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.
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