7. Chapter 7

A/N: Edited 6/24/22 for spelling, grammar, and minor timeline adjustments that have no bearing on the overall plot.

Chapter 7

"Mirabel! Miraaaaa-beeeeeeeel!" Called Josefina, squeezing through spaces in the crowd and scrambling after the older girl.

Bruno and Mirabel turned, and Josefina caught up to them, slipping her hand into Mirabel's. "Mamá said I could walk with you!" She announced, beaming up at her.

Mirabel adjusted her glasses with her free hand and scanned the small crowd. There was a steady stream of people headed toward the casita. Ah – there. Señora Moreno waved, her expression exasperated, and she mouthed 'gracias'. She almost dropped the basket of food, bucket of supplies, and the blanket she was carrying, and Mirabel pulled her tío and Josefina to the side to wait for her.

When she caught up, Bruno offered to take something.

"Ah, yes, please – here, thank you!" She handed him the bucket and shifted the basket and blanket in her arms so she wouldn't drop them again. The four of them continued forward, and Josefina eyed the bucket with a smirk.

"Hola, Jorge…" she said expectantly.

Bruno chuckled. "Sorry, kid, bucket's full. No Jorge until later." He held it up as proof.

Josefina sighed, but accepted his answer. Ahead, Alejandra, another one of the village's children and one of Josefina's friends from school, walked between her father and uncle, holding their hands. All of a sudden, they swung her forward, lifting her high into the air, and then let her swing back down to the ground. Alejandra laughed and shrieked, and Josefina's eyes widened.

She looked back over her shoulder. "Mamá?" She asked hopefully.

Lucía blew a stray lock of hair from her forehead. "Lo siento, mi fresita – my hands are full." (1)

Bruno looked between mother and daughter. Josefina didn't look terribly disappointed, but she did watch the other little girl with a wistful expression. He wavered, wondering if it would be his place to offer to swing her like that, but Mirabel took the lead.

"Tío Bruno, you think you can handle it?" She looked to Lucía, who nodded appreciatively, and then Mirabel gave him a conspiratorial grin.

"Me?" He laughed nervously. "Uh – of course." He held out his free hand, tentatively.

He needn't have been concerned. Josefina took it and grinned, looking between the two of them.

"On three!" Mirabel said, meeting his eyes over Josefina's head. "One, two – three!"

He and Mirabel swung Josefina forward, her feet stretching up to the sky, and her laughter rang out. As soon as her feet hit the ground, she begged for them to do it again. And as they swung her again, Bruno laughed with her.

By the middle of the second week, the Casa Madrigal was looking almost like itself again. Mirabel estimated that their home was over two-thirds done – the framing, at least, was complete, and she couldn't have been more proud of her family and their village for the way they'd all come together.

She wiped her hands on her skirt and tried not to laugh as Camilo fumbled with a shovel. He wasn't proving to be the most adept at this house-building stuff, but she supposed he was still adjusting to not being able to shift into someone shorter or taller whenever he wanted.

He seemed to be doing all right, still doing his best to make people laugh – especially Antonio. Antonio had had a rough time of it at first, but seemed to have made peace with the fact that he couldn't speak to his animals anymore. Bruno had helped with that, explaining that he had learned to understand his rats by watching their body movements and behavior, and Antonio was determined to learn to 'speak' rat, horse, donkey, and whatever other animal he had regular access to.

Dolores was still quiet, but instead of a tense quiet – as though she were trying to keep herself from speaking – it was a content quiet. She seemed relieved.

Mirabel was pretty sure Isabela and Mariano calling it quits may have something to do with that. (Dolores had admitted last week during their awkward and yet wonderful talk with Mamá, that she'd had a thing for him for years. Well – she called it a 'thing'. It was pretty obvious from the way she talked about him that she was already in love with him.)

To Mirabel, Isabela was a completely different person. It was as though all this time she'd been a seed, buried in the ground, and she'd finally thrown off her old, dead shell, burst open, and grown into the person she was meant to be all along. She insisted on wearing the dress she'd colored the day the casita fell, and was thinking about possible ways to keep the blue and purple streaks in her hair. She wavered between being excitable and enthusiastic and her previous subdued self, still adjusting to allowing herself to be something other than perfect. She seemed to appreciate anything and everything that was colorful and messy.

Luisa was still strong, still sturdy, but more willing to be honest about what she was feeling – and she felt a lot. There was so much going on beneath Luisa's calm exterior, and it made Mirabel want to both laugh and weep, equal parts delighted at her openness and sorrowful that Luisa had felt the need to hide that part of herself for so long. Mirabel had never felt so close to her sisters. Spending every night together the past week and a half had done wonders in that regard. Everyone seemed to be doing better – everyone seemed to be feeling happier.

Everyone, that is, except Mamá and Abuela.

Mirabel grimaced. Her mother had just turned away from the people she'd been working with, and she saw her mother's face fall from a polite smile to something almost painful. Julieta crossed her arms across her chest as she surveyed the casita. Julieta's frown deepened as she saw Abuela move around a corner, and she turned away so that she would not catch her mother's eye.

Mirabel wove her way toward her mother. "Mamá," she said softly.

Julieta's eyes lit up and she smiled. "Hola, mija."

"Ma," Mirabel continued, suddenly uncertain. "I was just wondering…are you okay?"

Julieta blinked and smiled. "I - "

"And don't just say you're okay. You – you look sad, Mamá. And when you see Abuela, you look…upset."

Julieta looked at her daughter in surprise.

"And, I know, it's okay – it's okay that things are – weird, right now. I mean – it's okay, if you're not okay. But you seemed to be going toward 'okay', before, and now – it seems like you're moving away from 'okay'…? Because – I just thought – things would be…better? And – you're not better. So…"

Julieta took a deep breath, and held Mirabel's hand, squeezing it affectionately. "Mirabel, mija." She closed her eyes for a moment, and then looked into her daughter's concerned gaze. "Mirabel, I felt so much better after our talk the other night, but I am still feeling…sad, and guilty, about how sick our family has been for so long. We were ill long before you came along, but you turned out to be just the medicine we needed, mi querida. It just – still takes time to feel its full effect, okay? I promise, I will talk to Abuela soon. Please, don't worry. We will be alright."

"Okay, Mamá. Te amo."

"Te amo, mi milagrita." (2)

Camilo groaned and rubbed his face in frustration. This was the second awkward encounter today he'd had with his Tío Bruno. First, his tío had been playing 'Jorge' for Josefina and Antonio and a few other kids from town, and had tried to talk to him while in character. Camilo had laughed awkwardly and shrugged him off, saying he had some work he had to get back to. He felt guilty about it afterward.

Now, Bruno had just tried to apologize. He'd said he knew Camilo wasn't a kid anymore and he was sorry if he embarrassed him. Camilo was embarrassed, but it had nothing to do with Jorge.

It had everything to do with how he'd transformed into his tío and made up stories about how he was some monster who feasted on people's screams. He'd just been playing around, he knew it wasn't true – his memories of his tío were fuzzy at best, but he knew he'd loved his tío and missed him when he was gone. Mamí had been so upset when Bruno had left, and every time he asked about him, she'd just get more upset. Eventually, she told him to stop talking about Bruno, and he'd drawn his own conclusions about his tío's leaving.

In Camilo's five year old brain, it had been simple. People in town said Bruno was bad. Bruno left, and that was a bad thing. His family didn't like to talk about Bruno. So it was easy to make Bruno into a bad guy. But he hadn't ever really feared Bruno, or been angry at him himself. He'd just…followed along with what everyone else seemed to be saying. And now, he was ashamed of it.

Ashamed, and confused, and angry.

But what was he supposed to do? Walk up to his tío and say 'Hey, Tío Bruno, sorry I made up stories about you to scare people for fun. I never really believed them?'

Yeah, no.

"Milo, mijo, what's wrong?"

His face softened as his mother squeezed his shoulder.

"Nothing, Mamí. I'm fine. Just resting."

Pepa sat beside her son. "Are you sure you're fine? You seemed pretty frustrated just now."

He bit the inside of his cheek and propped his chin in his hand, thinking.

"And I think I know a little something about feeling frustrated," she nudged his shoulder, teasing.

"I'm fine."

Pepa looked concerned. "Milo, are you – are you missing your gift?" She asked softly.

"Huh? No, I mean – yeah, it's weird without it, but that's not - " he exhaled dramatically. "It's not like I always used it that well anyway." He mumbled under his breath.

Pepa's face fell. "Milito - "

"Mamí, I'm fifteen."

"And you'll always be mi Milito, mi bebé, mi hombrecito." (3) She smiled at him, pride in her eyes, before her expression faltered again. "But what do you mean, you didn't use it that well? You did everything you could to use your gift well. You babysat for the most difficult and clingy babies in the Encanto, you became taller or smaller to help with chores or…" Pepa paused, her thoughts trailing off. "You changed everything about yourself, mijo, to fit what we needed at the time – every time."

He tried to keep from rolling his eyes. Now she was going to turn this whole thing into something it wasn't. Well...maybe it kind of was, a little, but everyone else had their own issues to deal with. And then there was the issue of the house. They didn't have a house, for goodness' sake. The faster they rebuilt, the faster they could get back home - the better. "Mamí," he said resting his hand on her arm, reassuring – "It's not like that. I liked shifting. I liked being someone else, I liked making people laugh. It was like…acting. And I enjoyed it. But...I can still do those things without my gift."

Or at least, he was trying to.

Pepa put her hand over his. "That reminds me of your Tío Bruno. He's always liked acting too."

Camilo grimaced and looked away. "I know."

"What is that?" Pepa scolded.

"What?"

"That. The thing with your nose and your face and the 'I know.'" Pepa mimicked his tone, teasing.

He groaned.

Her expression suddenly became serious and thoughtful. "Camilo, you need to be nice to your tío. I missed him, and I know I wasn't the best example for you, refusing to talk about him, but he's back, now, and I love every part of him, even the awkwardness."

"I know," he said softly. "I just…wish you'd talked about him a little more. He isn't…what I expected."

"What did you expect?" Pepa asked.

Camilo shrugged. "A giant, creepy magic man with glowing green eyes and rats along his back?"

Pepa gaped at him.

"That's all I remembered him as! That's all I was allowed to remember him as!" Camilo protested, using his hands to emphasize his point. "We didn't talk about Bruno, remember? I literally told Mirabel the day the casita fell that he was seven feet tall and could see into her dreams! And I knew it wasn't true, but he'd just become…a fairytale. And now he's back and he's real and he's nothing like everyone let me believe."

His shoulders slumped. "He's nice. I saw him swinging Josefina earlier, with Mirabel, on their way to the casita. He does little…things, you know, for the kids, where he pretends to be someone else, to make them laugh." His voice became very quiet. "I think he used to do that for me."

Pepa's posture deflated, her eyes sad. "You're right, mijo. He did. And we didn't talk about him, not nearly enough, and not anywhere near well enough. And I'm sorry that I hurt your memories of your tío, that I allowed them to twist into something false and ugly." She brushed a curl from his forehead and patted his cheek. "I should have done better. And – this is not an excuse – but an explanation, so that you understand. With my gift, I could ease the impact of storms, but I also created my own. I could cause it to rain, but it came at the expense of my happiness. I could not feel anxious or scared or sad or angry without people criticizing me and telling me to get myself under control. And your tío – when he left, I felt all of those things. I worried about what his leaving meant, what it meant for the family – but I also worried for him. Did he blame himself? Did I cause him to blame himself? Did he leave because he didn't think I would understand, or try to help? And the only way I could stop myself from feeling was to stop talking about it...and to stop everyone else from talking about it, too."

"I'm sorry, Mamí."

"Thank you, Milo, but it was not your fault. It was…" She shook her head. "It was a collective failure, really, of all of the adults. But not your fault."

"I still feel guilty for making him into something he's not. I think…if he'd seen, if he knew…it would hurt him. I don't want to hurt him."

Pepa hugged Camilo. "I know, mijo. But luckily, we can begin again. We were given a second chance. So – what would you like to know about your tío, eh? I've got forty years worth of stories to share with you now."

Julieta worked on washing the family's lunch dishes, having borrowed a wash basin and Lucía's bucket for the job. She brushed a strand of her hair away from her cheek with her shoulder as someone approached, but stiffened when she noticed it was her mother.

She knew that it was not the mature thing to do – that she was only contributing to their brokenness instead of helping heal it – but she was as angry with her mother as she was with herself.

And she was still fairly angry with herself.

"Would you like some help?" Her mamá asked softly.

Julieta did not answer, but stepped to the side, allowing room for her mother to rinse and dry the dishes before placing them in a basket Lucía let them borrow for the task. Alma took her place and quietly began working beside her daughter.

After rinsing, drying, and packing several plates, Alma spoke again. "I am sorry, Julieta."

For some reason, the apology only irritated her.

"Sorry? For what?" She tried keeping her voice even, and was proud that it sounded of a genuine prompting – not clueless, but not sarcastic either.

Alma tsked. "You know what."

Julieta paused, closing her eyes as the anger battled with her desire to soothe and heal. "Do I?" She turned to her mother. "Do I know what you are sorry for? Because there are a great many things that I am sorry I allowed to happen, but I don't know if you truly realize just how many things you did that hurt us all."

Alma's brow puckered and she pressed her lips into a thin line. She blinked rapidly for a moment, but whether that was in an effort to keep from crying or shouting was anyone's guess.

"I do realize that, Julieta." Alma spoke carefully. "I can list them, if you wish."

Julieta nodded, and continued washing dishes, if only to give her something else to focus on besides her mother's strained expression.

"I love my family, Julieta. I am sorry that I put so much pressure, and expectation, on our family – on my children and grandchildren – to perform perfectly. I am sorry that I allowed my…fear, and…sadness, to push me to control everything and everyone I possibly could, in an effort to prevent what happened to me from happening to all of you. It obviously failed."

"Controlling people because you are afraid of losing them is not love." Julieta's tone was gentle though her words were harsh. She handed her mother another cup to rinse.

Alma took it. "I see that, now. I am sorry I ostracized my own son for having a gift that was…difficult to understand, and I am sorry I ostracized my own granddaughter for not having a gift. I am sorry I blamed her for the magic disappearing, I am sorry that I was more concerned about preserving the miracle than I was about preserving my relationship with her. I am sorry I hurt our family, Julieta. I will tell you what I told Mirabel. It is my fault this happened. And I am sorry."

Julieta paused, resting her palms on the rim of the basin, her fingertips still in the soapy water. She blinked at the suds, her mother's words swirling around in her mind like the water before her.

Alma sighed, and continued her task of rinsing, drying, and packing away.

They finished the dishes together before Julieta spoke again.

"Mamá," she said softly. "I know you are sorry. And I know you did not intend to hurt us in this way. In fact, you were trying to protect us. And that is what…that is what I am struggling with. I'm angry with myself, too, you know."

Julieta paused, and then looked her mother in the eye. "I failed my daughters. I tried so hard to protect Mirabel, and let Isabela and Luisa fall to the side. And in the end, I didn't even protect Mirabel! Mamá, you hurt her. You hurt my babies."

Tears filled her mother's eyes, and she pinched her lips together. "I know - "

Julieta held up a hand. "I know you know, Mamá, but I need you to hear me. Isabela almost married a man she didn't love, Luisa nearly destroyed all remnants of her own self-esteem and confidence, and Mirabel – Mirabel." She struggled, balling her hands into fists in her skirt. "She almost died attempting to protect that stupid candle. I would lose every gift I ever had, miraculous or not, if it meant she would be safe. Mamá, we cannot let this happen again."

Her mother blinked rapidly, brushing her thumbs along the bottom of her eyes to clear stray tears, and looked away. After a deep breath, she nodded. "I agree."

Julieta dumped the soapy water out into the trees. "We will hold each other accountable, then? We will not let fear or reputation or anything else come before the well-being of our family?"

Her mamá nodded. "Nothing else will come before the well-being of our family, mija. You have my word."

Julieta bit her lip. "Mamá, I don't want to hurt you. I want to believe you. I do believe you. I know you love us and want what is best for us. But I need – I need you to promise me that even if you think we are wrong – if one of us comes to you, asking for something, asking for a change, or telling you what we think is best – you will listen. Not dismiss, not push aside, not patronize or manipulate things to go the way you want them to go."

Alma hesitated. "I…will try."

"So will I," Julieta said softly, a small smile playing on her lips.

It was only a few hours later, as the town was preparing to clean up for the evening, that Alma made her way to Julieta again.

"Julieta, may I speak with you for a moment?"

Julieta followed her mother to the side, and listened expectantly. "What is it, Mamá?"

Alma frowned. "I have been thinking – about many things, over the past few days. And I thought, today, about what you said earlier. I – have an idea…" she stopped, looking uncertain.

The old Alma Madrigal almost never looked uncertain. This new Alma Madrigal, Julieta thought, was much more humble and endearing. It was a strange but welcome change.

"Mirabel never got her own door," she continued slowly. "She did not receive a gift in the traditional sense, but she has gifted us with truth and healing. She brought Bruno home. She…held our family together."

Julieta stared at her mother, pleased but unsure of where this was going. They had already all approved of the dimensions and designs for everyone's new bedrooms and the rooms themselves were almost complete. Mirabel, like the rest of the grandchildren, would be getting her own room, a bedroom larger and more suited for a young woman than a nursery.

"I think that…perhaps…the door to the casita…she should be the one to place the doorknob, to let us in?"

Julieta's eyes filled with tears, and she covered her hand with her mouth. To allow Mirabel this honor – to have a mini-door ceremony, not for her own room, but for the whole house – it was akin to offering Mirabel her blessing and inviting Mirabel to be the matriarch of the next generation. It was not an official statement, but a symbolic gesture.

Alma looked away. "If you think it would only bring back painful memories for Mirabel, we do not have to…"

"No!" Exclaimed Julieta. When her mother looked at her, eyebrows raised, she cleared her throat. "I mean – I think it would mean the world to Mirabel. It is a fantastic idea. But…" she eyed her brother and sister across the way. "Have you spoken to Pepa, to Bruno?"

Alma smiled. "I have spoken to both of them, and made my reasoning clear. They were in agreement. I did ask if they had other suggestions, as you recommended." She inclined her head toward Julieta, who blinked in surprise. "Pepa spoke with her children, they support the idea. I believe Isabela and Luisa will be just fine with the arrangement, but I will speak with them if you prefer I do it. Mirabel is…just what our family needs. If you agree…?"

In response, Julieta wrapped her mother in a tight embrace, a single tear slipping down her cheek.

Alma returned the embrace before patting her daughter on the shoulder. "I will speak with Señor Rojas, then, about making a doorknob for Mirabel."

Julieta nodded. "Mamá," she said suddenly. "Mirabel is only fifteen. She may be just what our family needs, but we need to fix ourselves. We cannot rely on her to fix us, it would be unfair. She will need time to choose for herself what she wants to do. This will mean a lot to her, but…" She allowed the implications to hang between them.

Alma nodded in return. "Lord willing, she will have plenty of time. I am not so old."

Julieta smiled.

Bruno stretched his neck side to side and rolled his shoulders to stretch the work-weariness from them as he made his way home.

Well, back. Back to Lucía's home. And Josefina's. And Señor Hernandez.

It was their home.

But it was only his home for the next week.

In reality, his family probably only had a few days left to enjoy their hospitality before they would move back into the casita. They'd finished framing the entire house today, and the majority of the outer walls were complete. It was only the roof and the interior that needed finishing, and the roof was mostly complete as well.

They'd only been at the Hernandez home for a week and a half, but he was going to miss it. It was as though he'd stumbled out of the casita's walls and into an entirely different world – one where his family acknowledged their shortcomings and some people in town actually liked him. He knew – he hoped – that things wouldn't return to how they were, before the house fell. But he also knew that by necessity, some things would change. His family would move forward and the town would move on. The past two weeks would be permanently etched into his memory, and he'd miss it when it was over.

He'd miss the closeness that had sprung from having to share a room with his siblings again, though they'd rotated out a few times so Pepa or Julieta could sleep with their families. He'd miss the relaxed, slow way Señor Hernandez moved and spoke, the way he would lean forward and raise his eyebrow when he was talking – almost as if he were sharing an inside joke with whoever he was speaking with. He'd miss Josefina's unbridled enthusiasm and the way her treatment of him was untainted by any rumors or gossip about him. To her, he wasn't even a long-lost tío, like he was to his nieces and nephews – he was just – another Madrigal, another visitor who came to stay with her family for a week. Being treated like a normal human being was something he hadn't realized he'd desired quite so much, until she'd treated him like one.

She, and her mother. Lucía Moreno-Hernandez. He knew who she was, of course. It had taken him a while after she'd introduced herself, but he slowly began remembering her - and other people from the village - after his self-imposed exile. The Encanto was a decent-sized town, but one people rarely, if ever, left – and new people were just as hard to come by. They had said that the Encanto's magic extended even to the mountains, shielding the people within from those that intended harm, but allowing refuge to those who needed it and passage to those who intended to help. A surgeon lived in another town over the mountains and came a few times a year, and a small group of men would occasionally traverse the mountains to bring goods back to town that couldn't be made locally. But other than that, new people were few and far between.

So, he knew who Lucía was, just as he knew the town baker and the farmers and the blacksmith. It was general knowledge, not personal. She was nine years younger than he was, so their circles did not overlap much as children. And by the time they were both old enough for their social circles to overlap, he was the town pariah and basically a recluse.

Señor Hernandez ran the print and book shop and the town's makeshift library; the school also had books that could be borrowed but people appreciated the variety at his shop. Lucía was his daughter. She helped run the shop and care for the books. She told stories to the children of the village. She helped the teachers at the town's school with special projects, on occasion. She'd married Alejandro Moreno when they were in their mid twenties. He remembered the man. He was of medium height, build, and complexion, with black hair and hazel eyes. The couple looked good together. Lucía was short, with slightly darker skin, dark brown hair, and brown eyes in a friendly round face. Josefina was a remarkable blend of her parents. Even at only six years old, she looked almost exactly like her mother, in her build and the structure of her face, but with her father's hair and eye color.

Most people would've dismissed Alejandro as unremarkable on first glance, but he had an intense, observant energy about him that was obvious once you spent more than a few minutes in his presence. He'd put it to good use in honing his artistic skills, and quickly apprenticed under the elderly Señora Ramirez as a painter. Bruno remembered sitting for sketches for the town murales. He'd been nervous about it, but Alejandro had never treated him differently than the rest of the Madrigal family. They'd all been treated with quiet respect.

In fact, now that he really thought about it – there was a decent portion of the town that had treated him politely and respectfully, even before his disappearance. He'd always assumed they were being fake, that they'd act nicely to him to his face in an effort to somehow earn good fortune, and then gossip spitefully behind his back. He knew from experience that some were like that, but perhaps – some had been genuine all along. It seemed Alejandro and Lucía and their families had been.

Bruno had been living in the walls when Alejandro died. He didn't know the whole story, but he knew Alejandro had been searching the mountains for plants and other materials for his paints when he was knocked unconscious. He never recovered. That was one problem with Julieta's gift – it couldn't heal you if you couldn't actually eat her cooking.

Alejandro's death was unusual and Bruno had known about it because Julieta took it so hard. It was rare for her to come across an injury she could not heal, and the fact that he left behind a widow with a toddler made it so much worse. She mourned quietly, when she thought no one else was listening, for days.

It was a tragedy, but then again - he was used to tragedy. It followed him around like a dopey puppy that wouldn't get the hint it wasn't wanted. Wait – that was a bad analogy. People usually liked puppies.

He was just sorry that particular tragedy had happened to someone like Lucía.

He'd miss Lucía too. He knew he'd still see her in town, but it would be different. He was already feeling the loss of their connection, because – of course it would change. Things would slowly go back to the way they were before - sans gifts, of course - and she'd treat him with politeness and respect -

- But the way she shook his hand the night she loaned him Itziar, and the way she offered him salt and sugar when she said his rats could stay, and the way she smiled at him after he'd pretended to be Jorge; the way she occasionally sat beside him at the table at breakfast or next to him on the sofa in the evenings without so much as a flinch – that would all be a distant memory. He'd miss her kindness, and he'd miss the atmosphere of her home – friendly and welcoming and easy and real.

He chuckled guiltily. This morning Lucía had seemed a bit tired and frazzled. He supposed it wasn't 'easy' for her, hosting twelve extra people like she had for over a week, now. She'd even allowed Julieta to help cook, which would have been a huge 'no-no' for his mother. Guests do not cook or clean. But Lucía had forgone the 'rules of hospitality' to do what had actually made Julieta comfortable – to do what had made him comfortable - and for that, he was grateful.

There were some things he was looking forward to, however.

He was excited to have a real, off-the-floor bed again. And his own room. And space for his rats, a space where he wouldn't be nervous about them chewing something they shouldn't. He was looking forward to eating with his family at their own dinner table, getting to know all of his nieces and nephews again, and figuring out what to do, now that he didn't have a 'gift' getting in the way of…everything.

Too bad 'rat handler extraordinaire' wasn't a viable job option.

Something small and warm slid into his hand, and he startled out of his thoughts.

Josefina walked beside him, and it was her hand he felt in his. She'd been walking behind him, beside her mother, whose arms were full, once again, carrying her basket and blanket back to their home. Apparently, Josefina had decided her mother was moving too slowly and that she – or, perhaps, he – needed more company.

Mirabel was nowhere in sight.

The corner of his mouth twitched up. He cleared his throat. "Uh - hey, kid. I can't swing you if I don't have a partner," he said apologetically.

"I know," Josefina said, looking up at him. "It's okay."

She smiled at him, and then looked ahead, content to walk hand in hand.

A/N:

(1) Lo siento, mi fresita – I'm sorry, my (little) strawberry

(2) Te amo, mi milagrita – I love you, my (little) miracle

(3) Mi Milito, mi bebé, my hombrecito – My (little) Milo, my baby, my little man

I feel like I'm just chomping at the bit to transition to the Casita being finished because I have so much more in store. I keep trying to hurry it along but then these characters tell me to slow down like I'm Mariano and they're Dolores. *sigh *

Thank you so much for reading and for your support. God bless you and have a wonderful rest of the week!