"I don't," she says, shrugging; she doesn't seem out of place here, certainly, but she'd been leaving as they bumped into each other. "I have music students in the area." She's got music students elsewhere, too, but the pay in this locale is better, and a girl's gotta fund that shoe collection somehow. It's a terribly ladylike occupation, as she's wryly aware; her father would approve, if he had to approve of her doing anything, far more than joining a post-apocalyptic army to march on New York.

(Ivan had found the idea of going from an apocalypse to interior design sort of hilarious, and- well, it's not not funny.)

"You must be- moving in?" Judging by all that.