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With the free time she was now able to enjoy, Isabela had taken up visiting Café Chavez every afternoon for coffee and a snack. It was a good balance for her: the townsfolk understood that she was not to be bothered about using her Gift, but she still got to indulge in her social nature.
As a bonus it gave her an opportunity to keep an eye on the newcomers. Abuela had warned the family that it would be hard for the refugees to adapt, they were scared and vulnerable, and might behave in unpredictable ways. They were to be welcoming but cautious.
Mirabel at least had the welcoming part down. From her seat outside the café Isabela could watch as her little sister told a group of the newcomers about the family Madrigal, with some help from Alejandra, Cecilia, and Juancho. Mariano’s uncle the priest was among them - he seemed preoccupied with the mural - and after yesterday’s frankly bonkers lunch with all of its revelations, he was near the top of her list for people to be cautious about.
When Mira finished her tale and started fielding questions Isabela returned her focus to her arepa con choclo. Later she’d visit the fields and see how the new crops she’d introduced were doing, and then after dinner she and Luisa were going to rope Dolores into doing something that was not wedding planning, but for now the day was hers.
“Hey. You’re the plant lady, right?”
She looked up with a confused frown, which only became more confused as she studied the person who’d addressed her. They weren’t any taller than Mirabel and dressed in the peculiar fashion of the refugees: a brown button-down shirt with an abstract pattern and a pair of short trousers. Short, wavy hair was brushed up and back from their forehead, and black-rimmed glasses framed warm, brown eyes. The whole look was so different and interesting.
There was an instinct to snap back at being addressed so casually, but Isabela reminded herself that these people were adapting. So she remembered her manners, smiled, and nodded primly. “Yes, I’m Isabela Madrigal.”
“Right, right,” they said - she said? The voice was low but there was a feminine touch, a bit like Luisa’s. She. “I was just listening to Mirabel and thought it’d be, I don’t know, polite to come say hi.” Her smile was crooked and she shrugged. “Then I came over and called you ‘plant lady,’ and that wasn’t polite. Sorry, I’ll try again. Hi, I’m Roberta Marquez, my friends call me Bubo, can I sit with you?”
Isabela blinked. She was used to that sort of rambling - half of her family did it - and despite, or maybe because of, the tricky start to the conversion she found herself charmed by the other girl.
“It’s fine with me, Roberta,” she said and gestured to the seat across from her, which was taken with a more confident smile and nod. There was a quiet moment of awkwardness before Isabela found a way to press on. “I, um, if you have questions I can try and answer them. We want all of you to be comfortable here.”
Roberta nodded, tilted her head, and she allowed herself to be scrutinized. “Ok. I was wondering about your hair. The colors are really cool.”
“Cool?” Isabela picked up a length of her tresses, the deep black tinted with magenta and teal, and frowned in confusion. Roberta laughed.
“I mean it’s neat. Pretty. Is that part of your, uh, Gift?”
“Oh!” She smiled and shook her head. “Not exactly. Well it kind of is, I can make these flowers that produce pollen, that’s where the color comes from.”
“I’ve never seen anything like it,” Roberta said, but she wasn’t focused on the dye, she was looking Isabela in the eye. “Wish I could be pretty as you.”
That…that gave Isabela pause, because she realized she found herself wishing she could get away with something like Roberta’s look, or that she was drawn to it somehow. So different and casual, the sort of freedom she still craved, so many steps beyond that which she’d allowed herself to creep, vine-like.
“Let me try this,” she said quietly and unfolded her hands, producing a fanciful blossom. Roberta’s eyes widened and she smiled, toothy and delighted. Isabela set the flower down and ruffled her fingers through the petals, collecting pollen and nectar, the movement perfuming the air sweetly. She reached out, then paused, meeting the other woman’s eyes. “May I?”
Roberta nodded, and she reached across the table to smear the mixture into the short, crisp locks. It created a gradient of oranges and pinks which gleamed in the sunlight, and Isabela grinned.
“There we go. You want to see?”
A mirror was offered, delighted compliments were exchanged, and connections - cautious but welcoming - were made.
“By the way, Bubo? My friends call me Isa.”