Disclaimer: The Millennium Trilogy and all related characters belong to the estate of Stieg Larsson. No copyright infringement intended, and no money is being made.

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Lisbeth was hungry and the library was about to close, so there was no choice but to go home. She replaced the astronomy book on the shelf, knowing no one would check it out before she could return tomorrow. No one ever entered this part of the library, which was why she spent so much time here.

When she entered the building on Lundagatan, the scent registered as she climbed the stairs: sweet, cloying, poisonous. Kretek, he called them, cigarettes from Indonesia. Because apparently the fags available in Sweden didn't suit his tastes. The smell lingered in the corridor outside their flat. A black cloud that could only mean one thing: He was still here. Must have just returned from wherever he went during the day. It had been three days now that he'd been coming and going and nothing had happened. Yet. The longer he stayed, Lisbeth knew, the higher the odds. She turned and dashed down the steps towards the basement.

One of their neighbours stored his motorcycle here. A Ducati with a sleek silhouette. Lisbeth thought it was beautiful and she'd like to have one herself some day. A means of escape. But more than being beautiful, it was useful. Like the library, the basement was usually deserted. And the motorcycle owner didn't miss the small amounts of petrol she had syphoned out of his tank over the past few months. Just in case.

After topping up the milk carton she kept hidden in the basement, she trudged back up the stairs. She ran her fingers over the box of matches in her coat pocket like a talisman. One never knew what would happen.

Camilla was already home, as usual. She and Mamma were cooking by the smell inside the flat. For him. He was sprawled in his armchair (the one no one was supposed to sit in when he wasn't around), watching telly and flicking ash on the rug while Mamma and Camilla prepared his dinner. His tribute.

As Lisbeth shut the door behind herself, he lifted his eyes from the television and glared at her. The fag end glowed red in the gloom. He didn't speak a word, but she knew what was expected.

'Hello, Pappa,' she said, dropping her school bag and moving into the kitchen.

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Notes: Scarlett71177 was kind enough to make me a gorgeous pair of icons for my Millennium OTP, Lisbeth/Mimmi. In return, I offered her a drabble. Her prompt was 'clove cigarettes'.