o begin my researc at ed by t of boredom or anxiety or fear o to flick tes and annotations. Bet lives ally neutral lines. It , and ell you o tell you o ter t at nig all.  , t moved me so in tations of t t t nohey were dead.

    Reading t a stirring in me. In me, but not of me. Reading ts, t of me t her side woke and caressed me.

    I never explained to anyone  my fatook note of my preference, and  auction, o get t  all trious dead of try, going back many generations, erlife tranquilly on th me for company.

    It , t I turned ter’s grandfat a baronet, nor a minister, nor a bis still, ocratic origins—title, but a feions earlier t in title y anoty side. tended to folloitles, but still, tion  an entry, so e of birt Angelfield o Matracing er years, I found an amendment a decade later: one son, Cer, Isabelle. After a little more page-turning, I found confirmation of George Angelfield’s death and, by looking her up under March, Roland, Isabelle’s marriage.

    For a moment it amused me to t I o Yorkso er’s story,   tarted t did it prove, trail? Only t suced. to say t Miss inter  found ted could look t s  of names and dates and embroidered a story around to entertain herself?

    Alongside trail for Isabelle came to an end. trees, blood mixed by marriage passed from one generation to t, making an ever- of connections. titles, on to one man, and it  to . On eacitle line o fall ion. t . And, t  said, till mig string of tragedies o occur. But after a certain number