Marci sat him down in the living room, which was furnished with neutral sofas and a neutral carpet and a neutral coffee table. The bookcases were bare. "It's horrible," she said, making a face. She was twittering a little, dancing from foot to foot. Alan was glad to know he wasn't the only one who was uncomfortable. "Isn't it? The company put us up here. We had a grand flat in Scotland." "It's nice," Alan said, "but you look like you could use some books." She crossed her eyes. "Books? Sure -- I've got *ten boxes* of them in the basement. You can come by and help me unpack them." "Ten *boxes?*" Alan said. "You're making that up." *Ten boxes of books!* Things like books didn't last long under the mountain, in the damp and with the ever-inquisitive, ever-destructive Davey exploring every inch of floor and cave and corridor in search of opportunities for pillage. "I ain't neither," she said. "At least ten. It was a grand flat and they were all in alphabetical order, too." "Can we go see?" Alan asked, getting up from the sofa. "See boxes?" "Yes," Alan said. "And look inside. We could unbox them after dinner, okay?" "That's more of an afternoon project," said a voice from the top of the stairs. "That's my Da," she said. "Come down and introduce yourself to Alan, Da," she said. "You're not the voice of God, so you can bloody well turn up and show your face." "No more sass, gel, or it will go very hard for you," said the voice. The accent was like Marci's squared, thick as oatmeal, liqueur-thick. Nearly incomprehensible, but the voice was kind and smart and patient, too. "You'll have a hard time giving me any licks from the top of the stairs, Da, and Alan looks like he's going to die if you don't at least come down and say hello." Alan blushed furiously. "You can come down whenever you like, sir," he said. "That's all right." "That's mighty generous of you, young sir," said the voice. "Aye. But before I come down, tell me, are your intentions toward my daughter honorable?" His cheeks grew even hotter, and his ears felt like they were melting with embarrassment. "Yes, sir," he said in a small voice. "He's a dreadful pervert, Da," Marci said. "You should see the things he tries, you'd kill him, you would." She grinned foxish and punched him in the shoulder. He sank into the cushions, face suddenly drained of blood. "*What*?" roared the voice, and there was a clatter of slippers on the neutral carpet of the stairs. Alan didn't want to look but found that he couldn't help himself, his head inexorably turned toward the sound, until a pair of thick legs hove into sight, whereupon Marci leapt into his lap and threw her arms around his neck. "Ge'orff me, pervert!" she said, as she began to cover his face in darting, pecking kisses. He went rigid and tried to sink all the way into the sofa. "All right, all right, that's enough of that," her father said. Marci stood and dusted herself off. Alan stared at his knees.