The station was like nothing Isabela had ever seen, and although she hadn't shown it, until the moment she had seen that note from Bruno on the little device they were calling a telephone, she had been floundering, completely out of her depth. There was too much she didn't know and didn't understand, and the language barrier made things worse. Isabela understood the English that was spoken to her, but she was hesitant to respond. What if she got it wrong, or she sounded ridiculous?
For a moment she thought she had pieced things together: people came here by accident, this was what had happened to Bruno ten years ago. Learning that this wasn't the case only made her more confused. Isabela had been eleven years old during Mirabel's disastrous ceremony, and none of the adults would talk to her about it afterwards, or tell her anything about her uncle and why he'd gone away. She'd heard the dark rumors, although she pretended not to, and kept her own thoughts on the matter completely to herself. It was upsetting to her grandmother to even hear Bruno's name mentioned, and Abuela had been through so much, it seemed wrong to press the matter.
Now, perhaps, Isabela was to find answers to her questions. She found Bruno's apartment without too much difficulty, and gave a quiet knock on the door. As she waited, she ran her fingers through her long hair, ensuring it lay smoothly over her shoulders. She didn't shiver, despite the cold. Isabela's delicate sandals, laced with purple ribbon, weren't made for the snow, but at least she had a shawl draped over her shoulders. She resisted the temptation to pull it closely around her.