She laughed heartily at Mister Lissington's joking admonishment of his sister. It was good to know the Dempsey's were not alone in their behaviours.

Fig knew about Chris' writing endeavors, about the reality of Mister Whitlock Evergrim, her old school friend who had been one of her first proof readers, subjected to Chris' adolescent writings, including the short story in which Mister Evegrimm had been born - the cantakerous, and not very talented man who is possessed by the ghost of a recently deceased female writer, and used as a conduit for her writing. The story hadn't gone anywhere but it's protagonist had served as her alter ego for years now, hit upon when Chris had expressed her fears that mysteries written by an upper class lady wouldn't be taken all that seriously as works of literature. Chris had been sure that publishers would expect her work to contain the sort of stoic Christian moralising that marked the work of so many of her contemporaries. She had little time for that sort of writing, and to avoid the need to feign any such sentiment Mister Evergrims took on the mantle of author. While she made no particular attempt for public edification for her writing if one set out to discover who Mister Evergrim was, it wouldn't have taken too long to trace the writing back to Chris.


The prospect of being face to face to actual cursed objedare was a little frightening, thrilling but frightening. She wasn't sure if she was ready for that. There was something very different in writing about cursed objects, even in interviewing those who been exposed to them, and actually being face to face with one herself - no she wasn't entirely sure she was ready for that yet.

'Well I very much intend to take advantage of your willingness to tell stories.' she smiled, and took a few notes, trying to glance between her notes and the gentleman. 'From what I understand you've traveled extensively with your work before you came back to teach at Hogwarts? Can you tell me something about that?'

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