"Miercoles."
It is, for some reason, their family's worst curse word.
Not the day of the week, just to be clear. And not because no one in her family ever swears, in fact, Mirabel's own father is surprisingly skilled in the art of profanity, though he rarely, if ever, makes use of this talent. Bruno, too, knows a good number of curse words in multiple languages, though he generally doesn't swear in front of the children. If he slips, it's usually in the midst of a particularly bad vision-induced migraine. Pepa is fully capable of swearing like a sailor, and when she's angry enough to do it, she doesn't care who's around to hear.
All that aside, somehow, and Mirabel to this day has no idea how, the word miercoles, when uttered by itself in a particular tone and style, is worse than any other curse word, or any other group of words used in conjunction with each other, in existence.
The fact that her uncle is saying it now means something very, very bad.
Bruno pulls his ruana over his head without further comment and approaches the bed.
"Back up," he tells Mirabel, his voice softer than she's ever heard it. "Just a little." Mirabel steps away from the bed, eyes darting from her uncle to the still-crying little boy.
Bruno leans forward the tiniest bit and tosses his ruana at the boy, flicking his wrists as he does so it catches the air and drapes over him almost gracefully. He then proceeds to perch on the edge of the bed.
"Like it?" he asks, but doesn't wait for a response. His voice is still so soft, Mirabel can barely hear him. "It's magic, you know. Of course you know all about magic, don't you? I can see it in your eyes. But the ruana, the ruana is magic too. Can you feel it? So soft, so comfortable. Doesn't hurt at all, does it? That's because it's magic."
Bruno is rambling, the way he does when he's not entirely aware of himself after a vision, or the way he talks to his rats when he thinks no one else is around. It worries Mirabel, but the sounds of sobbing are getting quieter, even if she can no longer see the kid where he's buried under a pile of green cloth, so maybe it's helping.
"How is it magic, you ask?" Bruno switches into his storytelling voice, so Mirabel knows he's making things up, but she's not sure the little boy is old enough to know the difference. "First I walked for seven days and seven nights. Seven is a good number. Clean and pure and nice. On the way I passed seven trees and seven lakes and seven golden fields. I saw seven cats and seven dogs and seven cows and seven hogs. And after those seven days and seven nights, I came to a door, seven feet tall, with seven locks on it. And you know what I did?"
Bruno pauses, but the boy does not answer. Undeterred, he presses on.
"I knocked, seven times."
Bruno reaches out and knocks on the bed frame, startling Mirabel. He only does the knocks anymore when he's having a particularly stressful day.
"I knocked seven times again." He raps on the bedframe once more. "Seven times seven I knocked upon the door." He demonstrates, rapping out a pattern of seven, over and over again. "And at last, the door opened. And inside I met a unicorn. The shiniest, whitest unicorn ever seen by mortal eye, the likes of which shall not be seen again." Bruno pauses.
"Unless you look hard enough, I guess. And this unicorn-Gloria was her name-declared me to be kind and gentle and above all, pure of heart, and bestowed unto me this sacred ruana, to protect me from monsters and bad dreams scary visions and angry people. None of these can harm me, she declared, while I wear this sacred cloak of protection."
He looks down at the lump huddled at the edge of the bed. "And now I pass it on to you, to borrow, till your mind be better at ease and your skin cease to burn, and the fires of the future release you from this latest torment."
Bruno leans closer to the bundle. "Going to pick you up now," he announces, and does so, settling his burden of ruana and boy in his lap.
The tiniest bit of head appears out from under the ruana, and Bruno lays a gentle hand on it, tousling the boy' hair briefly and stroking this short, dark locks.
The boy shifts, the rest of his head peeking out. He presses himself against Bruno, burying his face in the man's torso.
Bruno continues stroking the child's hair, his expression troubled.
"What is it?" Mirabel asks, her own voice hushed. "What's wrong?" Her uncle doesn't answer, his attention still on the boy.
"Tienes hambre, mijo? Te gusta ajiaco?" Are you hungry, Mirabel translates. Do you like ajiaco? He receives a small, unsteady nod. "Bueno." Good. He looks over at Mirabel. "We have leftover soup, don't we?"
Mirabel doesn't know.
Bruno adjusts the ruana so the boy's head peeks out of the right hole, but it's far too big for him, and looks more like a blanket than anything else. Bruno tweaks his nose, and the boy ducks his head. Mirabel smiles at the two of them as they study each other, both solemn, neither entirely comfortable in his own skin.
"Listo?" Ready? Bruno asks, and the boy nods. He stands, groaning as he lifts the boy with him, and settles him against his chest. "Vamos."
Let's go.
Mirabel follows them out of the nursery and down the stairs, hoping her uncle doesn't fall on his way down. He's not particularly strong; Antonio is just starting to get too heavy for him to pick up. Mirabel can tell he's struggling under the boy's weight, but holds off on saying anything for now.
The rest of the house is strangely quiet.
Once they reach the kitchen, Bruno sets the boy on top of the counter beside the stove. Mirabel goes looking for soup while he searches for something to put it in. She finds a pot with just enough left at the bottom for one person-her mom probably left it for Bruno-and brings it over to the stove.
The boy watches as she starts heating the soup, but looks away as soon as he catches her looking at him.
"Esta bien," It's okay. Bruno murmurs as he brings over a bowl and spoon. "Se llama Mirabel. Es amable, no?" This is Mirabel. She's nice.
It doesn't escape her notice that by now he's speaking to the boy almost entirely in Spanish, but she's not sure why, because she knows he understands English. It could be her uncle speaking Spanish just because, but while she's heard him insert plenty of Spanish words in conversation, and entire phrases or sentences are certainly nothing out of the ordinary, it's the first time she's ever heard him speaking primarily Spanish.
In fact, he's only switching back to English when he talks to her.
"Como estas?" he asks the boy. How are you? "Cansada?" Tired? He receives a small nod. "Tienes hambre?" Another nod. "Tienes miedo?" Are you scared? The boy hesitates. "Un poco? Poquito? Poquiti-ti-ti-to?" For a moment Mirabel thinks he's stuttering. But the boy nods, and while he doesn't exactly smile, something relaxes in that tiny little frame, and Bruno breathes a sigh of relief.
"Sana, sana, colita de rana," he murmurs softly, smoothing the boy's hair back. "Si no sana hoy, sanará mañano."
When the soup is warm, Bruno dishes some out, filling the bowl only about a third of the way before setting it at his usual spot at the table. A moment later he returns, scooping the child up again and setting him down in his chair.
"I need tea," Mirabel's uncle mutters, half to himself. "Can you watch him, just for a moment?"
"Or I can make tea," she offers, because as a general rule, Bruno's not actually supposed to use the stove unless someone's there to keep an eye on him while he's doing it.
It sounds silly, since the man is a full-grown adult (not to mention fifty years old), and Bruno himself is always a little touchy about it, but by now everyone except Antonio has personal experience highlighting exactly why such a rule is in place.
Mirabel still regrets giving in, even after he spent twenty minutes trying to convince her that he was fully capable of boiling water by himself.
Spoiler alert, as the man himself would say (she has no idea what the phrase actually means): her uncle may, on occasion, be fully capable of boiling water on his own. He is not, however reliably capable of doing so every time he makes the attempt. That night was one of the times he was not.
She had left the room for less than five minutes, returning just in time to watch his eyes start glowing, and his hand reach for something to steady him. Unfortunately, when he started groping blindly in front of him he found the already hot burner on the stove, and Mirabel became uncomfortably and rather abruptly introduced to the smell of burning flesh.
She had jerked his hand back fairly quickly, and he didn't even notice when he first came out of his vision, and really, they had leftover arepas available, so it was easily healed, but Mirabel still feels bad about it.
His mouth tightens, but he doesn't argue. He knows she feels guilty about the incident, and that in turn makes him feel guilty, and Mirabel is fully prepared to use that to her advantage.
She can hear her uncle talking to the kid from the kitchen, though his voice is still low enough that she can't quite make out what he's saying, just that it's meant to be soothing.
He joins her in the kitchen just as the water starts to boil and begins fishing around in the cupboard for a mug. "We might have a problem," he says, his voice still soft. He finds the cup he wants and begins rummaging about in one of the drawers for a spoon.
"Oh?" Mirabel is almost one hundred percent certain that her uncle knows exactly who that little boy is.
Bruno nods and starts looking for the sugar.
She knows they rearranged the kitchen about three years before he came back out of the walls. Cabinets, cupboards, drawers, everything. And she knows it was the first and only time anything in Casita has ever been moved around, and the forty years her uncle lived in the house before disappearing in the walls is no match for the mere months he's spent in the kitchen since coming back out, which is why he sometimes looks for cups and spoons and tea leaves where they used to be instead of where they are now.
The sugar, however, is an entirely different matter. Everyone in Casita puts the sugar back in a different place every time they use it, and no one ever puts it back in the same place twice. After fifteen years, Mirabel's gotten used to the idea. She can usually find it fairly quickly.
Bruno has not, and doggedly maintains that the sugar should be on the counter nearest the entrance to the kitchen, right next to the salt.
Since nobody wants him throwing either every time he enters the kitchen, however, neither the salt nor the sugar are ever left on the counter closest to the kitchen entrance. It's the only consistency that exists when it comes to putting the sugar back. Nobody cares where it ends up, just don't put it near the door.
Mirabel sees it sitting next to the dish drainer and points. Bruno turns and retrieves the sugar bowl.
"So what's the problem?" she asks, because he seems to have been entirely distracted by his hunt for the sugar.
"Huh? Oh." Bruno spares a brief glance in the direction of the dining room table before he starts looking for the tea. "Couldn't find the sugar."
"Ah." Mirabel is not convinced, but the man refuses to elaborate.
They rejoin the boy, each with a steaming cup of tea in hand, to find him still working on his soup. Mirabel's eyebrows furrow as she watches him struggle with his spoon-he's holding it funny, clenched in his fist, palm upward, as if he's not entirely sure how it works. He has to twist his arm at an awkward angle to get the spoon to his mouth.
Bruno leans forward, plucking the spoon out of his hand, much to the surprise of both boy and niece. The child sits there staring at him with big eyes, not moving so much as a muscle. He doesn't resist when Bruno reaches out with his free hand and takes the boy by his left, gently but firmly sliding the spoon back into his grasp.
"Esta bien," he says, and goes back to his tea. The boy returns his attention to his soup, but while his grip on the spoon is still not entirely comfortable, he does seem to be managing better. "They used to think it was a sign of the devil, being left-handed." Bruno says for Mirabel's benefit. He takes a sip of his tea too soon and winces.
"Oh." Mirabel considers this. She knows Camilo is left-handed. "So what, they just made people use their right hands instead?"
"Sometimes."
Mirabel's father chooses that moment to poke his head through the door, and Bruno, usually mild-mannered bordering on shy, looks up and shoots him a look that could curdle milk. "Go away," he says, and whatever daggers his eyes are currently shooting at the other man, his tone remains even.
Papá, far from being offended, raises his hands in surrender and backs out of the room.
The little boy watches the entire exchange with interest before going back to his soup.
When he finally finishes, Bruno picks him up again and carries him back into the kitchen, setting him once again on the counter. He then takes a step back, looks the boy over from top to bottom, and sighs.
"Mira," he says, and the boy looks up at him. Bruno raises one finger, tracing a pattern in the air, and the boy's eyes follow the path his finger makes obligingly. Bruno then proceeds to lean forward, snapping his fingers right next to each of the boy's ears. The child makes a face each time and turns his head away, but isn't as upset as Mirabel expects.
She has no idea what her uncle is doing.
Bruno taps a staccato rhythm on the counter, one they're all familiar with, only to stop without completing the last two beats.
The boy finishes the pattern for him.
Bruno reaches for the sugar, still where they left it earlier, because Bruno never puts the sugar away in the vain hope that it will be right where he left it the next time he goes looking for it. He takes a pinch and tosses it over his shoulder.
"Cuantos años tienes, mijo?" he asks, and the boy looks up at him. "Enséñame." How old are you? Show me.
The boy holds up a hand, slowly counting out fingers. Mirabel counts one, two, three, four, five, and then he raises his other hand.
Six, seven, eight.
There is no way this kid is eight years old.
Bruno only nods in confirmation. "Bueno. Sabes dónde estás?" Do you know where you are? The boy hesitates briefly, then nods. "Sabes cuando?"
Do you know when?
The boy frowns and looks worried, like he's been caught doing something he shouldn't. Bruno holds his gaze, waiting, until at last he shakes his head no and hangs his head.
"Hiciste una visión" Bruno continues gently, and the boy hunches in one himself even further. "Del futuro. Tu futuro. Algo salió mal, entiendes?" Something went wrong, do you understand?
The boy nods, and Mirabel's heart goes out to him even as she's trying to figure out exactly what her tío is saying, because the kid looks absolutely miserable.
"Ne te preocupes," Her uncle says. Don't worry. The boy starts crying anyway, and Bruno picks him up ever so gently and pulls him into a hug.
It takes roughly ten minutes for the boy to cry himself to sleep, his head buried in Bruno's chest. By that time Mirabel has questions. Lots and lots of questions.
Lots and lots and lots of questions.
So does everyone else, it seems. The leave the kitchen and make their way to the dining room only to find the rest of la familia waiting for them in the living room.
Bruno looks around, from one face to the other, and seems to realize there is no escape.
"Mierda."
Pepa raises an eyebrow at him. "You want to tell us anything?" She asks, in that way only Mirabel's aunt can. In a way that says she's not really asking and expects a full explanation and you had better not, for your own sake, leave anything out.
"I need a teddy bear." Bruno says instead of explaining.
"A what?" Pepa demands, her voice rising. Bruno winces.
"A doll? A stuffed animal? Something..." He looks like he wants to wring his hands, but there's a child in the way.
"I have something you can use." Mirabel has no idea why Antonio is here, but the boy smiles sweetly up at his uncle before darting up to his room. He's back down a minute later, stuffed leopard in hand.
"Here."
Bruno accepts it with a thank you and turns toward the stairs. Pepa clears her throat, places her hands on her hips. Bruno sighs and turns back around.
"I've got maybe eight minutes before another vision hits. If I can get him settled before then, he might sleep through the night. Please."
Pepa purses her lips, but retreats, just a little. "Don't make me come after you," she says.
He disappears up the stairs, into the nursery, leaving Mirabel alone with a room full of family members wanting to know what's going on. Unfortunately, she doesn't really know either.
She has a suspicion. One tiny, crazy thought.
She recounts Bruno's vision this morning. Most of them already know about that. She tells them about finding the kid out in the courtyard, and looking for his parents. She mentions that he doesn't talk, and tells them about giving up and bringing him here. And about him having a nightmare when she tried to put him down for a nap. And about Bruno calming them down and getting him some soup.
Bruno returns exactly nine minutes later, looking haggard, but relieved. It is a relief that is short-lived, however, as he turns to face his family.
Mirabel can see the exact second his anxiety spikes.
"Well?" Pepa demands, hands still on her hips. "Who was that boy? Mirabel said she couldn't find his family."
Bruno laughs, and his response is so abrupt, so unexpected, that the rest of them flinch. His eyes are a bit wild as he runs a hand through his hair only to start tapping a finger against his thigh-a nervous habit he's been trying to break.
He lets out a long, slow breath, and runs his hand through his hair again.
"Huh," he says, somewhat at a loss now that he's standing in front of them.
Julieta shifts in her seat. Her husband puts his arm around her. "Just tell us, Bruno. Surely it can't be as bad as you think it is."
Bruno scrubs at his face wearily with his hand. "I'm afraid you'll think I've gone mad," he admits. "But here goes. It's not really a question of who. You know him, and his family. You all do." He takes a deep breath, forcing himself to look his sister in the eye. "It's more a question of...when."
She stares at him uncomprehendingly, but Mirabel is suddenly putting all the pieces together. Turning to stare at her uncle, she points straight at him.
"He's you."
Author's Note: So this just seems to be happening. Not sure how or why, but I guess just sit back and enjoy the ride?