It's questionable how much of a gift Julieta's power really is when the only person it doesn't work on is herself.
Julieta pauses mid-knead, sighing and pinching her brow with rough, scarred fingers. The thought is fleeting and traitorous, but she hates that she entertained it for even a moment.
She's just tired, she reasons with herself, just exhausted after a day of nothing but cooking.
And isn't it just too bad she can't nibble on an empanada and make that tiredness go away? The back of her mind pipes up again.
No. No, she loves her gift, she appreciates her gift. Because that's what it is - a gift, that allows her to keep on giving, that makes her so beloved to her family and to the people of the village. It doesn't matter if it works for her or not, it's meant for her to help others.
When she was fourteen, old lady Marquez had patted her head fondly and told her she was a giver. A person who took joy in giving, in caring for and protecting other people.
Ironic, really, since none of Julieta's dishes had been able to protect old lady Marquez from dying by sunset.
Julieta wasn't blind. She saw how much luckier she was with her gift than her hermanos. She saw the way Pepa was mocked for being sensitive and weird, while she was praised for her warmth and kindness. She saw the way Bruno was shunned for his 'accursed prophecies', while people flocked to her for her wonderful food.
Nothing she could cook had ever been able to protect them from that, either.
So what use is her gift, really?
Julieta slams her hands down on the counter. She could not think like that. Would not think like that. Has no business thinking like that.
Casita rattles a tile in reproach, and Julieta absently pats the surface in apology.
Oh.
She blinks as she sees the white hand prints on the counter and felt something dusty on her face.
She's gotten flour everywhere.
Sighing, Julieta moves to wash her hands and put away the dough. It was done, anyway.
She is in the middle of chopping vegetables for their dinner when another wrong thought bubbles up.
Julieta is tired.
So, so tired. She's tired of cooking all day, tired of having no time to rest or do anything else. Tired of keeping up the rapid-fire pace she does, that she has to, because everyone needs her. She's tired.
Nevermind how logical and right it is for the kitchen to be her territory, she still wishes, selfishly, that someone else would cook instead once in a while. Or maybe just cook with her, so it would give her the delight it once did instead of being a chore. She wishes Mama didn't send Mirabel off with instructions not to get underfoot whenever her daughter tries to help. She wishes -
"Ay!"
Pain blooms hot and sharp in her hand, and she's yanked back to the present.
It takes a minute for her mind to fully work with her senses again, but Julieta gathers herself zeroes in on the problem.
She's cut her hand.
Blood oozes out of the long gash along her palm, staining the onion she must have been trying to halve.
Great. Now it will have to be thrown.
Julieta mutters admonishment to herself under her breath as she washes her hand and wraps it in a clean cloth. It will have to be dealt with later, just like all the other cuts and burns she gets while cooking. True, it's one of the larger ones, not like the usual knicks on her fingers and small welts on her inner arms, but that's not an excuse. She still has to finish a dinner for eleven, and then cook arepas for the villagers after.
Later. Later, when the house is all asleep and everything is done, she will retire to her room. Later, Augustín will clean and bandage this cut for her, kiss her and ask if she wants to take a day off and rest. She will smile tiredly and shake her head, ask for him to just hold her, hold her like he can keep her safe the way she keeps everyone else.
Later.
But for now, she ignores the new wound that will add to her collection of scars, and soldiers on.
She still has a lot left to give.
