When Stan came down the stairs the next morning, it was to find his niece and nephew setting on the floor of the den, a Scrabble board and its pieces spread out before them, with the exception of the wooden tile that Waddles sat idly chewing. Dipper had a look of intense concentration on his face; Mabel, not so much.

Mabel grinned broadly as she set five tiles onto the board. "There!" she said. "And on a triple-word space, that's..." She scrunched her face up in concentration as she did the math in her head. "Fifty-one points!"

Her brother sighed. "Mabel, for the last time, 'ZERBIT' is not a word, it has never been a word, and I'm not giving you points for it."

"You know what your problem is?" Mabel replied. "You don't know how to be creative." She looked over to where her great uncle stood at the bottom of the stairs. "Dressed already, Grunkle Stan?"

"What's the occassion?" Dipper added drily. He began sweeping Mabel's ZERBIT pieces off the board.

"Just got errands to run," Stan grunted. "You two stay out of trouble, all right? And Mabel, your pig's eating a 'J'." He stepped out the door, as behind him he heard Mabel scold Waddles and begin trying to tug the tile out of her pet's mouth.

Stan got into the car and began the drive toward town, slowing as he eventually approached town square. Cursing the intensely crowded midsummer-festival roads, he parked much farther from his destination than he would have liked, nearly ending the festivities for several pedestrians along the way, and had to walk several blocks before he got to the Community Center and Buffet. Fortunately, there seemed to be no show in progress at the time, so besides the few overeager citizens already camping out for whatever show would be starting in an hour or two, the place was refreshingly vacant.

He made his way behind the building to see several trailers parked in a neat grid. Most were fairly plain, but a select few were elaborately decorated to display whatever act they transported: The Nicholson Family Bluegrass Band, Vince the Voice: Master Ventriloquist, and, of course, Rose Thorn's Magical Extravaganza.

That last made his search much easier.

Stan stepped up to the door of the trailer and rapped on it several times with his fist, loudly and authoritatively. There was a moment or two of silence, then he heard some rustling behind the door and it was flung open to reveal the woman who had been in Mabel phone pictures the night before, albeit dressed much more conservatively in jeans and a bright red shirt. Initially, the woman looked annoyed at having been interrupted at whatever it was she had been doing in the trailer, but when she got a good look at her visitor, her face broke into an enormous smile.

"Stanford!" she declared. "Well, aren't you the last person I expected to see! Do you live nearby, hm?" She grabbed Stan's hand and began tugging him into the trailer. "Come in, come in!" she cried. "It's been too long, Stanford, too, too long!"

Rose pulled Stan rather forcefully toward the cushy purple chair at the end of the trailer. "Really, I'm not prepared for visitors at the moment," she said, flustered. "But I'll be a good hostess. I've got a bit of booze in the mini-fridge there, if you want some." She flopped down onto the folding lawn chair that faced Stan, the only other chair in the trailer, and crossed her legs casually. "Well, I'm thrilled to see you, of course. How've you been? It really has been too long, hasn't it?"

"Rosalind," Stan cut her off. "Shut up. For half a second, shut up."

Rose's smiled faltered for a moment, but it quickly came back full strength as she let out a tittering laugh. "Oh, didn't you know? Changed the name. The stage managers back in New York said 'Rosalind Thorsten' wouldn't put butts in the seats, although 'butts' wasn't the word they used. I guess they were right, of course, seeing that 'Rose's' act has been doing awful well. Although-"

"Rosalind," Stan said again. "Why are you here?"

He asked it calmly, and managed to keep his face more or less stoic, although Rose could tell it took him some effort. If looks could kill, she'd be moderately injured. But by her expression, one would think Stan had sung the question while handing her a dozen roses. "Why, for the show, of course, Stan!" she laughed, and she stood up and opened the door to the refrigerator. "A performer has to tour, right? And such a coincidence that I end up in the same town you ended up taking root in!" She pulled out a bottle of some sort of cheap, red wine and, rather than offer to pour a glass, simply sat back down and began drinking straight from the bottle. "And then to discover you've even become a family man! I met your grandkids last night, you know. Cute kids."

"Not Grandkids," Stan muttered. "Niece and nephew. And speaking of them, where do you come off trying to decapitate my nephew?"

Rose rolled her eyes. "It's called a magic trick, Stanford. Trick. As in, illusion. Not real."

Stan glowered. "I don't seem to recall you being real big on 'not real' magic."

"And I don't seem to recall you being quite so bitter," Rose shot back. She said it playfully, but her eyes had taken out a cold, calculating look. "Nor so gray. You haven't aged well, Stanford."

"You haven't aged at all."

This remark was met with another grin. "Haven't I?" Rose said lightly. She stood up, pushing back her chair. With a deep breath, she shut her eyes tight and slowly began running a hand from the top of her head all the way down across the rest of her body. As she did, Rose seemed almost to melt away, and in her place stood a wrinkled, wizened woman with limp gray hair and beady eyes.

"Nice, isn't it?" she asked. Her voice was lower and scratchier. "Damned difficult to get the hang of, but certainly worth the results. Besides, isn't that other Rosalind the one you loved so much?" She ran her hand up her body, putting the disguise back in place. "The one you once said 'took your breath away'?"

Stan groaned. "Sure. But that was before you went batcrap nuts."

Rose stuck out her lip in a pout as she sat back down. "You know, I think you probably got that impression from movies." Another swig from the bottle of wine. "Suddenly I'm some sort of villain, all on account of a little ambition."

"A little ambition?!"

"A lot of ambition. Don't be dramatic about it though, Stanford. Not like I killed anyone."

"Yeah, but that wasn't for lack of trying," Stan growled.

Rose cocked a smile over the rim of the wine. "What's wrong, Stanford?" she cooed. "Afraid I'm going to go all deranged, hm? Scared I'll go on a magical rampage in your happy little hamlet, blasting away every man, woman, and child I see? Almost gives me the feeling you don't like me much anymore, Stanford."

"You're getting warm," Stan said. "And considering what happened last time, I wouldn't put it past you."

Rose tutted softly. "If this is you trying to flirt, I have to say your skill has really plummeted over the years. Just so you know, Stanford, I didn't come here for you."

"Then what the hell did you come here for?"

"You really want to know?" Rose said. She stood up, and, wine bottle still in hand, strode over to a locked box on what looked to be a dressing table. There was a click as the box unlocked, although Stan hadn't seen her use a key and thus assumed it was locked magically. Rose reached in and whipped around to reveal what she had pulled out of it: a journal. "Recognize this, Stanford?" she asked. She seemed to take Stan's open-mouthed stare as an affirmation, because she chuckled smugly. "Didn't think you'd be quick to forget, considering that, as I recall, you've got one of your very own."

She placed the journal back in the box and sat down again across Stan, taking another sip of wine. "So, now that I know you're here, I've got a proposition. I figure you've got your copy still well in hand. So what say we start up the old business together, hm? Just the two of us. We've got all but one book; two out of three isn't half bad. Not ideal, but it's enough, isn't it? Even to try again?"

Stan let out a sound that sounded like some bizarre cross between a snarl and a laugh. "You're nuts, aren't you? Still. You honestly think, after everything, you stand a chance? A second chance?" He got up and began marching toward the door. "I don't know what you hope to gain here, but stay away from me, stay away from my family, and stay out of my life. Got it?"

Rose sighed as Stan grabbed the handle of the door. "Such a pity," she said lightly. "You know, Gideon wasn't particularly eager to part with his journal, either."

Stan froze, hand at the door. Rose, meanwhile, sipped casually at her wine, as if she had merely just commented on the weather. "Is that a threat?" Stan finally managed to ask, his voice ice cold.

He was answered with a syrupy smile. "Aw, Stan," Rose said. "That's what I always liked about you. About us. You know me so well."

A/N: Fun fact: in my household, not only is ZERBIT a viable Scrabble word, it's worth double points. For no reason at all. So, anyway, be sure to favorite, follow, review, and zerbit your zerbit zerbitly.