A/N: This is another heavy one, my friends. Warnings for: blood and murder. If you'd like to skip it, look for the line: "The entryway was silent."
Mirabel hovered at the foot of the stairs, Bruno's ruana clutched in her hands, as she waited for Pepa to come back from putting Antonio to bed. They still had so much to talk about, and dread prickled under her skin.
She felt, rather than saw, her mamá join her. Julieta reached out and brushed her fingers over the ruana.
"I told him to hide," she whispered. "Until we could come for him. Hopefully he won't go far, but…"
Mirabel nodded. To her frustration, tears welled up behind her glasses again. "I'm so, so sorry, Mamá," she said, sniffling. "Tía Pepa was right, we should have told you all from the beginning—"
"Oh, mi preciosa Mirabel," Julieta said, her face crumpling. She pulled Mirabel into her arms and held her tight, stroking her hair. "I'm sorry you felt like you couldn't."
Mirabel sniffled again. She rested her cheek against her mamá's shoulder and closed her eyes.
She heard a soft click and opened them again.
Abuela stood frozen in the doorway, her hand still on the doorknob. Her black shawl was drawn very tightly around her shoulders, like a shield, and her eyes were red-rimmed—but instead of vindictive satisfaction, Mirabel just felt sick.
I did this.
"Mamá."
All three women turned and looked up the stairs at Pepa, her lightning illuminating the landing.
Abuela swallowed. "I heard that Antonio's home—"
"He's safe," Pepa said, gliding down the stairs. "He fell in the jungle and broke his leg, but he's healed and sleeping now."
Abuela nodded. She wouldn't look at Julieta or Mirabel. "Where is everyone else?"
"They haven't come back yet," Agustín said from the doorway to the kitchen. He came and stood behind his wife and daughter, putting a hand on each of their shoulders. "But I'm sure Dolores has heard Toñito's home by now, so they should be back any time."
Abuela nodded again.
"Mamá," Julieta began, softly. Abuela still wouldn't look at her. "Mamá, we need to talk, there's—something's happened—"
"So Mirabel says," Abuela said primly. She held her head high. "All nonsense."
Julieta looked taken aback. "But, Mamá, it's Bru—"
"Don't you dare say his name to me," Abuela snapped. Her nostrils flared as she said, "My-my son is dead."
Pepa, furious and thundering, snatched the ruana out of Mirabel's hands and thrust it toward her mother. "Then what is this, eh? A figment of our imagination?"
Abuela glared at her daughter before jerking her head down to examine the fraying fabric.
Her face went slack. "Where did you get this?"
"It's Tío Bruno's ruana," Mirabel whispered, wincing when Abuela flinched. She cleared her throat and said, louder, "He used it as a splint for Antonio's leg. But it's definitely his, I fixed it for him…there. See the green thread?"
Abuela's fingertips skittered over the repaired tear.
"No, this…this was Pedro's," she whispered. She closed her eyes, pressing the ruana to her chest. "I made it for him, for his birthday. It was too big, but he didn't mind because…because—"
"They were his wings," Julieta said softly. "We'd hide under it and he called us his patitos."
Agustín squeezed her shoulder.
Pepa laughed a little, tears in her eyes. "Dios mío, I'd forgotten all about that."
"Tío Bruno must have found it," Mirabel said. "In Casita. After…"
After he was cursed, after he'd escaped. She wondered: Had he known it was his father's? He must have.
Dios, and he'd just trusted her to fix it like it wasn't some priceless, irreplaceable thing, letting her attack it with that ugly, mismatching thread—
Abuela was shaking her head, tears escaping her closed eyes in twin lines down her cheeks.
"It can't be," she whispered, gripping the ruana so tightly Mirabel was afraid it'd tear. "It can't be, because then…then I abandoned him."
Alma, thirty-two years ago
Evening.
Casita had already lit the candles, giving the decorated house a cheerful yellow glow to match the Candle bubbling in the window of Abuela Madrigal's room.
Well, former room.
Alma missed the older woman, more with each passing day. Doña María Madrigal had been a calm and steady presence in her life since she and Pedro had married—had always known just what to say to bring Alma back from the brink after her triplets were born and she was overwhelmed with motherhood. And again, when the triplets had received their Gifts, she had been there for them, guiding them with a firm but gentle hand.
Alma wasn't sure she could live up to such a legacy.
Casita bounced an alarm clock across the wooden boards of her bedroom, alerting her to the time. Any minute, their guests would begin arriving, and Alma still had to check on her children.
"Thank you, Casita," she said. The house bounced the clock away.
Alma stood and smoothed down her dress, taking a deep breath. She could do this.
Knock, knock, knock.
Casita swung the door open before Alma could reach it. Bruno stood on the other side, his hand still raised. He lowered it quickly, sheepish.
"Papá asked me to come find you," he said, stepping inside the room. "Something about Señora Pezmuerto? I didn't, uh, really understand what he was talking about." He rubbed his arm and shrugged.
Alma rolled her eyes. She knew exactly what Pedro wanted and it wasn't going to work.
"Gracias, Brunito," she said. "I'll come down." She eyed him up and down, clucking her tongue. "Before you go, let me fix your hair—"
"Mamá." Her son ducked away from her with a scowl, his hands flying to his unruly curls.
"Ay, amor, leave the boy alone," Pedro said from the doorway. He stepped inside and embraced her from behind, wrapping his arms around her waist. He winked at Bruno over her shoulder. "It's his birthday, let him look like a wild creature if he wants."
Bruno made a face. "Gross. I'm going to check on mis hermanas."
"Remember, no sweets!" Alma called after him.
Bruno ducked his head. "Sí, Mamá."
As soon as he was out of the room, Pedro pulled Alma backward until they fell together on the bed, laughing.
"Is Bruno still grounded, mi amor?" he asked after their giggles subsided, pressing a kiss to her cheek. "Don't you think he's been punished enough?"
Alma sighed. "He used his Gift to cheat on his test," she said with a frown, sitting up. "I don't care what his excuses are, that behavior will not be tolerated in this house."
Pedro rolled to his side and propped his head on his hand. "Alma, I would be more worried about him if he didn't use his Gift to cheat once in a while," he said with a chuckle. "Let the kid off the hook, at least for tonight. A man only turns fifteen once, you know."
Alma huffed. Pedro sat up, tugging her closer to him. "Tell you what: I'll talk to him about it," he promised. "After the party. C'mon, let's go greet our guests."
They left their room, hand in hand. Casita closed the door behind them, and Alma smiled at the glowing carving of her husband, his eyes peacefully closed, surrounded by butterflies.
Her gaze drifted to the other doors on the second floor—her children's doors were softly glowing, but the last door, the one closest to the stairs, a little out of the way, was dark.
Pedro's sister.
Sofia Madrigal had disappeared many years ago, long before the triplets were born. There had been some fight between her and María—Alma had never been certain what had happened, only that harsh words were exchanged, but one day Pedro came to her, weeping, and told her that his hermana mayor was gone. They never knew what had happened to her, but her door had been dark ever since.
But Alma shook herself from such dark thoughts as she and Pedro descended the stairs to greet their newly arrived friends and neighbors.
This evening would be a happy one.
An hour later, Julieta and Pepa took turns dancing with Pedro, then Bruno, beautiful and resplendent in their gowns of blue and gold, respectively. Bruno had even managed to tame his hair a little (or, more likely, Julieta had tamed it for him, Alma thought with a small smile) and looked very handsome in his new ruana, even if it was a little big.
Once the formal dances were over, the band began to play a very lively cumbia, and the party was soon in full swing. Alma was so caught up in the festivities and greeting her friends and neighbors that she didn't notice the strange woman weaving her way through the crowd until she was right beside her.
"Alma. It's been too long."
Alma turned, smiling, to greet this new guest. Her mouth fell open in shock.
"Sofia?" she whispered. "What—where—?"
Sofia smiled but it didn't reach her eyes. She did not look well—too skinny, with limp hair and ashen skin and bags under her eyes, dark as bruises. "Oh, here and there. How is my hermanito?"
"Fine, he's fine, but—oh, Sofia…your mother…" Alma reached out to take Sofia's hands but the woman stepped away from her.
"That's why I've returned." Sofia glanced up, taking in the glowing doors on the second floor. "Your children are powerful," she said, looking at each of their doors in turn. "Weather control, healing, foresight. You've been blessed richly in my absence."
Alma was confused. Something in the air had shifted. The crowd seemed to glide around the two of them, as if there was an invisible barrier separating them from the rest of the party. She shivered.
"Sofia," Alma said carefully, holding out a hand. "Come. Let's talk somewhere more private. I'll have Pedro—"
"I always thought," Sofia continued, like she hadn't heard her, "that I would feel it. When she finally passed. At least, that's what all my studies told me. After I went away, I began to…dabble. There's more than just the Madrigal type of magic you know, Alma, out there hidden away in the dark corners of the world. You just have to know where to look."
She held up her hands to pick at her fingernails, and Alma was startled to see that the tips of her fingers were completely black, as if they had been dipped in paint.
"But even with all my travels, all my studies, I always thought I'd return here, after my mother died. And then, as the eldest living Madrigal, the power of the Miracle would pass to me." Her gaze flicked to Alma and she giggled. "So imagine my surprise when I return and find someone else in control. And not even my pacifist brother! An outsider."
"Sofia," Alma whispered, her mouth suddenly very dry. "Por favor, let's discuss this—"
"You've taken my birthright, Alma," Sofia hissed, cutting her off. She extended one blackened finger toward her. "You've taken everything from me!"
Alma felt her entire body seize up as Sofia's Gift lifted her several inches above the ground. Distantly, she thought she heard people shouting.
She was never sure what exactly happened next. All she knew was that she was suddenly released from the grip of Sofia's Gift and fell to the floor, wheezing. Pedro stood in front of her, his hands raised in supplication, speaking in low tones to his sister. But with a crazed look and a slash of her hand, Sofia split Pedro's chest open and he fell to the ground without a sound.
Alma screamed.
Hail rained down on the scattering party-goers. Pepa was hyperventilating as wind whipped around her, tearing her dress. Bruno, his face grim, was struggling through the storm to get to his sister, Julieta clinging to his ruana.
Her children. She had to get to her children—
Sofia stepped toward her as Alma attempted to stand, the tiles slick with Pedro's blood. The whole house shook and cracks spider-webbed up the walls. Shingles were falling from the rooftop, shattering as they fell and sending bits of sharp clay out in every direction.
Before Sofia could reach her, Casita threw her back—the house rolling the floor as if it were a wave in the ocean. Sofia shrieked in frustration, lashing out with her Gift and bringing parts of the second floor down in an attempt to stop the house from flinging her any further.
The storm increased in intensity as the hail turned into a fully realized hurricane. Alma looked wildly for her children. They were together now, near the front door, hand in hand, and she choked back a cry of relief.
Her relief was short-lived as she was lifted, once more, into the air. Behind her, Sofia was giggling, her hand outstretched, her hair on end. As the storm surged around them both, she raised her hand high—
Bruno tackled the bruja, snarling insults, and she went down hard.
For the second time, Alma collapsed on the ground. Sofia kicked wildly, shrieking like an animal, but Bruno held her in a death grip. His eyes flashed green.
Another sickening crack shook the house.
Bruno howled, "Get back!"
Julieta and Pepa were suddenly at Alma's side, helping her stand and run as the tower at the corner of the house began to fall. With one last roll of its tiles, Casita flung them outside before half of the house came down with a roar, dust billowing outward like a cloud.
Alma's ears were ringing as she lay in the grass, Pepa's rain soaking her through.
"Mamá, we have to—we have to go—" Pepa sobbed. "We have to go back—Mamá, it's Bruno, he—"
Instead, Alma made the decision that would haunt her every step for the rest of her life: she grabbed her daughters' hands and ran.
She did not look back.
The entryway was silent. Abuela stood with her head bowed.
Thunder rumbled overhead.
"The witch…she was Tía Sofia?" Pepa whispered. "And—and this whole time, you let us believe it was some stranger—"
"I just wanted to keep you safe," Abuela whispered. "I wanted to ensure it would never happen again. I thought…with the Candle gone, the Gifts would disappear." She shook her head. "But yours never faded, mijas. And then…when the children received theirs…"
She shuddered. "A year after…after, some of the other survivors went back to look for her, to make sure she was dead, and they—they never came back." She shook her head again, pressing her hand to her chest. "She could still be out there, even now, and I couldn't…I wouldn't let her take any more of my people, my children, my-my grandchildren from me—"
"She's dead," Mirabel whispered.
Abuela froze, all color leaving her face. "What?" she said. "What did you say?"
Mirabel crossed the room to stand before her grandmother, taking her wrinkled hands in her own. "Tío Bruno told me…the day he was cursed, he had a vision of us, all of us, and the bruja—Sofia—she was going to come after us. So he—he killed her. He saved us and…and she cursed him for it."
Julieta sucked in a breath and Pepa's cloud threaded with lightning and started to rain. Abuela's eyes never left Mirabel's.
"She took him?" Abuela whispered. She stared straight ahead. "Then I did leave him. I abandoned my son—"
"You didn't know," Julieta said. Her eyes were red-rimmed and she was gripping Agustín's hand like a lifeline. "How could you have? None of us did. We all left him."
Pepa sobbed, hugging herself. "Then it was him," she managed to force out. "In the Encanto. I thought it was just a cruel trick—that the bruja just wanted her monster to look a little like Bruno, to spite us—"
Mirabel felt completely numb, staring directly into the face of her family's tragedy, the root of all their sorrow. "Tío Bruno said…he said there were looters. He was trying to protect Casita. He didn't-didn't know it was you, Tía Pepa."
"Then why didn't he chase after me when he realized?" Pepa cried, her rain shifting slowly into sleet. "I'm his sister. Why did he hide away? Why didn't he say anything?"
"He couldn't talk until Mirabel came."
Everyone jumped—Abuela pressed her hand over her heart and Pepa's cloud sparked with lightning and fizzled out.
Antonio stood at the top of the stairs, clutching a blanket, his brown eyes somber.
Mirabel stared at him. "Wh-What?"
"The rats told me," he said, glancing at Abuela. "They said he never spoke human words until Mirabel came, but when she did he could."
Julieta's hands flew to her mouth and Agustín drew her closer to him.
"Madre de Dios," Abuela whispered, closing her eyes and bowing her head. "Madre de Dios…"
Antonio tiptoed down the stairs to his mother, blanket dragging behind him. Pepa wrapped him in the blanket and scooped him up to cradle him close, sniffling even as she murmured soothing words into his hair.
Mirabel blinked back fresh tears as the realization sank in.
The third thing. His hands hadn't been the first part of the curse to be broken—his voice was.
The story he'd told Antonio made a horrible amount of sense now.
But so did Abuela.
Mirabel took a deep breath. "Abuela."
Her grandmother stopped her mantra and looked at her.
Mirabel pressed on. "Abuela, you…tried to protect our family. You worked with what information you had and you kept us safe even if…even if it hurt us, hurt me, in the long run."
Abuela bowed her head once more, but Mirabel gently took her hands again and Abuela met her gaze.
"I'm sorry," Mirabel continued, "for what I said in the council room—"
"No, Mirabel, I am sorry," Abuela said softly. "What I accused you of…was inexcusable. You didn't deserve that. I…allowed my fear to dictate my actions, and to—to hurt my family." Abuela's eyes filled with tears as she looked at her daughters, and Antonio in Pepa's arms. "Your Gifts are beautiful, mijas, and I am sorry I made you hide them away, to make you fear yourselves and to-to fear me. I was-I was wrong."
Pepa and Julieta exchanged glances, sharing a silent conversation.
"Sí, Mamá," Julieta said finally. She let go of Agustín's hand and stood by Mirabel, placing her hands on her daughter's shoulders instead. "You were wrong. And…and I'm not sure I can forgive you yet."
Abuela nodded, like she expected it.
"But," Julieta said. Her eyes were bright. "That does not mean I'm not willing to try."
Translations:
1. Patitos - ducklings
