The tree runs this line to a Yorkshire earldom. The tree also admits, in its own note, that the join is only 'thought to be' — and then contradicts itself about which earl. Set out in full.

The oldest claim in this archive is a yeoman born in 1654. Somebody finally went and read the parish register instead of another family's website — and found forty-four Saingers, three Williams, and a transcript that stops eighteen years too early.

The Royal Engineers lived at Chatham and so did this family, and nobody had read its register. It holds a general’s burial, his wife’s, his brother officer’s — and a christening eight days before a convict ship sailed.

All 556 Saniger records in Gloucestershire opened one by one and assembled back into 81 households, to answer one question: is Hannah in any of them? She is not — and the census says why.

All 551 Staffordshire Sneyd records assembled into households, which finally produces the weaver the tree has been pointing at — and moves one of its dates by twelve years.

One page of the 1841 census holds the entire family this archive's oldest claim depends on — James and Hannah Wakefield at St Paul, Bristol, with Miriam aged one, and a seventy-year-old Sinegar widow nobody expected.

The tree reaches the kings of Denmark. This archive reaches a Gloucestershire yeoman in 1654. The difference is two grafts and about a hundred people — one unevidenced, one now disproved.

D'Arcy was coined twice: once in Normandy as a place, once in Ireland as a colour. The apostrophe is a hint and not a proof.

Eight wives of the direct line who bore sixty-seven children between them, and are recorded in a marriage line and a burial plot apiece. The most valuable document in this archive is one of their testimonies.

A major of the 39th Foot, his children born at Chatham in 1825 and Parramatta in 1827, and a regimental history that confirms both without ever having heard of him.

Four generations in one city: a boy born at Parramatta who went to the California diggings, a railway clerk found dead in his kitchen, a father dead at forty-three, and the widow who took in boarders.

An obituary from 1936 confirms five details of a eulogy delivered in 2010. Two other headlines look damning and say the opposite — the man in them is the witness, not the accused.

Four men out of one family: a sergeant who married nine weeks before he sailed; his wife's brother, killed at Pozières with no grave; her other brother, a stretcher-bearer with the Military Medal and Bar; and a cousin who came home on a hospital ship to die.

Six men were asked what happened to a private of the 9th Battalion at Pozières, and gave six answers. One of them, his closest friend, was still trying to find his grave thirteen months later, from a lecture room at New College, Oxford.

A coroner's file nobody in the family knew existed. It records how Ivy Sneyd's grandfather died in Victoria Park — and, in his widow's sworn evidence, it names his father and settles a generation the archive had been unable to prove.

An organist christened in Limerick Cathedral who emigrated in 1862 and, two years later, installed the first organ in All Saints' Wickham Terrace — and then played it.

Seven lines reached Australia seven different ways — a garrison posting, a convict ship, a free passage, a paid one, and three nobody has dated. Running the assisted-immigration index across every family returns the Wakefields and nobody else.

The archive knew this family reached Queensland. It did not know how, when, or on what. The passenger register gives all three — and a fourteen-year-old Miriam Wakefield shipped as a domestic servant.

Sneyd, Atkinson, Murdoch, Atwell, Blum, Keeling, Creech, Matson, Wakefield, Wright — out of Limerick, Monaghan, Cork, Ayrshire, Somerset, Bristol and Germany.

One box over the whole archive — people, register entries, places and every page. It knows that Saniger, Sainger and Sinnegar are the same family, and that D'Arcy is also Darcy.

Every source this archive has opened, including the ones that gave nothing. Four of the null results are load-bearing: they are why the Hornby claim is called unevidenced rather than disputed.

A living descendant tested. Cutting both rejected grafts — 98 people, thirteen generations, four royal houses — moves her predicted ancestry by 0.39 of a percentage point.

Lives against the state that governed them. In an archive built almost entirely out of government paper, the state is not background — it is the reason the records exist.

Nine jobs that need a login, a card or a human being in a reading room. The first is a will, digitised, about £3.50, and it might name Robert D'Arcy's father.

The seventy-five people this archive met in documents and had nowhere to put: the constable who recovered a body, the six men who gave six accounts of one death, the convicts who broke open a major's crate.

Where this family lies — and two cemetery plot references that two different people are each supposed to occupy.

Every named individual this archive has met anywhere — 586 entries, with the source printed beside each one. Only 113 of them rest on a document. The other 473 come out of the family tree, and 98 of those hang above a graft the archive has already rejected.

Every person the archive can name and publish — 473 of them, most of whom never continued the line.

170 places, from Hornby Castle to Boulia. Read the Australian list in order and you can watch a family spread along the Queensland railway.

This is one of six, kept to the same method. The D'Arcy line married Defranceski; the Defranceski line had married Falco. All three meet in a living generation that none of the archives publishes.

Seven mistakes this site published and then corrected, with the cause of each. Five of the seven are the same failure: a number taken from a secondary source and not checked against the record.

What 'documented' means here, what 'family lore' means, and the rule that keeps living people out of the build entirely.