Chapter 1
I am a genealogist — or, if you prefer the gentler term, a family historian. This is my story. My introduction will come later. For now, let the tale begin. It is October. I lie awake in a bed — not my bed — waiting for the phone alarm to sound and declare the start of my day. A branch scrapes against the window, hidden behind heavy curtains, and rain patters steadily against the glass. The room is dim, unfamiliar, and holds that unmistakable stillness of a hotel suite — pristine, impersonal, and waiting for someone who isn’t me. The alarm rings at seven. Three custom chimes, then I turn the alarm off. As I gather myself from the depths of sleep, a slow realisation settles over me: this is not my bedroom, not my humble abode, not anything I recognise. I rise, feeling the breadth of a king-sized mattress behind me — I’ve only occupied a sliver of it, which feels a shame, because it is extraordinarily comfortable. My clothes are nowhere to be seen. Instead, laid out neatly is a t...
