Chapter Text
“This had better be the right place,” Mirabel muttered to herself, gripping her satchel strap with sweaty hands as she squinted up at the wooden sign hanging above the door, proclaiming the name of the shop in simple yet elegant script: La Casita.
The Little House.
Mirabel couldn’t decide if it looked like a witch shop or not. Weren’t witch shops supposed to be shadowy buildings tucked inside alleyways, strange silvery charms and bundles of herbs hanging from the rafters and purple, pungent smoke wafting from the windows, maybe even with a suspicious cat lingering outside? The shop in front of her didn’t exactly . . . match that mental image. Well, there was a cat, though this one was lounging in the sun in a truly ridiculous position, looking much more relaxed than suspicious. Also, it was orange. Mirabel was pretty sure witches had black cats. And while there were herbs, they were neatly planted in colorful clay pots alongside an abundance of flowers. In fact, the majority of the shop’s porch was filled with flowers, so that instead of a pungent smell of smoke Mirabel’s nose was filled instead with a dozen different floral fragrances. It was very strong and she wasn’t sure if she liked it. But perhaps the most unexpected difference in La Casita’s appearance versus the witch shop she had imagined was the color—the front door of the shop was a bright teal, the stucco walls were a pale yellow trimmed with charming brick accents, and the tile roof, window shutters, and gutter pipe were all painted red. It was practically screaming to be noticed, not at all shadowy in an alley corner.
Not very witchlike, in her opinion.
And yet . . . as Mirabel continued to stand there, she became gradually aware of a humming in the air, not exactly a sound or a feeling but something in between. It wasn’t unwelcoming; in fact it felt almost . . . expectant, like the shop had been waiting for her to come. The tiles on the roof suddenly clattered softly, and Mirabel got the distinct impression that the shop was excited.
Excited? How did she get that from some rattling roof tiles? Mirabel was pretty sure she didn’t speak house, especially for a building she’d never seen before. Did buildings have their own language? Or was this just a magic witchy thing? Mirabel knew she didn’t have a lick of magic, so why did she understand what the shop was saying? Did her apartment talk and she had just never noticed? Did Tío Bruno speak house?
Focus, Mirabel, she sternly told herself, shaking her head irritably at her own distraction. This is for your tío. She took a deep breath, strengthening her resolve, and wiped her hands on her jeans before grabbing the strap of her satchel again. For Bruno, she thought, and strode forward.
If nothing else, the rattling tiles had confirmed that this was, indeed, a magic shop, and so Mirabel grabbed the doorknob with greater certainty that she was in the right place. Before she even turned the knob, the door swung open. Mirabel hesitated in the doorway for just a moment, then the steps under her feet tilted up and she stumbled into the shop.
“So impatient,” she muttered under her breath, and immediately decided not to acknowledge her uncanny ability to speak house so that she wouldn’t have an identity crisis. Instead, she gazed around her, taking in her surroundings.
Like the front outside, the inside of the shop looked hardly at all like what she had expected. Plants were everywhere, but they were artfully placed and much more of the flower and fern and vine varieties rather than . . . well, whatever witchy plants she had vaguely imagined. The big front window let in plenty of sunlight, but the skylight in the ceiling let in even more, so that there was no need for floating witch lights or candles to illuminate the space. Mirabel did see some candles, but none of them were lit. Most of the space that wasn’t taken up by plants was filled by a long counter, like what she would expect to see at a bakery. And like a bakery, the glass shelves inside were filled with all sorts of pastries and goodies, adding their sweet, sugary scent to the heady fragrance of the flowers. Again, Mirabel couldn’t decide if she liked the smell because of how strong it was. A chalkboard easel in front of the counter had the words “ Today’s Special:” written on it, though it was blank underneath, which she thought was a bit odd.
There were a couple of tables and chairs, and the floor tiles were patterned with a butterfly motif, which matched the other butterfly decorations Mirabel could see throughout the room. Were butterflies a witchy thing? Hmm.
Nobody was behind the counter, but as she approached, she saw a small bell with a sign next to it, written in a neat, round hand.
For healing potions & remedies, ring 1x and call for Julieta.
For herbal tinctures, flowers, or other plant orders, ring 1x and call for Isabela.
For spells or charms, ring 1x and call for Luisa.
For elemental services, ring 2x and call for Pepa.
For hauntings, exorcisms, or seances, ring 2x and call for Dolores.
For all other inquiries, ring 3x and call for Alma.
Now that was witchy! But . . . Mirabel frowned, looking at the list more closely. Which person should I call? Maybe Julieta, or Luisa, but what she needed didn’t seem to fit neatly into any of the categories listed. Nevertheless, better to call the wrong person and have them point her in the right direction than not to call anyone at all. So Mirabel picked up the bell and rang it once. “Um . . . Luisa?” she called out, then immediately wished she hadn’t made it sound like a question. Too late for her to take it back, though—and the door behind the counter was already opening.
Mirabel’s eyes widened. “Whoa, tall,” she said, then clapped her hands over her mouth. “Sorry!” she squeaked from behind her fingers.
Thankfully, the imposing woman didn’t seem offended, only slightly embarrassed. “Heh, I get that a lot,” she chuckled, rubbing the back of her head. Her arm muscles bulged. Mirabel became very aware of her own muscle, or lack thereof. If she said or did something wrong, she was pretty sure this woman would squish her like a bug. Were all witches this buff?
“Not most of them? It just helps me with my affinity,” the woman explained, looking sheepish, and Mirabel realized she had spoken her question aloud. She fought the urge to smack herself on the forehead and instead laughed nervously.
“Sorry again!” She smiled at the witch, hoping she would take pity on Mirabel’s total incompetence at basic social skills. “Can I start over? Hola, I’m—“
Never give a witch your name, Mirabel! Names have power! her uncle’s voice hissed in her head. Shoot. She forgot to come up with a fake name and now she looked even more awkward in front of the witch she needed help from.
“—Belle,” she finished, hoping the awkward pause wasn’t too noticeable. “Pleased to meet you, Miss Witch!” She thrust her hand out over the counter and hoped her palm wasn’t too sweaty.
The witch shook her hand gingerly, obviously being careful not to squeeze too hard. “Hola, Belle. I’m Luisa, you don’t have to call me Miss Witch,” she said, laughing a little. “Pleased to meet you! What can I help you with today? You in need of a spell?” She leaned forward, resting her beefy forearms on the counter so she was closer to Mirabel’s eye level, looking at her expectantly.
Mirabel hesitated. Here was the part where she found out if she had rang for the right person or not. “Not . . . exactly, I don’t think,” she replied, twisting the strap of her bag.
Luisa blinked at her. “A charm, then?” she asked. “The two are pretty similar in some ways, lots of people get them mixed up.”
“Well, I’m not sure exactly what it is, if that makes sense,” Mirabel said, biting her lip, “but I know exactly what I want!”
Luisa looked a bit confused. “And what’s that?”
Mirabel took a deep breath. Now or never. “My tío is under a curse, and I need your help to break it.”