Mabel never thought, when she found Ford's third Journal, that the Pines would search so urgently for the other two. Nor could she have imagined that their success in finding the Journals would mean life or death for her family. Between old enemies...
Mabel Pines curled up comfortably on the couch in the Mystery Museum, her home for the winter. Her legs were tucked underneath her and her sketchbook was braced on her arm, her hand moving across the page in short, dark strokes. The current scene she was drawing depicted her twin brother, Dipper, dancing at the party they'd held last week. His eyes were closed and his mouth smiling as he weaved between the silhouettes of other party guests.
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Mabel loved drawing her brother; he was so expressive that there was always something new to capture.
Beneath her sketchbook on her lap sat a large maroon book, its cover gilded with a golden six-fingered hand. She liked the feeling of having Journal 3 out in the open, where all could see it, instead of hiding it. Ever since her great uncle Stanford had found out she had it and enlisted her help in finding the others, it felt more like a connection to him than something driving them apart.
The smell of frying bacon wafted from the kitchen, where Melody Ramirez, the housekeeper, made breakfast. Mabel shifted in her chair and let out a contented sigh. Yes, this morning was nice and peaceful.
"Mabel? Mabel, have you seen my Journal?"
Stanford Pines' voice boomed through the house without him raising it in pitch or even volume. In her first while here, Mabel mostly heard Ford speaking in normal tones or occasionally yelling at someone (usually her). Now, now that they were a team, now that he had hope for the future, he more often used a voice that wasn't loud but still carried to every corner of the room. Mabel liked it.
He turned the corner into the entry way and saw Mabel on the couch and the Journal in her lap. "I figured you would have it," he said. "Good morning."
Mabel smiled. "Good morning, Grunkle Ford. Do you need the Journal?"
"Not quite yet. Bring it to the table for breakfast, all right?"
"Okay."
The exchange was short and unimportant, but Mabel's heart felt light afterward. Before, nearly every conversation with Ford had been terse or otherwise carried an uncomfortable atmosphere that permeated the room. Now she felt none of that. Now she could smile at him, and he would. . . well, not quite smile back, but at least look like he didn't wish she'd stop talking.
A sudden pounding on the stairs shook both the walls of the Museum and Mabel's thoughts of Ford. Her twin brother Dipper, whose footsteps always preceded him, dashed down the stairs and into the room, his shoelaces flapping wildly around his neon green tennis shoes. "Morning!" he said cheerfully to Mabel and Ford. He stopped at the base of the stairs, then frowned, sniffing the air. "Is something burning?"
Mabel hadn't noticed anything — Dipper had the better sense of smell — but now that he mentioned it, there was a smoky scent that didn't fit with the bacon grease smell coming from the kitchen.
Ford reached up and patted at his cheek. "That's nothing."
At first Mabel thought she imagined it — she wouldn't have noticed it without Ford putting his hand up to stop it. But that couldn't have actually been smoke coming up from Ford's cheek, could it? "Grunkle Ford," she said, "was your face on fire?"
