“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.