Finally, Chapter five! I have omitted a more 'adult' scene of Pepa and Felix. Everything is uncut on AO3 if you are interested in reading it. Trigger warning for torture/war crimes. Thank you for reading.

Chapter 5

Everything's fine


EARLY THAT NEXT MORNING, without saying a word, the two women went to work. Remédios cleaned the dress and shoes they borrowed, while Magüi left a breakfast of changua – a creamy soup of milk, poached eggs, and scallions – and a pot of dark coffee for the inhabitants of the home that were gracious enough to let them stay. After the table was set and they ate their own portions – they left. It was still dark when they stepped away from that small home, but the birds were already chirping by the time they started their trek to the outskirts of Encanto.

After some walking, it was Magüi who broke their silence. "Are you sure you want to stay here?" Magüi finally asked. After what had transpired in a mere twenty-four hours, it was natural to wonder. Remédios hugged herself underneath the cover of her aguayo, "Why not?" she answered as she looked ahead and spotted the brick red roof of an abandoned farm home. "We're already here. We do this every couple of years. Why suddenly change? We've lived through worse." Magüi sighed a sigh of strained acceptance. "I suppose you're right." She smiled as she wrapped an arm around her goddaughter's shoulder, "We've lived through much worse, Chiquitita."

Remédios patted her guardian's hand, "Come on, it's just a few steps – once we're there I'm sure we can get the garden up by the afternoon." Magüi laughed, "Enchanting the plants, already! I thought you wanted to be less obvious?" Remédios rolled her eyes, "The townspeople already hate us enough as it is, we might as well give them a reason." Magüi shook her head, "No, I don't think it's the town," She winked, "I think it's that boy's mamá." The emphasis on the word 'boy' made Remédios face light up as she sputtered, "She's got nothing to worry from me, then," Remédios scoffed as she found the thought absurd, "If we're being honest, he's too scrawny and pale. I could snap him in two."

They both laughed, "He doesn't look like much," Magüi mused and put two and two together, "Judging from the size of that house and the authority that woman had… he's likely the most eligible bachelor in town…" Remédios' expression changed as both women came to the same conclusion, "I thought we weren't supposed to tempt fate?" Remédios' brows furrowed. Magüi waved her off and started her path upwards, slowly leaving the younger woman behind.

"Back when I was the mother of the mountains," Remédios' kept her eyes from rolling to the back of her skull, "…yes, yes, I know." She sighed as she moved to follow her, "Fate tempted you."

Everyone in the casita kept themselves contained into their own section of the house that morning. Alma woke early to pray. Julieta and Agustín slept soundly, entangled underneath their comforter. Julieta especially needed her rest from her hard work. Pepa and Félix were still in the middle of celebrating their union in the early hours.

Bruno sat up on his bed as the faintest glint of sunlight washed over his concentrated face. He did not sleep that night. His legs crisscrossed beneath his sketchbook as he overlined or etched out little scenes and settings from plays he remembered or books he read. He had been struck with inspiration like divine wisdom to a radical priest. That night, as Mamá Alma kissed his cheek and stroked his hair for the first time in a long time – all he wanted to do was to hole up in his room and create. Quick pencil strokes scratched against the page as he set out the scene: Don Quixote De La Mancha, the eccentric Spanish nobleman who became a knight in his own mind, on the field as he describes his Dulcinea; the ideal woman who, even within the novel's universe, was completely fictional. From a scene where Quixote resists someone's advances, he stays loyal to his imaginary lover, stating: 'The divine Tobosan. Fair Dulcinea claims me whole; Nothing can her image tear! 'Tis one substance with my soul.'

There was something about De La Mancha's adventures that him back to a time of normalcy, even if the character himself was odd. He fought windmills as if they were giants. Proclaimed his fake intended's appearance in the form of a peasant girl's. More importantly, he was loyal, and brave – even if he was a little crazy. Bruno and Pepa would fight over that book when they were smaller and Mamá would put it away if things got out of hand, but she'd let it back out after some time. Pepa always got to it first and once she finished a few chapters, it was him who plugged his ears as he avoided her blurting out the spoilers close behind as he tried to find a spot to read.

Good times.

Back in his room, his grass-colored eyes focused as he tried translating what his mind had described to him on paper. He had completed his rendition of the hidalgo, Quixote, and his attendant – the short, pot-bellied ex-farmer-turned-page, Sancho. Both on top of a horse and a donkey, respectively. He was half-way done with the landscape, dotted with windmills (of course), and perfectly rendered clouds. He still needed to practice capturing a sunrise or a sunset – the myriad of colors he'd see were still very hard for him to replicate, so he had plans to use pastels and maybe some acuarela once he added color to his piece.

He felt his hand begin to cramp and his eyes blink slower and slower as he began to nod off over his drawing. "Fine…" Bruno mumbled. Exhausted, he stopped fighting fatigue and flopped unto his back. He was shirtless, his skin warmed by the sunbeams that streamed brighter and brighter into his room and illuminated everything. It made his room feel even smaller. On his walls were possibly dozens of old sketches and personal drawings. Some of them finished, some of them barely a scribble. They had some writings on them – old dates, journal entries from his adolescence, and even poetry. At least half of them were studies of his favorite rats. He closed his eyes as he heard a faint squeak and smiled. "Chiquis!" he whisper-called. Bruno turned over to his belly as he propped his head with one hand and beckoned the furry creature with another. It didn't take long before his rat friend scrambled unto his bed – squeaking happily – before it landed on his head. "Ay," he grinned, fading between sleep and alertness, "Long time no see?" he scratched its' neck before he rolled over again, his rodent friend settled to rest on the crook of his neck once he moved again. "I was worried Señora Blanco's Persian got ahold of you." He smiled as his friend snuggled against him, "You won't believe what happened to me these past few hours. I ruined Pepa's wedding."

He sighed, and then yawned, as he closed his eyes again. "I met a new girl…" And fell fast asleep, the sun warming them both, "and almost died… but someone saved me."

Santa María, Madre de Dios,

ruega por nosotros pecadores,

ahora y en la hora de nuestra muerte.

Amén.

Alma rose from her room at no later from 7 AM. She noticed the portrait of her husband, Pedro, to be askew and busied her hands with that. "Casita, could you start the water for coffee?" She asked as she carefully affixed the photo frame to its rightful place. 'So careless,' she thought as she decided to blame the slight imperfection on the raucousness of the night before. As she descended from the stairs to floor level, she had seen things that were missed after the party ended. Glasses that were half empty of their contents. Streamers and crushed flowers here and there, she bent down to pick up a few to be discarded and decided to assign the morning chores to her children and new son-in-law once they awoke. 'Julieta won't need to do much, other than lunch and dinner,' Alma decided as she moved into the kitchen and saw that the percolator was boiling away. The scent of fresh coffee filled the air. "Casita, bring me my favorite cup. You know the one."

Alma's words brought the house itself to action. Not only did it pull out her favorite mug – painted a lovely maroon shade with white decorative leaves at its base – it went ahead and poured her a cup. "Thank you, Casita." Her mornings always started like this. Peaceful and quiet. Meditative, even. She'd come down this morning after a dreamless sleep, she was too tired to come to sunrise Mass so she prayed instead, and have Casita start her coffee as she sat and waited for her children to make their presence known. When they were smaller and more dependent upon her, she'd start breakfast, too. But as they got older, and she more confident in Julieta cooking safely, she'd make the coffee or help cook and rest. Sometimes, she'd have the paper ready. A lot of the world news was troubling, which only made her appreciate the God-given presence of Encanto. 'Behind these mountains, we are safe.' She'd say to herself as she'd read up on some horrible devastation or some peculiar technological advancement.

Japan had a new emperor. Henry Ford started the 40-hour work week. And Germany and Russia had signed some treaty. Outside of Encanto, the world was on fire.

'Praise be to God and our Blessed Virgin, that nothing out there, could ever come here.' The memory of seeing her son with that girl on the floor and again, with him slumped over in her arms – soaking wet and pale – swept through her like a wave. Irrationally, she was angry at the nameless girl that saved her son. She barked at her to stay away from them that night. And she meant it, every word. Whatever happened, for him to be so distracted by that girl, nearly killed him. It nearly killed her.

'Nothing out there can harm us.' She decided. That included strange women she had never seen before. And of that, she was certain, Brunito she would never see her again.

Fast knocks landed unto the front door. From the window of the kitchen, she could see it was Félix's mother. "Casita open the door." She said, after taking a sip of coffee, "Come in, Úrsula." Alma called rather coolly.

"Alma! Good morning, good morning," She nearly glided into the kitchen, dressed in all white from head to toe. She looked like a cloud compared to Alma's darker, scarlet femininity.

"Good morning, Señora Úrsula." Alma answered back. "Are you hungry? We have some leftovers, but I can wake Julieta if you need something fresh." Úrsula shook her head, "Oh no, let her sleep. I just came by to say goodbye to my Félix." She said as she sat on a chair opposite of Alma, "I already ate at my sister's. Her guests were rather gracious."

Alma took another sip without saying a word. She only nodded in approval, and then flipped another page of the scratchy newspaper in her hand. Her own smile still present, Úrsula was the first to break the silence. "Alma…" she began, her fingers steepled together as she looked out in the window and saw Encanto slowly spring to life, "I'm sorry about what happened."

"My Bruno is fine, if you were wondering." Alma was curt. Her eyes never lifted from the almanac portion of her recent page. "He did cut his cheek on a rock down there, but Julieta's arepas healed him. He'll know better next time." Úrsula's smile still stayed, but behind her eyes, flickered the light from before. It was if her expression was a candle that had been blown out by the wind that was Alma's deep-seated coldness. "Gracias a Dios," Úrsula said, "I prayed extra hard for him. I'm glad he pulled through. That young lady saved his life that night. My daughters tell me she and her godmother were very nice-"

"Yes, yes. That's good." Alma turned the page again, and stopped at the article entitled, "The Mystery and Romance of the Zodiac" and searched for her birth month as she stubbornly tried to not spend so much mental space on the subject. Úrsula pressed on, "But I wasn't talking about your son." Alma crossed her legs as she looked away from the paper, for once. "I was talking about your husband."

Alma's throat grew dry as her body felt like it wasn't her own. Outside, it was clear that she had suddenly drawn into herself further. Her shoulders stiffened and her eyes became glossy. If Úrsula had slipped up and sounded any less empathetic or turned inappropriate, Alma would've launched herself over the table. Was she mocking her? How dare that-

"I lost my husband during the troubles, too. Félix was still so small. Barely two. I had just weaned him and my youngest boy was barely a few months." The muscles in Alma's body suddenly laxed as Úrsula told her the less happy part of her story. Thankfully, she kept the gorier parts out. Mostly how they all hid beneath a barn, and how she cowered in the dark as she watched them string the love of her life's body up like a trophy (or a warning) once they had finished the torture. "It was horrible." She said, "I could not bury my love, either." Úrsula sighed, "They assumed that, because we were musicians in the past that had performed for the president of the previous regime that we were traitors." Úrsula took this chance to look into the other woman's eyes, "We were also one of the few black families that owned land there." Land her husband's family had for generations since the slavocracy ended. Land she had always believed was the real reason they were specifically hounded after long before the attack on their village, "Between the Conservative Republic and the Banana plantations, I'm not sure who were the worst at that time." Regardless, her little family could not stand the chance.

Úrsula's eyes welled with, but did not drop, tears. Alma was the next to speak, "Those were dark years." Both women exchanged a look that said many things, "My son is a good man, Alma. He will be good for your daughter. Please don't be like the men that killed my husband and disconnect him from his humanity." And it was that moment, that Alma slowly began to hate her. No one could understand her pain. Her body still ached after giving birth on that same day. Did she understand what it was like to tread water and carry three babies at once as the pain between your legs screamed with each step? Úrsula got a decade, she only had a year. Her children only knew their father from her words and his portrait. No, at that moment, she hated her. Her grief was nothing compared to hers.

"Mamá!" Félix's voice made a tear fall as Úrsula's smile only grew wider instead. A mix of relief and strained emotion overwhelmed her.

"I hope one day your heart will change."

And right after, there was Félix and Pepa, ready to shower both matriarchs with love.

Several hours later, Bruno Madrigal was roughly awakened by several rapid knocks at his room's door. "Brunito!" Pepa yelled, "It's a la una y media - one thirty! You missed breakfast and lunch. Don't tell me you're trying to miss out on dinner, too?" he sat up, his rat friend quickly scattered off as he groggily slipped from his bed's covers. "I'm up! I'm up!" he called back. "Just give me a minute to get ready. I know I'm behind on chores, Pepa." He half-regretted promising his mamá to do more around the casita after last night. He should've waited until after he was well rested to make his promise, but by this point, it was already too late.

At his door, he was greeted by a stern looking Pepa. Her arms were folded, and a foot stamped impatiently as she watched him, "Your ruana is on backwards."

"Still mad about yesterday?" he said as he slipped his poncho over his head to fix it, "I had hoped you would have been active around the house, starting today." Pepa said as she grinned and handed him her purse. "Mamá's exhausted, and Julieta has been busy in the kitchen. The least you could do is to go out and grab a few things from the mercado," Was this too cold? Pepa had a look about her that seemed as if her mind was preoccupied about something else. Bruno decided to ask his sister, "So, you weren't going to the coast?"

"What?"

"Your honeymoon – to the coast with Félix – did you change your mind?" Pepa's glance fell to the side, before she stared back into Bruno's. They shared the same color as hers, yet everything seemed... okay. It was strange speaking to a man who nearly died. Especially if it was your only brother. "No, well, we decided to go down in June or July, but-" She looked around, possibly to watch for their mother's footsteps, "Are you okay? Last night was extreme. We didn't expect it. No one did." Bruno was a bit taken aback by this. In recent years, Pepa was more aloof, independent when it came to their relationship. When they were kids, they were either the best of friends, or total enemies. So, for her to suddenly soften or concern herself for his wellbeing was a surprise. "Look, Mamá asked me to ask you to do this. She was a bit disappointed when you didn't wake up and help with chores as you promised, but-" She shrugged, "I can tell that she's worried. We all are."

The realization hit him like a wave. He did promise that when he woke up. Ugh, he felt even worse. Suddenly, he feared seeing his mother again. He also wanted to rectify everything. To fix it. He always wanted to fix things, even if he didn't break them. He held Pepa's purse in his grip, and nodded, "I'm fine, Pepa. Everything's fine."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

It was if yesterday did not happen. Encanto's weather was just as hot as it was the day before, which made moving about underneath the hood of his garment to be unbearable. Everything was uncomfortable and damp. Sweat dripped off from his hair to his face, his palms shook in his pocket, and he could feel the eyes of Encanto roll down his back along with each bead of sweat mixed in. It was only the beginning of the hottest months of the year in Colombia. It made him wish he was born somewhere colder. Almost. 'Maybe New York, next time.' Was a passing joke, to himself. He had always wanted to be an actor, or an artist, or… something. Other than just Encanto's most derided man.

Bruno's afternoon in the stalls was rather normal. His attentions were distracted by the stalls of carambola and guanabana before he forced himself to remember the list he was given by Pepa. "We need more potatoes. Some cassava starch. A bunch of cilantro. Just a bunch. And-"

"And?"

"Stop interrupting."

"And this might have to be delivered, but maybe a slab of pork belly."

He should've written it all down, but he decided to repeat the list over and over in his head or underneath his breath while no one was looking. Bruno left the casita in a hurry. He didn't want to risk facing his mother so soon. He also had some inkling of hope that he'd see 'her' again. His memory was foggy from that night. He got too drunk, followed her into the dark, and nearly drowned. The time between him treading water and waking up in his mother's arms was lost forever. Including her and how she responded. Other than Pepa, no one really discussed the issue yet. So maybe, at dinner, there would be some answers, right?

"Bruno?"

He was delivered from his thoughts by the voice of a vendor. "Yeah! I think I'm ready to order, I'll take that sack of cassava flour."

The walk back home was a bit burdensome. Not just because of the sacks of food and starch on his shoulder, but because of the stares. Chismeando was a way of life here, so he expected it. Only a few had radio and the paper only printed what was 'proper' to share at that time. So, gossip and rumor were a pastime that even his mother and sisters would indulge in. Still, it felt weird. The eyes of the Encanto watched him closely. What was most peculiar was that a lot of those eyes that followed him were young and female.

In fact, he was certain that he was being followed. Small footsteps trekked closely behind his heavier stomps all the way to the casita. When he turned just before he stepped in, he noticed them. Four girls, all of them no older than late teens, peered back at him and said nothing but stared. A tow headed girl would whisper into the ear of her darker haired friend and the darker haired friend would whisper to a red head and then the red head would say something to a girl with more Amerindian features and then they all giggled, before skipping off.

Again. Weird.

He carried his bounty into the kitchen, where he half expected to see his mother, Alma at the counter. Instead, it was the form of his eldest sister, working at something near the sink with her back turned. He tugged her braid playfully. "You slept in for a long time." Julieta said without looking up. "Yeah, I guess I was more tired than I thought?" The truth was that he fucked up his sleep schedule even more by staying up long after sunrise. "Hmph." Julieta said before she acknowledged him with a glance, "Well, did you get everything?"

"Oh yeah, the pork belly is being delivered – too heavy." He tapped the sack of cassava flour on the floor with his foot, "Got as much as I could, though. You're making pan de yucas instead of arepas tonight?" She nodded, "I like to switch it up. The arepas are just a bit faster to make when there's a project going on in town." Bruno smiled, "Of course, your arepas have turned you into a patron saint of construction workers and the handymen in town." Julieta smirked, "And the butchers. And the mamas that still nurse, too!" He conceded. Out of the three of them, if there was a town celebrity, she was it. She walked past him to grab a bowl of salt and another of some dried chili and placed it at his side. "Since you're here, you wouldn't mind helping? At least with the dough, I can handle the rest."

Now, usually, he'd pout at having an impromptu task thrust upon him like this, but he shrugged. "Sure." Besides, he and Julieta held a secret closeness that had maintained for a long time. He felt more at ease to vent to her and she always listened. Never really judging him, unlike Pepa, or Mamá. If you ever asked him his true feelings about the women in his life, he would always, always preface that he loved them all just as equally, but in different ways.

He admired his mother, he respected (and sometimes feared) Pepa, but Julieta? If it was Julieta who was born minutes after him, he'd be her white knight. When they were kids, he was, either way. His little-big brother instinct for her was strong – in fact, he didn't even like Agustín all that much until he got to know him.

Julieta, in turn, was just as protective of him, in her own ways. Even now, she was trying to think of a way to talk to their sister about him after dinner. But Bruno's opening question just now had interrupted that train of thought. "Julieta, be honest," he said as he dusted his palms with powder, "How mad is Mamá?"

She groaned. Why now? "Mamá is… she's fine," she shook her head, "She's fine. But-" She placed a bowl of water in between them and dusted her hands as she started kneading, "I can tell that she's worried."

He'd ask, 'about what?', but he didn't really need an answer for the obvious.

"I'm worried. Pepa's worried. Even our husbands are worried."

Bruno bit the inside of his cheek, before he made a small well in the mound of flour in front of him, "An egg? Or two? I can't remember the recipe." He had a way to conveniently change a subject that made him uncomfortable. Especially if there was a task in front of him that he'd rather put his mind on, "So, you're going to ignore it?" Julieta's words stabbed him in the gut, just as she cracked an egg into the flour, "And it's one egg, you should know this by now."

Julieta's sweet face had shown every emotion she tried to hide. Instead of serene, she was pained. She wiped her eyes, "You were blue, Bruno. We didn't know how long you were under there. If it wasn't for that girl-" A lightbulb moment jogged his memory, "What girl?" he hoped the description she'd use would match. "Bruno, I- I don't know. It was so dark. I think she was wearing red." He nodded, "Yeah! She was a costeña, or maybe she looked like one?" Julieta brows rose slightly, he was never this vested in strangers, before. "I'm not sure. I don't think she came with Félix's family." Come to think of it, she wasn't sure if she ever seen that girl before.

"She seemed new. The old lady she was with, I think she was an indigenous woman. Very short and squat. Wait…" Suddenly, her own memory was jogged. "I danced with her!" Bruno's eyes lit up. "At the party?" She nodded, although, she was still curious why he was so focused on that woman. "What was she like? Was she nice? How did she look to you?" His ears and face turned red, and Julieta held in her laughter as best she could, "Do you know her name?" He finally asked.

She clicked her tongue, "Brunito… you haven't been this intrigued by a stranger before…" His face grew redder with each word, "Julieta, stop!" he whined.

"It's not like that, it's just-" He focused on the dough in his hands, "We're not adding queso fresco to this?"

Julieta shook her head, "No, I'm cooking a fish stew. Wouldn't taste right with it." She did have a point, but it just didn't feel like pan de yuca without some fresh cheese. "Anyway, back to what you were saying, baby brother?" the last part of her sentence was said in a way you'd coo over a baby or a kitten. Bruno matched her tone in a comically patronizing fashion, "Not until you tell me the rest of what you said, young lady… and I was hoping for fried pork, tonight!" Julieta clicked her teeth in response, "Fish is better for us, the pork belly, though… I was thinking of making chicharron with." He kneaded faster, "Julieta you are a mastermind in the kitchen and for that, I will always love you for, among other things." The energy in the air had lightened as their moods had done the same. Those two were never the type to be mad for long. "Now, what were you saying about her name?" Julieta asked as she searched her thoughts. She was a bit tipsy at that time, so she really did want to remember. Once she did, however, Bruno's kneading stopped momentarily as he hung unto each word, "I think it was Marisol."

A familiar voice chimed in, "Marisol?"

Both siblings, dressed in blue and green, turned to see their sister in the doorway. "She told me her name was Chiquitita."

That conversation was the start of an afternoon long debate that would leave all three with more questions than answers.

Alma's bedroom was a memory. A hardwood floor with a white terracotta wall. The cross hung above her head as she slept. Her rosary was laid over her bible on her nightstand. A dulled medal of Saint Paula was set of to the side – worn from years of kisses and rubbing and prayers – so many prayers.

Her bed was small, just enough for her. And her candle, her miracle, shone brightly on her windowsill. It illuminated everything at night. And made her feel less lonely. Less afraid.

Since that morning, she had been away, a rare thing for her. Usually, she was out and about, visiting the town or keeping her hands busy. Since that talk with Úrsula, she spent her day at the casita and mostly in her room until a mealtime. She could not bring herself to make her presence known in the town. She sat there at her windowsill as she watched the sky change from midday to afternoon. She saw glimpses of people's lives play out in real time. Señora Blanco and her children walked behind in a row not unlike that of a goose and her goslings. Osvaldo and his friends seemed to live life as if it was a party every day. And then, she saw Bruno.

"Is that Anita's daughter?"

She saw him when he returned home after grocery shopping. He always seemed to stick out in public. With his head covered and his posture as slouched as ever, he made her think of a Benedictine monk. Or even a figure of Saint Francis of Assisi. Hm. The idea of her son dressed up like a friar was quickly overshadowed by the presence of the girls that followed him back home. Yes, all four were a bit young. No older than nineteen or maybe a few months shy of twenty. The youngest of the four had just turned seventeen. She knew their families and their names and before now, neither girl had ever looked at her son.

How strange.

The smell of Julieta's cooking distracted her from those thoughts. The fact that he was breathing and moving about eased her anxieties. "He's alive." She sighed and opened her locket. The same photo of her beloved smiling back at her before she pressed a small kiss onto his forever young face.

"Pedro, he's still here."

Bendícenos Señor, y estos tus dones,

que estamos a punto de recibir,

de tu generosidad, por Cristo, Nuestro Señor.

Amén…

Dinner was always at 6 o'clock. The table set perfectly with plates or bowls framed delicately with silverware. There was to be a candle lit at each side of the table and Alma always sat at the far end, facing her family from the left. It gave her the perfect view. From her children to their spouses, to the sun that quickly set outside; Alma could see everything.

After the mealtime prayer, everyone made a sign of the cross before they all dug in. Thick cuts of corn and hearty seafood swam in the broth Julieta slaved away at for hours. It burned Bruno's tongue immediately, but he found it bearable from the flavor alone.

For a family that was almost ripped apart by war. For a family that had just celebrated a loud wedding. For a family that nearly lost its only son – they ate and chatted about their day as if nothing happened. They were just like every family that bothered to sit at the table with each other. All except Bruno, who, against his better judgment, was locked away in his thoughts. He had his pencil in one hand and a spoon in the other.

"Bruno."

Every mouthful of food he took, he'd scribble something in his sketchbook, his face just as concentrated as it was that morning.

Chiquitita. Marisol. Marisol. Chiquitita.

He remembered she danced with several people that night – including his sisters. Did she possibly tell them who she was? Why was this such a hard thing for him to find and why was he so determined to know this in the first place? He abandoned his dinner for a moment to focus on his sketchbook again.

"Bruno."

He drew a figure. 'Her dress was red that night.' Flashes of the nameless woman danced into his mind. His family's conversation became random noise as he imagined her prance behind him like a living hallucination. 'Black hair in braids. Her hands were small.' Smaller than his. He almost dared himself to hold, to touch her bare skin by accident. But he quickly dashed that thought away.

Bruno felt something about this stranger. He could not pinpoint it, but he felt connected. He was certain he had seen her before.

"Bruno!"

Julieta's voice brought him back to earth, he moved to cover the pages he had doodled on with his hands as his eyes, as wide as the fish she gutted this morning, stared back into hers.

"Félix has been trying to ask you for the salt for an entire minute."

He cleared his throat, "Oh, um, here." He handed the bowl of salt to his newest brother-in-law.

"Sorry about that."

"No problem, bro… seems like you have a lot on your mind?" The older man asked innocently, "Feeling a lot better since…" Félix looked to his spouse for a better, less insensitive innuendo, "…since the incident?" Everyone winced at that. It wasn't the best term to use, but it was good enough.

Alma watched their interaction cautiously, a brow quirked up as she waited in the wings to swoop in and save face and finish dinner. Bruno simply shrugged, and said, "Yeah, I'm okay. Everything's fine." Bruno said as he stirred the cooling broth in his bowl and tapped his foot on his chair's leg.

"I guess I'm still tired." He answered, his features withered in the candlelight. In his sketchbook, if one looked closely, the figure he drew looked like it was dancing.

Earlier that day, when they moved into the farmhouse, Magüi and Remédios saw that it was infested with yellow butterflies. Dozens of them were either dead or dying, and every time they swept away a pile, more were discovered under floorboards, cabinets, and closets. It was a battlefield, and the side with the most casualties were the butterflies. They spent that morning to high noon cleaning up the carcasses and settling into their new lives. Remédios was busy putting up the final touches to their shared pharmacy. Dried herbs and flowers hung low from the ceiling as each cabinet case was filled to the brim with ingredients and various items used for their work.

There was a shrine on the corner of the kitchen clad with red and gold fabric. On this wooden table was various iconography, mostly Catholic figures, but a few were the lovingly hand carved visions of local saints and pagan deities. A small statue of the Virgin stood proudly in the middle as Saint Expedite – a Roman solider beheaded for his conversion – was perched at her left as if he were her personal guard. At the right was the form of María Lionza – a palm sized statue of a bare-breasted indigenous woman atop a tapir. In her upraised arms was a woman's pelvis, the cradle of life.

Remédios would make a sign of the cross every time she walked past that alter and would place various items in front of the figures. Dried flowers for the Virgin. A slice of sweet bread with a small petition or message to Expedite, underneath. For María, a few leaves of tobacco and a slice of orange. Magüi's offerings were a small knife to Oshun – depicted as a black woman in a coral-colored dress – and a compact mirror for her husband, Orúnla. Originally carved as a portrayal of San Francisco de Asís (Saint Francis of Assisi), his skin was painted brown, his hair black, and his monk's habit was a mix of green and gold. More importantly, he was the orisha of wisdom and divination. And not only did he see the future, he influenced it.

Out of all of the orisha, Remédios always found herself drawn to Orúnla. Although, her own patron was Iansã, there was something about Orúnla that had long fascinated her. She even went as far as to create his figure by hand. In fact, she painted most of these figures. A few of them she even made from scratch. That evening at the kitchen counter, she went back and forth from decorating the space to peeling some potatoes for dinner to whittling a block of wood in the form of a capybara. If her hands were busy, that meant her mind was busy. And if her mind was busy, then she didn't have to think about yesterday or tomorrow or anything, really. Just now, in this moment, she was free.

It was past dusk once Magüi stepped inside.

"Well, I salvaged most of our seeds, but we should have plenty of fruit growing in by next month."

Remédios bobbed her head, half-listening, half-peeling.

"I also planted the catnip you wanted."

Remédios didn't look at her, and instead placed the potatoes with the onion she had already sliced with some water and flour. "You planted the marijuana, too?" Remédios asked as she stirred the mix around. Magüi nodded and dusted some soil from her skirt. Remédios let go of the ladle and left it to continue stirring for the time being. She needed salt, peppercorn, and some butter and oil for this dish to taste like something worth eating. She pushed past Magüi without saying a word, in fact, she avoided her.

"Remé."

"Now, I found the salt, let me see where we packed the oil…"

"Remé…"

"Okay, I have the oil, the salt, the peppercorns – maybe cumin could work? Where is that?"

Magüi's lowered into a growl, "Miera Remédios Cosmé!" Remédios stopped dead in her tracks. Her shoulders hunched and her back raised as if she had seen a dead rat in her path.

"Turn around."

She swallowed and turned to face her godmother like a lieutenant called to duty.

"Yes ma'am."

Remédios' readied herself. She was either going to get an earful, even at her big age, or be told some bad news. It was rarely ever something good when she felt her godmother's energy was off. She felt it that morning, she felt it when she was in the gardens, and she strongly felt it now.

"What did you do, Magüi?" Remédios' entire body shook as she teetered between reverence and annoyance. Magüi shook her head, "Nothing harmful. Nothing bad. I just figured you needed some help." Both women knew what she meant by 'help'.

"Magüi, tell me you didn't."

"Do what?"

"Did you try to interfere with my curse?" She had long called the spell she made twenty years ago a 'curse', to herself. But to Magüi, this was the first time she ever heard her goddaughter acknowledge it in such a way.

"Remé, I don't appreciate your tone…"

"And I don't appreciate you trying to meddle."

Remédios flailed her arms up in frustration as she went back to the pot of her poor man's meal.

"Remember the last time? The several last times? You said it yourself – don't try to interfere with fate."

"Hmph." Magüi scoffed, and leaned against the counter, "Well, when I ruled the mountains-"

"Okay, okay, I get it. You've said this a million times. You're La Madremonte. The Mother of the Mountains, the Forests, and the Trees. Goddess of nature and animals."

Magüi was almost offended, but not by what you'd think. "Excuse me?" she said with a scandalized gasp, "I also haunt cow thieves." Remédios clicked her teeth. The stories and quotes were funny when she was little, but now it really got on her nerves. "Well, now you're my godmother. You're an old Nasa woman in her 70's with bad knees, but you insist on planting everything yourself even though I'm just as capable to do mostly everything around here." She shook her head and turned as she punctuated her words with the stab of her soup ladle, "Why did you become mortal, if you could live forever as a beautiful goddess in the forests? If I had the choice, I would have just stayed as La Madremonte."

She huffed, "Why did you meddle in my personal affairs? I won't see him again." She went back to stirring by hand as she tried to keep her anger from bubbling up even further, "We live far enough away from the rest of the town."

Magüi walked forward and wrapped a protective arm around her goddaughter's waist and said, "You know why, you know the story. I've been indebted to your family for centuries."

Remédios huddled as she tried to affix her sight on the pot boiling in front of her. The steam made her eyes water.

"I don't believe you."

"I know you don't."

"Magüi, what did you do?"

"I can't tell you. You'll see for yourself."

"And if it hurts him? If it hurts us?"

"We can find a way to stop it. Everything is fine, okay?"

Everything was fine.