in his hands is gone, the strength and steadiness he’s come to know returning. “I keep thinking: Why can’t my body just work like this on its own?”
This is not the sort of sentiment that’s likely to make sense to Mantita, but Bruno is used to holding such one-sided conversations. He always managed to enjoy the company of his rats, who didn’t pay much attention to him unless he was feeding them. It’s nice just to have another presence with him, so that he can pretend he isn’t talking to himself.
Mantita prods his belly, which is still feeling a little sour.
“Were you worried about me?” he asks.
It’s not exactly the same as talking to Casita; The house is as old as he is, and full of secrets, and even seems to have its own sense of humor at times. Mantita, in contrast, is simple, and anxious, and new to the world.
“I’m sorry I kicked you,” says Bruno. He puts a hand on his belly, holding it there, and trying to gauge what it’s thinking. It probably doesn’t think exactly, but it does seem to feel, and he does feel some responsibility towards it; This wordless being that knows only the joy of embracing him and the angst of being separated.
“I threw up earlier,” he says matter of factly. “I get migraines, which make me really sensitive to light, and sometimes the pain gets so intense it makes me throw up.”
Mantita rubs his belly in circles, seeming to understand.
“I’ve blacked out from them before,” he says. “Sometimes they even cause me to hallucinate.”
He strokes the backs of his knuckles against the underside of the fabric. He doesn’t have words for how much he hates the pain, for all the hopelessness and despair it’s caused him. All he can do is describe the symptoms.
“No one wants to hear about these things,” he says. “Juli and Mirabel think they do, but they really don’t.” He curls forward again, letting it drape over him.
“People want to help you when you’re hurt. But when you’ve been hurting the same way for years and years?” He shrugs. “No one really wants to hear about that. It’s just depressing. And besides, I’m so lucky to be a magical person, right? There can’t be very many of us in the whole world. So who really wants to hear me complain about it?”
There have been times when Bruno hated his Gift, and would have given almost anything to be rid of it. When the magic was gone, it was a gift to be completely free of the pain.
At the same time, during those months, his brain felt foggy, his memory was poorer, and he couldn’t visualize things as well. He’d had magic in his body for so long, that without it, he’d felt a bit empty.
“I guess you don’t mind,” he says to the cloak. “I can talk to you about these things.”
With the magic back, and his Gift stronger than ever, he doesn’t think he’d want to be rid of it again. There are even parts of it he’s growing to love. But the pain will always make it difficult for him to love his Gift without reservation. Life is full of tradeoffs.
He bows his head and cups the back of his neck. “I get really tense right here,” he says. “If, if you could just…”
Mantita peels his hand out of the way and uses its hood to massage him there.
“Oh, yeah.” Bruno droops further. “That feels really good.” His fingers curl against his belly and his hair falls over his eyes.
He sits like that for a while, letting Mantita’s magic sink into his muscles. “I want this,” he whispers. “I want my body to stay like this. I want to be well. But I know the only way to have this is to accept that I’m always going to need your help. And that’s a hard thing for a Madrigal man to admit, you see.”
The sounds of the band, still playing their hearts out, float in from the lawn, and feeling better, Bruno stands up, his spine straight and his head finally clear. Barefoot now, he walks into the center of the courtyard, enjoying the shock of the cool tiles against his soles. The heat has finally broken, and he can see stars through Casita’s open windows.
He taps his feet along with the music, smiling as the tiles and baseboards join him. Maybe he was being a little too modest with Mirabel; He really is an excellent dancer.
He spins around, doing a little salsa step, and feels his heart beat faster. The present and future bleed together so that every movement is perfectly timed and fluid, his feet always knowing exactly when and where they should fall. He dances on the stairs, making use of the levels, and playing along with Casita. He’s always loved to dance, and he’s always had some of this grace in him, but the way his powers have grown is still so new and exhilarating. To have such ease, such balance and agility, to float through the world like this his whole life, would have been enough of a Gift on its own, without the dubious Gift of prophecy.
He lands on the tile floor again, letting the cloak follow through with his momentum as he stops to bow for an invisible audience. Casita’s shutters rattle with applause, and he straightens up, flushed, and breathless, and smiling. He strides across the courtyard as the front door opens for him, stepping out into the torchlit night. The grass feels fresh and cool against his bare feet, his body light, and free, and full of magic.
“Well, what do you say?” he asks Mantita. “Let’s go terrorize the town.”
The wedding presents are piled high on one of the long dining tables as the guests line up to personally congratulate Dolores and Mariano. Each of the peasant families has a chance to showcase their tradecraft and to pay their tribute to Casa Madrigal in the form of beautiful clothes and shoes, hard wood carvings and black clay pottery, cheeses, preserves, pickles, and bottles of alcohol, jewelry, leather goods, and woven baskets.
Dolores is thanking everyone for their generosity, trying her best to project her soft voice for the crowd. It seems the present giving portion of the festivities is coming to an end. Mariano stands beside her, his arm around her shoulders, his white guayabera somehow still spotless after hours of partying.
Heads turn as Bruno walks barefoot between the tables, his cape wafting behind him in a light wind. Dolores stops her speech mid-sentence to make eye contact with him, squeaking at what is no doubt the sound of a thousand heartbeats skipping at once.
“Not so fast!” Bruno pronounces, raising a dramatic finger towards the sky. He calls on his magic, letting his eyes glow and whipping up the dust around his feet. The torch lights flicker, the golden tablecloths fluttering, loose orange and yellow petals swirling through the air. Mantita swishes to one side, emulating his performance.
“I too, have a present for the young couple,” Bruno says, in his best evil wizard impression. He grabs a random glass of aguardiente from one of the tables and knocks it back in one swig, savoring the burn, before shattering it on the ground. Feeling especially villainous, he throws his head back and laughs.
He looks around at the crowd, all frozen in the middle of whatever they were doing, some sitting, some standing, some eating and drinking. Their eyes track him in return, transfixed by his every swift and graceful movement. The priest crosses himself and adjusts his toupée.
They’ve all been doubly wary of Bruno since his return, wild rumors about his absence spreading despite the family’s best efforts to contain them. ‘Don’t worry, he was lurking inside the walls the whole time’ is not the kind of explanation that puts people at ease. A prosperous peasantry will tolerate a certain degree of eccentricity among their gentry, especially if the latter are magical; But Bruno has been pushing their limits for a long time.
“Thank you,” he says, feeling his eyes heat, the wind tossing his hair. “Thank you all for giving me your attention.”
His gaze falls on Pepa, who is gripping her fork with murderous intent. ‘Bruno, I swear to God,’ she mouths at him, a storm cloud condensing above her head as he shoots her a mischievous grin.
“Dolores!” He stands in the aisle formed by the two central tables and reaches towards the bride and groom, propping one foot on the seat of an empty chair. “Mi sobrina querida. And Mariano, my newest sobrino.”
Dolores’s forehead wrinkles. Mariano looks frantically to Félix, who can only show his palms in confusion.
“I have peered into your future,” says Bruno, wiggling his fingers at them. “Behold: My very special present to you.”
He grabs a shaker from one of the tables and unscrews the silver cap, throwing the salt high into the air. The people look up as the veil of salt sizzles, waiting to see what cursed fate Bruno has in store for the innocent newlyweds.
Green light bounces off the particles to form a picture, larger than life, above their heads. Two grainy figures emerge, sharpening into Dolores and Mariano. They are strolling down from a hilltop covered in flowers, what looks like a picnic basket hanging from Mariano’s arm.
A child with curly hair comes bouncing down the hill after them, mouth open with laughter to reveal a number of missing teeth. Another child, a little older and with the same curly hair, follows after the first one, with fists full of flowers. And then another. And another.
And another.
“Five babies!” Dolores claps a hand over her mouth.
Mariano gazes up in wonder, taking his wife’s hand, and the two look into each other’s eyes.
The vision ends, hissing droplets of molten salt raining into the grass where they solidify into brittle shards of green crystal. Bruno draws his cloak over his face, jumping back so as to avoid getting burned. He realizes he should have used sand, if he wanted their present to be immortalized in a tablet, but he was just improvising.
The crowd looks on in stunned silence.
Alma stands and begins to clap, launching seamlessly into damage control. “Thank you, Bruno,” she booms. “What a wonderful present. Now we all know that this union is truly blessed.”
Following her lead, the party erupts into applause. The band begins to play again and dancers flood back onto the floor. Dolores and Mariano kiss, standing at the center of it all, and she smiles as he cups his hands over her ears, a moment of peace within the hurricane of ritual and obligation that is the wedding of a high born girl.
Lightheaded from exertion, Bruno slumps into the nearest chair. His chest is burning, the magic still racing through his system as he works to normalize his heart rate. Mantita gives him a squeeze of encouragement, and he smiles to himself, enjoying his last moments of not getting electrocuted.
Pepa is going to kill him.
The clock strikes midnight, indicating the start of La Hora Loca. The drums are pounding, young people dancing barefoot on the tables, the music way too loud for them to talk when Bruno looks up to see his sister making hand signals at him. He stands up, trying to figure out where she’s pointing. It’s always easy to tell when Pepa is drunk; If the bright flush on her cheeks didn’t give her away, the sundogs flaring around her definitely would. To be fair, he’s pretty much drunk at this point too, he’s just a lot better at hiding it.
Bruno follows her out to the edge of the jungle, beyond the radius of the yellow torchlights, where the blue darkness is studded with fireflies. It makes him feel better to see that both of them are looking haggard, sweat and grass stains on their all white clothes.
“You’ve been avoiding me,” she accuses.
He snorts, taken aback. This isn’t what he expected her to say at all. “You told me to stay out of the way,” he says.
“No I didn’t,” Pepa objects, crossing her arms. “I mean, alright. Not in so many words.”
Bruno looks down, feeling his toes sink into the dirt. They are standing among the palmas de cera, where the earth is black and sweet, surrounded by the sounds of night birds and insects. Pepa holds a sundog in her hand to give them light.
“Remember when we were at breakfast,” he asks, “and you and Juli were talking about what kinds of food you should serve for the wedding? And I suggested asado, because everyone likes asado. And you said ‘Bruno, I don’t want to hear a sound out of you. If you jinx my daughter’s wedding, I’m never speaking to you again. Juli, you’ll have to pass notes between us.’”
“I may have said something to that effect,” she equivocates. Her cheeks are splotchy in the strong light of the sundog, and he wonders if she’s been crying. He supposes they must have been tears of joy.
“Pepa.” Bruno gives her a smile that’s more of a wince. “Which one of us did the Miracle see fit to curse with a photographic memory?”
Pepa sighs. “Is that a Miracle thing?” she asks wistfully. “I always assumed that was just a Bruno thing.”
He shrugs. “I think it’s a bit of both.”
Her forehead wrinkles in that way she and Dolores have in common. Sweat has melted the kohl around her eyes, settling it into the creases.
“I shouldn’t have tried to scare everyone like that.” Bruno rubs the inside of his arm, shrinking from the intensity of her gaze. “It was a little mean-spirited. I guess sometimes I get the urge to sort of, you know. Lean into my image. Heh heh.”
Pepa laughs. “Please, you’re talking to the mother of Camilo Madrigal,” she says. “I think I can handle a little broma.”
“Even so,” says Bruno. “I’m sorry.”
Pepa whacks him with her non-sundog holding hand. “Why are you always apologizing?” she asks.
“I don’t know.” Bruno rubs the outside of his arm. “Why is everyone always hitting me?”
“You let me hit you!” she says. “You knew it was coming and you stayed still!”
“That’s not the point!” he counters.
“Sorry.” She touches the side of her face. “I’m so sorry. I’ve been awful to you, haven’t I?”
Sensing the start of a longer conversation, Bruno leans back against one of the trees. “Well,” he says. “It’s your only daughter’s wedding. It’s really important to you. I know you just wanted things to be perfect.”
“Ay, Dios.” She massages the bridge of her nose. “I’m turning into our mother.”
Bruno can only laugh at her distress.
“You and Juli were always the well behaved ones,” Pepa says with a derisive sniff. “I was the one who always fought with her and swore I’d never be like her.” She makes a weary hmm-ing sound. “I guess that’s what the Greeks would call irony.”
“It’s the doom of all republics.” Bruno smiles. “That those who denounce tyrants must inevitably become them.”
They look at each other, listening to the sounds of the jungle and the party in the distance, and Bruno realizes that they haven’t been alone together since before he disappeared.
“I just want her to have the best of everything,” Pepa says. “I’ve been weeping all day, thinking of her being all grown up. It seems like only yesterday she was just this big.” She holds her hands apart, about the length of a loaf of bread.
“I know what you mean,” Bruno agrees.
He’s missed so much of the children’s lives, that it will make him sick if he thinks about it. Dolores was only eleven at the start of his self-imposed exile, and now she’s a married woman.
Pepa smacks her forehead, as if the thought has only just occurred to her: “I can’t believe I’m going to be a grandmother!” she exclaims.
“You certainly don’t look it,” Bruno teases, knowing she’s going to hit him again.
Her hand stays on his arm, her open palmed slap softening into a touch of concern.
“Hey,” he says, waiting for her to meet his eyes. “Lola’s going to be just fine,” he assures her. “You raised her well.”
Pepa’s hand migrates to his shoulder. “She told me she heard you throwing up earlier.”
“Ay.” Bruno bares his teeth. “There’s really no privacy around here, is there?”
Her fingers skim over the green fabric, tracing Mirabel’s subtle embroidery. “Juli says this helps you,” she remarks.
“It does.” He nods. “I’m alright now.”
“Why didn’t you wear it to begin with then?” she asks.
He polishes his teeth with his tongue, feeling kind of stupid.
“Was it because of me?” she asks guiltily. “Did you think I’d tell you to take it off?”
“Not just you,” he says. “Everyone.” The fabric ripples, trying to soothe him as he droops under her questioning. “I just wanted to… I just wanted to blend in, I guess. I didn’t want everyone looking at me and wondering how I was going to jinx everything this time around.”
“And then you decided, ‘forget it, why don’t I give them a good scare?’” she asks.
“Something like that,” he says.
“You know.” She taps her chin. “I’ve often thought that if I were a man, people would fear me more.”
“Oh yeah?” Bruno tries to picture a male Pepa, hurling his lightning like Zeus.
“Instead, everyone treats me like I’m a moody teenager.” She narrows her eyes in annoyance. “Even though I’m about to be a grandmother five times over!”
“I can see how that would be frustrating,” he says.
“All this to say,” she continues, “I think if you were a woman, people would fear you less, and baby you more, like they do me. Now, I’m not saying women have it easier. Trust me.” She raises an eyebrow. “I’m not saying that. But it’s different, you know?”
Bruno picks at the side of his thumb with his nail, weighing his feelings of inadequacy as a man against the alternative. He’s never thought women had it easier, not exactly, but he has struggled with the expectations of machismo for as long as he can remember. He’s wondered whether his sensitivity and general lack of physical courage would have been less of a disappointment to their mother if he’d been born a girl.
“Anyway.” She waves the thought aside. “You don’t have to worry so much about appearances. Certainly not for my sake. And if Mamá gives you any grief about it, I’ll tell her off myself. Alright?” She squeezes his shoulder.
“Alright,” he agrees.
“You’re really feeling better?” She examines the fabric again as if to verify whether it has magic in it. Both she and Juli seem to doubt the power of his cloak. There are things about Casita, and all the magical objects within, that only Mirabel seems to truly understand.
“Yes,” says Bruno. “Can we not do this all the time?”
“Do what?” she asks.
“Sorry,” he sighs. He didn’t mean to be short with her. “And sorry, for saying sorry again,” he adds, before she can point it out. “I know everyone is just concerned about me. But it's a little disorienting to go from ‘we don’t talk about it’ to ‘we fuss over it constantly’ all of a sudden.”
Her hand retreats.
“I really, really hate being in pain,” he says. “And, and I don’t want to talk about it all the time. I don’t want to think about it all the time. It’s, it’s finally better.” He swallows, still scraping the cuticle of his thumb. “I’ve found something that helps, and it’s so much better.”
Pepa glances back towards the lawn. “You know,” she says, “I’ve been running around all day, frantically trying to make sure everything’s perfect, and I haven’t even had a chance to enjoy the party. I haven’t even danced.”
Bruno smiles, appreciating her understanding, and offers her his hand. “Well, there’s still time to fix that,” he says.
And together, they walk back towards the light of the torches.