"Why do you always assume the worst?"

Bruno's only answer was his voice echoing off the walls. He brought a hand to his forehead and rubbed his temples, sighing.

Because, he realized, why wouldn't he? Growing up, every creaking board or dropped pan had caused his mother's shoulders to stiffen and her eyes to dart to the nearest door. As bright as the day might have been, no force in the world could push back the coming night.

"You're overreacting. Imagine what Mirabel would say if she could see you now."

Though she could scream stuff and nonsense and he'd grin all the same.

"She'll... She'll..." He leaned back in his chair and groaned. Considering how often Bruno turned to himself for counsel, one would think that he'd be more adept at giving himself advice.

She'll what?

For all he knew, she might never walk through the front door again. She wouldn't be the first girl in Avalor City to end up with her face decorating every newsstand.

Bile stung the sides of his throat. No, he was getting too far ahead of himself. There was no use jumping to certainties.

Because nothing was certain, was it? Even if there was no shadowy stranger waiting to jump out from a corner, there was always fire and fate. Perhaps there had been a downed electrical line, or a driver's breaks had failed, or-

A loud squeak broke through his thoughts. Bruno blinked, casting his shaking vision downward.

"Any news, Ferdinand?"

The lean white rat crawling up his shoe shook its head.

"Nothing at all?"

It blinked. The handful of rats behind it didn't even bother to meet his eyes, just nibbled at crumbs or licked their bellies.

He gritted his teeth. This was just one group of scouts. Perhaps Dromio or Egeus would have better news. If not them, then perhaps one of their connections. Big as the city was, no place was safe from his little friends. What they lacked in size they made up for in sheer numbers. Surely one of them would know something.

Right?

There was always a chance otherwise. As unlikely as it might be, it was probable. Maybe she'd slipped out of their range, gone to a place their eyes couldn't reach, even ended up outside the city.

"Dios mio," he hissed. It was like he was trying to give himself grey hairs! "Maybe," he continued, his voice shaking, "maybe she's fine."

Ferdinand looked up, cocking his head.

"Maybe..." Bruno repeated, not meeting the rat's gaze.

His heartbeat quickened. Suppose he was right and something had happened. What exactly that something might be hardly mattered, not if the outcome was the same. What if he had to come home every day to an empty house? What if the kitchen chair sitting opposite from his started to collect dust? What if he didn't wake up every morning to the sound of a soft song and the shower's steady patter?

What if he'd pulled her from the frying pan and into the fire?

Bruno's fists tightened, his nails digging into his palms. Whatever might have happened - whatever might happen - nothing was definite. If there was any chance that he could change things, then he'd damn well try. Fate would just have to put up a fight.

With that, he was on his feet. His fists were still balled, but they were at his sides now. One hand reached into his jacket pocket, wrapping around his keys.

He was halfway to the kitchen door when it suddenly shot open.

"Oh, hi, Papá!" Mirabel said. A pencil was tucked up against her right ear and her glasses were askew. Besides that, though, she didn't look the least bit different than she did from that morning. Pulling her keys from the door, she turned and locked it behind her. "Wait, you weren't going out, were you? I could have left the door open."

"No." His voice was the steadiest it had been since he'd gotten home that afternoon.

"You looked like you were-"

"Mirabel, where were you?"

Her shoulders stiffened. Her gaze turned to the floor. "The library," she said after a moment. "I told you that I'd be there this afternoon."

"This afternoon? It's almost dark!"

"My friends and I got busy." She looked up, finally meeting his gaze. Her eyebrows narrowed. "It's not a big deal."

"Not a big deal?" His words echoed in his ears. "Mirabel, I had no idea where you were or what happened to you! Do you know how worried I was that something happened to you?"

"But nothing happened!" She balled her fists, stepping around him.

He reached a hand out, grabbing her shoulder. "How was I supposed to know that? You should have been back hours ago!" Certainly before he'd gotten back from rehearsal! "This is the third time this month that you've been home late."

She pulled away from him, her free hand reaching towards the messenger bag strapped to her side. "Papá-"

"You know I'm right! Mirabel, you promised this wouldn't happen again."

"And it won't!" She took a step back. "I lost track of time studying. I'm sorry." Looking down, she carefully stepped over Ferdinand.

"Where are you going?" His jaw tightened. "This conversation isn't over. You can't keep showing up late or not telling me where you're going."

"It's not my fault you forgot about my fencing class!"

He swallowed a sigh. "That's not the point. I need to know where you are. And when I expect you to be home, you need to be home. Do you understand me?"

Really, could anyone call that unreasonable?

Mirabel's grip tightened on the bottom of her bag. She took another step forward.

"Do you understand me?" Bruno repeated.

Mirabel turned her head and shot him a dagger sharp glare but didn't say a word. She hurried across the kitchen, her soles clicking on the tiled floor.

"Young lady! Where do you think you're going?"

If he needed another reminder that she was young and he was, well, not, then he got one when he reached her door completely winded. Panting, he reached a hand for the doorknob, but all it did was shake in his hands.

"Go away!"

Even with the wall standing between them, it wasn't hard to picture her face. Truth be told, a night like this was far from common in their home. That didn't change the fact that he knew the way her forehead wrinkled as her eyebrows turned down, and how her nose scrunched when she frowned, almost as well as he did the back of his own hand. After fifteen years, it was harder not to notice those things.

"Mirabel," he said, his voice softer than before. "I just want to talk to you."

"I don't! Why do you always have to act like I'm going to get eaten by a Jaquin?"

"Mira, please..." His eyes locked on the drawings taped to her door. Toucans, cats, rats, her and her friends - the art style was familiar, if not the images themselves. Maybe they were new. Or maybe they were just hard to notice when her door was usually wide open.

"Didn't you hear me? I don't want to talk to you!"

"Fine." He straightened his shoulders. If she wanted to hole up in her room, who was he to complain? At least he wouldn't be ripping out his hair trying to figure out where she was.

One moment he was in front of her door and the next he was standing over the stove. What happened in between, he couldn't be sure. He brought a hand to his forehead. No, this was certainly not how he'd expected his night to go.

But really, was anything certain?

He made his way between the cabinets, the fridge, and the stove. A late dinner was better than nothing at all. Rats followed at his feet, squeaking until he dropped some crumbs.

If only his food were like Julieta's. How much easier his life would be if all his problems could be fixed by tamales!

He sighed. No, that would be too easy. His sister got the useful miracle, the power that deserved to be called a gift. Naturally, he had to be stuck with the uncanny ability to know what was going to go wrong before it happened.

He pushed the thought away. Mirabel was right, wasn't she? For all their shrieking, nothing really had gone wrong. Tomorrow morning they'd probably recite their whole fight word for word over breakfast, complete with wide eyes and overly drawn out, high pitched voices.

But, he reminded himself, that might not have been the case. Tragedy, he'd long since learned, was something that people knew occurred but always expected to happen to others.

And really, what right did Mirabel have to make him feel like the bad guy for wondering where she was? For wanting to make sure that she was all right?

His throat tightened. For all his auditions to the contrary role, everyone always seemed eager to make him the villain. He might as well have had a magnet embedded in his chest considering how often his mother and the towns folks' fingers had pointed straight at him. Even Antonia, the head casting director of Castillo Theater where he worked, always seemed to find a reason to cast him as the antagonist.

"You just play the role so well," she'd insisted once.

Maybe it was just that the young, noble hero role was getting harder and harder for him to fit into these days. Or maybe people just needed someone to... If not to hate, then to dislike - someone to give them drama.

It wasn't as if he truly was some grinning devil. The mask he wore on stage was a costume he shed as soon as the curtains closed.

But heroes don't run off with babies into the night!

He shook his head. No, no, no! As bad as his actions might look to an outsider, it wasn't as if he'd truly had other options. While his vision of the cracked, collapsing Casita had been somewhat opaque, there had been no question as to what else he'd seen. The pointing fingers, the too tight smiles, the glares and whispers - had he left her with his family, then Mirabel would have been surrounded by people yet been utterly alone. Only a true monster would have doomed her to that life.

Yes, his visions had been quite clear on what life back at the Casita would have been like for her. If only they'd been so quick to shine a light on the other bumps in the road they'd end up facing...

When dinner was done, he knocked on her door - three short raps. "Princesa, the fritangas are ready."

For a moment, he stood, waiting for a reply. Bruno would have welcomed anything at all, be it a grunt, the shuffling of feet, even another roar. Nothing came.

"Your plate's ready." With that, Bruno turned and made his way back to the kitchen.

No, he hadn't gotten them a glamorous life. Even without the rats, their one-story home had never been the sort of place that people fought to buy. The floors and cabinets didn't dance. Yet they had always had a roof over their heads and food in their bellies, with extra money to spare.

He looked down to find his plate empty. How long he'd been eating, Bruno couldn't be sure. In all the time that had passed since he'd first sat down, he hadn't tasted anything.

He was washing off his plate when he heard footsteps. The rats' squeaks had grown louder.

Bruno turned his head. "Finally got hungry, huh?"

Mirabel didn't look up from her plate.

Wiping off his wet hands on a nearby dish cloth, he hurried over to her and wordlessly threw his arms around her. She sat stiffly in his grip, which made him clutch her all the tighter. At least she was here. Oh, Mirabel could pout and groan all she liked. Bruno had certainly lived through worse.

In all the years he'd known her, his mother had taught him few things worth remembering. Yet there was one thing she'd always been right about, one lesson that Bruno could never even hope to forget. If you truly loved someone, you grabbed them and never let them go.