I sweep through the rooms and empty it of knick-knacks and old photos and oddments. I keep looking for Lloyd Alexander’s signature and the man scrawled it into my notebook when I was 9 and I am unwilling to believe it was lost in the years and the moves. It is somewhere here. I can hear its heartbeat in the walls and the books and the journals even if I have to burn every single one to find it.
Martin Rose 