CHAPTER 4
I’ve hit the mother lode, so to speak, George thought. He was sitting on the floor in the library of the huntsman’s house, surrounded by boxes and piles of paper. Everything my mother ever wrote seems to be here. The dogs had been banished to the front study where they snoozed, keeping him in sight whenever they awoke. The cats had vanished somewhere warm and quiet, and Imp was with Angharad in her studio across the lane.
He’d been afraid that there wouldn’t be much useful material, all of it being from the late ’70s and early ’80s before personal computers were available or common. But apparently Léonie had decided to do all of her writing by typewriter, an IBM Selectric, by the look of it. She’d expected to be a published author eventually, so not only was her work done by ty
