Ezekiel couldn’t’ve recalled a day that hectic as it had been on October 4th, 1888. “Oh yes, and do not forget the proper typeface! Damn and bother these typefaces!” 

Hours crawled slowly, while hammering him with iron hooves of letter packs. All of a sudden, so much has changed in the lives of all the village folks with odd last names that start with Y, also Z, and even X-s were excessive this time. 

– Sheep… three. Was… four. Alright. Yarnthreadprice… are these last names made up? – mumbled Ezekiel, while editing the books. 

– Silence! Work! – boomed Hon. Bale over his head. Lad only nodded and went on, dreaming of inky darkness of intertwined ornaments where he’d drowned his superiors. 

Soon he began to falter and make mistakes. Instead of filling new numbers in, he had to erase these mistakes and start over. When the clock struck six, he realized that his share was not yet done, and before he was ordered to do it, Ezekiel made up his mind to stay and finish. 

– Falling behind, are we? Maybe, unsuitable for honest, decent and scrupulous work, are we? – The sleazy voice of S has startled the young man.

– Maybe, poking your nose in the wrong business, are we? – Mocked him Ezekiel and took a small delight in the pale face of his adversary.

Thus, he was alone in the room, and it was growing cold without all the people. Not that cold as in winter, but still, somehow chilly. In the dying sunlight, inky words were becoming those spiraling webs of entanglement he imagined earlier, and slowly filled up the whole space of his imagination.

– Am I going mad? Somebody, help… – whispered Ezekiel. But nothing has happened, neither bad nor good. But the thicket of these strange ink-plants grew real, and between curls and whirls, lad saw outlines of his colleagues, ones he respected and hated all alike – trapped and strangled by these mad lines. While not being really religious, Ezekiel all of a sudden has felt the need to cross himself. It did not help much, but when he blinked several times and rubbed his eyes, the visions eventually subsided. 

But withstanding his tired visions drove Ezekiel into frustration, adding more and more delay in his work. His eyes began wandering, while his mind began wondering “If I am here all by myself, maybe, I can check someone’s table for clues? S’s table feels about right”. 

But as he had slowly straightened himself and looked around, he saw Hon. Bale standing in the doorway. His piercing gaze was as if made of steel and aimed to kill.

– Mr Thorne, I see that given enough time and no distraction does make you work even worse. I cannot call you a suitable person for being a clerk. I will have several words with your father who asked me to employ you here. 

– N-no, please, no! – Ezekiel found himself almost pleading. 

– Go now, and come back tomorrow in due time to finish what you have to. Lucky you that wiring has already begun and yours are the last letters in the alphabet. 

– I have only ten letters left… 

– Are you in such a desperate state you wish to be caught by the mists? Begone. 

As he left the building, Ezekiel looked at the clock and at the sky, then on the street: it was past nine and the mists were creeping in already. 

“What if I really just step into them and be lost? Go to search for my mugger who’d knock on my head and rob my lifeless body…”

Full of these and other, darker thoughts, lad hurried home. Losing this work would also mean losing these lodgings. Of course, they were paid by his father and not paid by the clerk’s salary! Before closing the door, lad turned over his shoulder to see if the stranger was there? But no, not a glimpse. 

Instead, inky twirls have returned. Upon locking the door, Ezekiel saw how cast iron plants and flowers on grating went growing and swirling, same as were the words earlier! He ran upstairs to his bedroom, but fell on the sofa on the top of the staircase – used to embrace Judith often – and just laid there, prostrated with closed eyes. Unknown voice called him “Ezekiel Thorne…” but he managed to persuade himself it was just his imagination again. 

– Too much of these novels. Poe, Dickens, even that American Irving fellow.  

“We live in a wrong world” – this time it was somebody from his office. How wrong? Why? Truly, when a day could have not been worse, he could agree that the world is very wrong and manipulated by thousands of tiny conditions that stand in the way of love. 

– Love! Mayhap, there’s some missive from my Judith? She could’ve called upon me and I wasn’t at home, because of silly census. 

With these thoughts, he ran down the stairs to check his mailbox on the inside of the door. 

And there was a letter, indeed. But of such content that he wished he never received it. 

“My dearest Ezekiel, 

With heavy heart I must inform you that for now our engagement is called off on behalf of my mother. You are invited tomorrow to our house to know the details from her in person. 

Do not have fear, for it is but postponed, if I know her at all. 

your loving 

Briar”

– Postponed! What fresh hell is this? – darkness grappled his mind as Ezekiel got dressed for the night and opened the door wide. Later he recalled he was not sure of his intent: either to run the streets amok or lunge himself at the door of Fernworth Manor and knock his fists upon it. 

But the grayish figure of the stranger has halted him in his tracks. 

– Going out into the mists, Mr Thorne? As if the last time with a werewolf chasing you was not enough? 

– What? Who are you? How do you know my dreams? 

– These we not just dreams. Call me The Watchman, this would suffice. Go to sleep and try not to have any dreams tonight, Mr Thorne. For I have other matters to attend to. 

While still full of disbelief of this all happening, Ezekiel nodded in agreement and locked the door again. 

As he gave himself to the bed and blew the candle out, he welcomed the inky twines, who came to wrap his day in their trappings and his sleep was dreamless, indeed.

…Ezekiel walked upon some shadowy land. He did not understand at first why is everything murky white, but then a simple answer shone upon him: the mist. That comforted him a little bit, somehow, so he made several paces into the unknown, thinking that he’d get to his home that way. He saw the pavement at some immediate distance, as if a thin veil of mists had kept a clear circle around him, but soon after that the street was covered with it with no other tears or orifices. No matter if he trotted slowly or ran faster, all he’d seen were perfect dull gray stones under his shoes and that wall of twirling fog around. 

Speaking of shoes – they were black and old-fashioned with buckles. Instead of formal trousers Ezekiel saw under knee breeches and black stockings as if he was some judge of days of yore. 

“Or an Inquisitor”, he thought, while raising his hand in a black glove, surrounded by white ruffs. He also noted that somehow he managed to wear an old-fashioned coat, maybe, it was a jerkin, and his shoulders were covered by a black cape. He examined his head to find a high wide-brimmed hat with a buckle as well. 

– So, indeed I am, – he concluded, meaning his self-style as Inquisitor. 

He felt he was in a dream, but one he could control to some extent. Meaning, he could choose the way to go, although all directions were the same. He has tried to reach road’s ends or sides – but it looked he was running to and fro on a big square. There was not a single lamppost, yet all the fog was well alit – buy some silvery shining. Ezekiel looked up – and there, in a solid well of fogs and could, a perfect full moon shone and lo! how sterling it was! Like a dish. The Moon did not have the usual face impression, that was unnerving – a really flat and bright circle. 

That is when he heard the howl. Deep and drilling sound of a dog or a wolf addressing the skies. It made Mr Thorne feel how alone he was in that chilly fog! Where does it come from? 

Meaning — where should he run? 

So he just ran somewhere he felt safe. But in just a bat of an eye unseen beast began to howl from there, so Ezekiel gasped and ran for his life elsewhere. 

“Wake up, I must wake up, if it’s a dream!”

But it looked like it wasn’t. It felt like it wasn’t! Cold air and wetness of the fog, fatigue from running over definitely real and hard pavement. He tripped and fell on it, screaming from having his knee hurt. 

Howling and paw steps drew near and near. Lad tried to rise on his feet but could not. Terror has filled his blood. He felt suffocated. 

– Get up and get out! – booming voice over his head. Firm hand grasped him and pulled up. – So fancy dressed and unable to use his image. How did you ever get here? 

It was that robed stranger from before. Ezekiel did not see his face under the hood – solid blackness greeted him. 

With a yell and a shudder, he woke up.

– Nightmares, you say? – calmly replied the bedroom floor servant, who ran to Ezekiel’s screams. 

– Yes… just that. Thank you, nevertheless. You may go. 

Having grasped the reality, Mr Thorne sat on the bed and began to think. Something was surely brewing, and that something was quite unusual, to the point of unique. Before that night, he had never had such a dream before. Although, of course, he did have some nightmares, or confusing dreams, but they weren’t controlled or realistic like that! 

– What mystery did I really strike with my pick of mind? – muttered lad while dressing up to go to the town hall. One thing resolved for sure: this feeling of being watched. Now he knew it was the fear of that faceless person in the hooded robe. 

– First time I saw him, he was definitely flesh and blood! Then this was not exactly a dream. Should I tell my friends about him? Or at least write into some sort of diary in case of… 

“…something bad happens to me”. Ezekiel did think that or think a glimpse of thought about that, but had no stomach to even speak it. And decided to keep the secret for now, at least because it was all unrelated to the Typeface Case.

October 3rd at the Scripting Department of the Town Hall appeared to be far more boring than the investigative lad had expected it to be. It was Wednesday, so all the new census letters had to be written very fast. Hon. Bale was in a gloomy mood and was walking between the bureaus, quietly and solemnly reminding to work fast and neat. He did not ask Ezekiel anything, nor he let him to conversate with his fellows here about any odd pages or letters. Only hope for a package of such slipped into his hand secretly kept him up and alive through this ordeal of boredom. Before his eyes sudden messages with some peculiar occurrences danced, but in reality, there were only last names and numbers, and all the dates were a perfect match of typeface. 

By noon, when all the clerks were allowed to eat, Ezekiel noticed that he and his rag-tag band of MN, OP, VW were being watched by S and even Hon. Bale himself. That prevented any exchange between them, and made Ezekiel think how far their concern could go and would not Lady Fernworth know of his inquiries. At the end of the dinner, his mind was filled with images of hooded stranger and his earlier words about Hunter’s moon. 

“Wolf howling should have some connection with this ominous name. I guess, that silvery apparition was the Hunter’s moon, then. But why is it silver?”

As the day went on and the sun turned amber, Ezekiel remembered some stories on silver and werewolves, written in cheap gazettes. They were some sort of gothic tales based upon continental legends. But they were mostly full of actual hunting action and thus uninteresting to him, so that was all he could recall for now. 

When that dull day finally ended, his hope of receiving some secret package also died, as he did not have even a chance to say goodbye to his companions. When the bell rang, they were among the first to leave the room. That awkward feeling of being separated by some several yards and several seconds – and yet, being as if in different towns. 

Irritated, Ezekiel ran for his club, wishing that the others were more successful.

 In fact, they were. 

– Now, gentlemen, let us lay on that table what he has managed to find so far, – began cheerful William Peakridge and unwrapped a partial book. It had a date inscribed in it, 1856, but it was in the same typeface as that 1720s page. 

– I have a letter, brought to me by a neighbour in the country, – duly spoke Mr Fitzpatrick, straightening the sheet of paper. – It has the same typeface and has been written last year as you can see for yourselves. 

– This investigation is so silly! – ranted Iolas, dropping his face in palms. – I have asked the “Mystborough Post” office for some different dates, they have looked at me as if I was a lunatic! Then even showed me the press machinery they use to print their newspaper out. They all should be the same! 

– Of course they should! That is why we are looking for a different one, for it would mean a forgery. Please, next time go to vendors, not the office, – pointed out William. 

Servants brought them coffee and the debate went on. 

– I must apologize for not adding to the case, my day has been quite of prison style, – sighed Ezekiel.

– We’ve always told you to quit that… 

– You know I can’t? my friends. My father… 

– Yes, yes, your esteemed father. Quite a man, quite a lawyer. He could be moved only by Lady Fernworth, I gather, – nodded the son of the factory owner.

– Which gives me the cold shudder. What if she somehow knows of this investigation? 

– And then what? – moaned Iolas dramatically.

– And deems it unworthy of her daughter’s honour. 

– You can’t be serious!

– But I am! 

– This is a child’s play! 

– That is the point! 

Silence fell. 

– She does not want her Judith to be wed to a child. But my Judith does want to be wed to that child she is in love with, – Ezekiel has tried to turn in all in a joke. But he was definitely sad and wanted to be left alone. 

– I must excuse myself, gentlemen. Better to spend this night at home. 

When he walked out of the door, discussion has trailed off from the topic of where else to look for the date samples to the topic of why is that investigation so hurtful to the reputation.

– Listen to me carefully, pack, – whispered Mr Peakridge. – If they could think of forcing our Ezekiel out of his position or out of marriage, then this cypher really exists! Could we in our turn watch  the Town Hall and activities of Mr Bale, who for some reason is titled as Honourable? 

– I guess I could, – murmured Fitzpatrick. – I’m the most generic of all of you and do not draw attention. It is our Iolas who is too flamboyant… 

– Flamboyant? Because of my cherry frock coat? 

– Yes, Iolas, in this borough, it is considered as flamboyant. 

– It is settled, then, – grinned William. He felt some hunt in the air.

Unlike tightly built residential streets of old Mystborough, even older house where the “Nimrod” club abode stood alone in a corner of a square, surrounded by trees. Several other buildings of different age, separated by trees and small yards or at least narrow alleys, rounded the square, making it effectively nearly a circle. Maybe, some three hundred years ago, it was a square indeed. It is written that the first town hall has been the reason for the existence of this now quite secluded cobbled piece of ground. Yet it was wooden, and now in its place stood a modern brick hotel (“The Old Town Hall” by name, unsurprisingly), used mainly by lawyers, running from the hustle and bustle of cities like Birmingham or London. Some of them frequented the very club where Ezekiel now headed to. Reasoning was quite simple: it was a hunting club, whose members sometimes even went  to actual hunts, hence the place for it: its park bordered with the forest. Of course, for the likes of Mr Thorne, whose tender soul did not crave to kill animals, but still had the fire of pursuing some figurative game, “Nimrod” could offer its second meaning. 

In fact, it was a gathering place for intellectuals who liked to solve mysteries. They have never arrested or apprehended everyone, since most of their mysteries were not crimes. Rather, they sought more knowledge for the sake of knowledge. 

Before entering under the shade of lindens guarding entrance to the club, Ezekiel took time to reflect upon all the structures he left behind him. That usually created the thinking mood for him. Today, it also was to ensure no one is trailing him. Not that he felt some danger – maybe, unease and fear of ill fame. 

But there was not a single soul, so Ezekiel Thorne eyed the facades of the post office and some department of agriculture or forestry or brickworks whatever it was – just to catch that feeling that at least somewhere world is unchangeable. Indeed, those walls, some of yellowish brick, some of dark cherry tint, looked like nothing would have made them disappear or lose their hues. Speaking of which, lad has admired how the sun was setting slowly, almost visibly painting with its rays on the canvas of walls. Brick layout with delicately protruded lines, therefore, wasn’t flat and made the beholder marvel at these mazes of rusty light on yellow dry clay. Windows shone dully, not a curtain moved behind them, for maybe there were few people at this time. 

– Perhaps, I should move on, – whispered Ezekiel, realizing that staff of the department would see him. But what would they accuse him of? “Nimrod” club was not prohibited or anything… When he rethought that, a tingle in his heart appeared as if the young man did really commit some crime! 

– I do not understand, – muttered Ezekiel. – Just yesterday it was mundane. What is it about me since then? 

He wanted to sit on a bench under a big tree in the centre of the square and ponder on his matters while looking on how people walk out of those doors and head home. But there was no bench nor tree there. Why did he ever think of that? 

“Sun is setting for so long in October. I wonder what it would be like if the day would consist mostly of sunset? Ah, I am being melancholic again, that’s what is happening to me”. 

Upon deducing that, Ezekiel has finished his short voyage across the square and entered his club through the dark wooden door with a carving of Nimrod and a stag on it. 

As he greeted the servant and let go of his cloak and top-hat, the clock struck nine. 

– By Jove, Wilkins! I didn’t realize it was so late! 

– If I might say, dear Sir… 

– Yes, you may, of course! 

– You stood on the square so long I have feared the fogs will engulf you. Luckily, this place is a bit on the hill, so they don’t usually rise till ten o’clock. 

– I did what?

– Just stood there. Maybe, observing some window on the Department of Forestry.

“That’s how it is called!” 

– I can’t recall that, Wilkins. I can admit to several minutes of daydreaming before I walked in here. 

– Another brilliant mystery to solve, perchance? – servant smiled and nodded. – Your friends are already here. I take it, you will be staying for the night, Master Thorne? 

– That is quite correct! 

In the lower drawing-room, three men of twenty-something were anxious to see their Ezekiel, the martyr of bureaucracy. After a swirl of greetings and back-slapping, a brief exchange of daily events followed, mixed with laughter. 

– So, what are we going to solve today? – being the most lively of all of them, William Peakridge set it straight. – Have you had any luck with your indexes? 

– In fact… I did. – Ezekiel put his most mysterious airs on. And he had all the attention in the room – all three pairs of eyes. – I have discovered strange coincidences of the typefaces. 

– Typefaces? – the choir of voices rose in disbelief. 

– Yes, typefaces. 

He produced evidence: two letters from the census and two book pages. 

– See? I first thought that date has changed due to this scripture being just sentury old. But then, this letter – why only the date is different? 

– Are you positive on this not being just a fancy of whoever has written these? – sceptical tone of Aaron Fitzpatrick droned in. 

– Good point! I can’t really tell if it’s just one instance of it, or if there is more to that. 

– Let me just copy these dates. So peculiar, they are different to what we are used to. – Fitzpatrick took a newspaper from the table and scrutinized it. – Definitely there is some strict resemblance between the typeface of the date in today’s newspaper, this novel and this recent letter. 

– I have never thought someone at all would keep track of such things as date typeface, I gathered they ought to be at the whim of every separate person writing the date down? – the most hedonistic of their company, a Mr Iolas Candlewick of farming squires interfered in the conversation. – Why would someone bother with writing precisely the dates in one way or another? 

– Perhaps, it is some sort of a cypher? – nodded Ezekiel. 

– A cypher at least as ancient as 1720? – exclaimed in utter excitement Mr Peakridge. 

– Why not? 

– This is the most nimrodic mystery of all! It has no practical meaning or some crime attached to it. By Mercury! I swear I want to solve this riddle! – William went dramatic. But as he was an informal leader of their little pack, everyone supported his oath. Jumping up to their feet, young men solemnly swore upon the book page and letter with off typefaces to find out Why Are They Different?

– Firstly, we must buy as many local newspapers as we could, and see if their dates are quite similar, – Mr Peakridge took the lead. – Secondly, as many bookstores should provide us with books that have dates in them as we could manage to walk in as soon as possible! 

– Library… – murmured Ezekiel. 

– What did you say? 

– Library! Hon. Bale was upset when I mentioned the library. 

– Well, then, would you kindly investigate it for us? Thank you. 

– I wonder, what could that cypher mean? – Iolas was thinking in an ungentlemanly pose: reclining on a corner sofa. – I hope it is not so boring as something political. I’d rather risk my life on a duel than dabble in mundanity of politics. So if it is not something about some love affairs, I’ll be very disappointed. 

– I bet on a Freemason lodge! – now it was Fitzpatrick’s turn to be overly joyous about Ezekiel’s small find. – Did you know Mystborough used to have one? Scottish Rite Lodge, to be precise. 

– How would you know? – Mr Peakridge frowned. 

– My grandfather told me once he had a friend in there. 

– Oh no, please, not the Masons, they are basically political… – the youth in the corner moaned. 

– Well, I do not think it has some connection to Lord Byron, no? – pack leader got annoyed. – I hope this mystery is pure and clear of any speculations. Although I do not consider Freemasons political They have sought Higher power if anything! 

Ezekiel found himself nodding in agreement to every word said and every decision made. Dark panels on the walls of the drawing room as well as leafy green tapestries have turned into a daze before his eyes and he has heard a whisper. The forest has been calling upon him… and someone was on his trail.

A hunter. That cloaked person. Why did he not tell about him to his friends? Why this nonsensical typeface puzzle all of a sudden? But he couldn’t even croak a half word about that stranger. So he listened and agreed to the course of action set by William and approved by others. 

His was the library of Mystborough.

But it is going to be tomorrow. For now, an eerie fear of night’ sleep filled Mr Thorne, but he could not help himself to not to go to sleep. So, after a round of speculations on who might have used the typeface cypher, he apologized and went to the room with his name on a brass plaque to get some rest.

– Thorne, we are glad you have joined us, we have a census results arriving today. Many books are to be edited. – Honourable Daniel Bale, head clerk, was stern and solemn, as usual.

– Yes, Sir. Am I XYZ as usual? 

– Indeed, you are. These must be done by Thursday evening, so that they’d be telegraphed to London no later than Friday evening. Which means no daydreaming, no dilly-dallying, no speaking to MN, OP and especially VW on old books! 

– Yes, Sir! – Ezekiel blushed. Clerk work used to be boring most of the time, and was a way for his father to keep this youngster busy with something other than art. In his prospects, Mr Thorne the Elder has seen his wayward son as a man of Ministry. Well, maybe, in many years or decades from now. But one thing was true: without gnawing at some boring yet respectable mundane activities with scrupulous dignity, like editing name indexes of Mystborough county. Those indexes weren’t a daily task in this locale, since people here had no intention of being born or dying every day. But once in a while, censuses came like an unpredictable wave and indexes had to be updated post haste. When Ezekiel took liberty to talk about them in his club, he had found every time that he’d not quite explain the necessity and importance of these indexes to other gentlemen of his age and station. Mr Thorne’s friends were squires of that kind who had relatives in nearby villages or manors, thus they were connected to landlords or factory owners, and not lawyers or other paperwork people. One of them, William Peakridge, has developed a habit of taunting Ezekiel as someone who won’t “have a factory to his name by thirty”. And most likely, that’d be true. Even if by thirty Mr Thorne would hold an office in some department or other ruling over these factories, he wouldn’t’ve been connected to the earth, so to say. By an actual factory. Or a farm. 

These were the thoughts that ran through his mind idly as he waited for a courier to push the cart with all census correspondence, marked with X, Y, Z first letters of last names. 

– Oi, Zeke! – he’d heard a whisper. – Seems you’ll have to work, finally. But I bet a guinea that you won’t have anyone even a half that interesting as I usually get! 

He was called S. Just like that, for a known reason: S being the most voluminous letter of English alphabet in a matter of words beginning with it. While others were assigned two letters mostly, there were two exclusions. 

S and XYZ. 

– I get all the best people to edit, Zeke. Physicians, judges, knights! Whom do you expect to edit? An inventor of Lunatic Coil? – S went into a very annoying screechy laughter. His age was not easy to detect from his lumpy body and dull hair. While being neat and well-dressed as his prestigious standing amongst clerks demanded, S had those airs of an obnoxious person, giving an impression of stench as he spoke or even walked past. Ezekiel had always imagined that by “editing” this entitled fellow meant procuring some secret knowledge about those last names. Like, the census contained more info, from which detective stories could be evolved. And yes, Mr Thorne did wait for an inventor, indeed. Albeit, Lunatic Coil was a derogatory naming for some thingamajig or other that supposedly had some control over brain function. What Ezekiel did read with his MN colleague on the subject, had the name of Mesmerizer, but it ended up in a scandal not long ago, and got the above-mentioned nickname. MN was pretty sure that his entries held a name of deceased inventor M. S. Mere, whose widow confirmed by some mysterious letter the existence of blueprints of some device with an electric coil. But more than rumours of that letter, no reliable data existed. 

– Nevermind old teaser, Ezekiel, – Michael Brookford, the same MN, has stopped near Ezekiel’s table. – He has no real insights he’s boasting so loudly of. And we’ll solve a real mystery soon! There is something more than this soggy paper-wasting to our research of human lives! 

– Do not get that mad, my friend, – sighed Thorne, as he prepared the book marked with X and checked his inkwell. – As you point out, all these taunts are hollow, since all interesting stories that could happen in the lives of judges and knights are already well-documented by newspapers. 

S, whose name was something like Searus Fitzby or so, gave a sound “harumph” and began his work. Time to time he glanced over two chatting clerks, muttering some threats and curses. 

– Was there anything intriguing in your last purchase? 

– Hush, Michael. We really need to get the work done. I can’t risk my job here or a scandal in order to marry Miss Fernworth. 

– Just tell me! I’m dying to know! 

– Aye. Aye, my lad, I did. Now, begone!

And the pens went scribbling on worn pages of indexes. But it was quite difficult for Ezekiel to concentrate. He looked at the oaken panels on the walls of the room. Counted all the desks darkened with time around him. Gazed upon white – or whitish – ceiling reminiscent of some Gothic church. And finally his eyes have set upon the golden leaves behind the window. 

– “October the 2nd of 1888”, – he has written in his working diary and set to work. Something has bothered him, but he could not place a finger upon what exactly. The lad was elsewhere, with his beloved Judith walking under golden maples, rustling the fallen leaves and discussing ghost stories of old crumbled towers in the country. 

– I believe I have said explicitly? NO DAYDREAMING! – Mr Bale appeared as if from nowhere and landed his old and scrawny palm on Ezekiel’s desk. – Work! Look, what have you done? 

– What, Sir? – gasping, the young man could not comprehend why a raven from his dreams has become his superior. 

– The date. Of course, it is only your own shabby diary, but if you fail once, you get a habit of failing every time! 

– What is wrong with the date? 

– Typeface. You neglect our tradition to write it correctly. 

– Oh, I am sorry, perhaps, I was really daydreaming! 

With a screaming heart, Mr Thorne took his paper blade and scratched the date in a way to edit it so that it looked correct. 

– Where in the first place did you see that… particular typeface?

– Some… ancient book, I suppose. In our library.

– The library, you say? Fascinating. 

Head clerk has returned to his bureau on a podium to observe his flock. And Mr Thorne, deeply scared, was not even so resolute as to raise his head to observe amber tones of setting sun as he usually did. Some ennui has engulfed him. What if despite all his best efforts he would be reported by Hon. Bale? What if Lady Fernworth would be moved to the worst disposition and would have forfeited him? These old books as Ezekiel has now remembered, were not accepted well in society. Antiquities were the deal for lonely shady types, not married and full of dignity ones. Material wealth did not lie within them nor some lawful power of word. Being a detective or a journalist openly would seal his beloved away from him, this Mr Thorne realized all of a sudden too well. 

As he had finished his last hour of work, burdened by these thoughts, he looked through the census letters – and chill ran over his spine. 

He took the wrong typeface not from his mind and not from an example of a year of the XVIII century. There, before him, on a freshly delivered envelope, there was a date written with 1888 in it, but in a different typeface. 

Moreover, it was the third case of a date being put in a strange way. Ezekiel ensured he was alone in the room and snatched the paper into his pocket.

– Did you ever think we live in a wrong world? – as Ezekiel has tried to step over the threshold and leave, he has been chased upon by “VW”, nervous slim fellow whose name was too hard to pronounce correctly. 

– A wrong? Did you mean ‘the wrong’?

– No, Zeke. ‘A’. As in ‘one of many wrong worlds’. 

VW’s eyes gave some cold and glassy look as he turned away from the man he was so ardent to talk to just this instant, and he walked away in a gait most slow and somber. Mr Thorne was not as keen as to follow him. 

Club “Nimrod” was his destination this night and there he planned to stay till morning with his fears and mysteries of typefaces.

– Now, my love, how do you find this? – slender pale youth has picked up a crusty book page from the bureau and showed it to a young lady standing beside him. Silvery full moon has left its hideout in a shaggy cloud and shone through the arch of window over them. Black-clad colleen has eyed her betrothed with a look both worried and unsure in her eyes and gave a slight nod. 

– This… is very beautiful, mysterious, it has a sartain air of olds… – began she. The fire in the eyes of the lad in a modest frock coat adorned with ruffled cravat was something enigmatic to her. “What is it about this page that has put him in such a fervour?” 

– Look at the date! On the header! – he insisted. 

Lady, whose name, by the way, happened to be Judith, uttered something, still dazzled, and tilted her head a little, turning attention to the pointing finger.

– Seventeen-hundred and ninety-eight? Almost a century ago? Yes, it is quite old, as we have requested from the book-seller. But what about it, Ezekiel, my love? 

– Aw, Briar, – this was his nickname for her, – do you not notice? The typeface! It is a bit different from this one! – and he produced another page they have bought some time before. 

– Mayhap, thou art right, – Judith applied her poeting tone. – But I beseech thee hereby to take note of the fog advancing. 

And she was quite right there. Being several hours after the sunset, mists were quickly setting in. Half an hour more, and even gaslight wouldn’t’ve pierced it. An hour more, and they’d be left burning out in murky darkness, leaving all who have to wander the streets of their small borough to the mercy of some unknown villains or monsters. Generally, no sane or good-willed person would just walk around the streets in the middle of the night. Which is why these two star-crossed lovers have had to part till next day. 

– My servant is anxious for me, since he was told pretty strictly by Lady Elizabeth to escort me much before the fog appears, – said lady was Judith’s esteemed mother, – and we have missed such an occasion tonight. 

Ezekiel’s head dropped a bit in despair. 

– I had hoped we’d discover this mystery together today! 

– But I cannot stay, my beloved one, against all my wishes! And if we are to keep our engagement due, we have to obey my mother… 

– Aye, that is what we have to, – gloomy echo, his voice sounded. – Let me at least walk you for a while, let me tell you what I think of this discovery. 

– Alright, – she answered after hesitating shortly. – But not all the way, please. 

Ezekiel grabbed his cloak as Tom, lady’s servant and guard, have been helping her to put hers on. 

– Mistress told me to observe you so that you’d have the right to meet without Miss Judith’s chaperone, – hummed the servant. – She trusts my judgement, and I trust you, Mr Thorne. 

The youth was never able to tell if this fellow was kidding him or cutting him a slack. Being not much above Tom’s station – just a clerk in the town hall – the young gentleman was not in a position to issue orders. 

– Judith, I am too excited to be silent about it now – he whispered ardently, – Thomas, my friend, could you please keep watch duty a step back from us, and look around for some lunatics? 

– Aye, Master Ezekiel. 

– I am not sure he needs to listen to what I need to tell you, my love. As you know, I work with papers daily…

– ‘Tis so, and they are not the kind of papers my father would prefer you to work with, – lass has let a snicker. She was eyeing the streets as well, for the fogs of Mystborough gave her some ghastly impressions. 

– Nevertheless, this gives me some opportunities to study how the books were written, which is more important to me than what was written in them. 

– Indeed, I can see no peculiarities in old indexes of townspeople that you edit constantly. 

– True to that, but what I did notice, is the following, – he has moved his head closer to hers, ignoring Tom’s “harumph”. and began to whisper:

– The dates are all written in different typefaces and have some secret patterns I can’t yet disclose! 

– What? Is that a mystery? – Miss Judith was astonished.

– Yes! I am perfectly sure it is. Because… ONLY the dates are written different ways, and not the texts. 

She awarded her knight of knowledge with a mild smile and held his hands as their short walk came to a halt. 

– We must part now, alas, my dearest! It is not so far from home, and my mother can send another servant to spy on us. 

– As you command, my Lady Briar! – he gave her a courteous if not somewhat exaggerated bow and stepped back into welcoming mists. 

– Fare the well, my Lord Thorne, be safe in thy travels! 

And safe he could have been not, even though it was less than a quarter hour’s walk from his family house. Deep in his thoughts of book enigmas, Ezekiel Thorne has not noticed for dark does the fog grow and how thick. Gas lamp on a post flickered and went out, and then, two golden eyes could’ve been seen in the alley, but the youth was too occupied to know that there was some kind of danger for his life. A soft step, a heavy breath behind him – this story could’ve become significantly shorter, but all of sudden a gust of wind has cleared the fog! Startled, lad ran to his porch and only under the protection of lights over it gazed over his shoulder. 

There was a figure, tall, wearing a hooded robe. 

– Mister Thorne, do you cherish your life over some trifles? – smirked the stranger. 

– W…who are you? – desperately searching for the key, asked Ezekiel. 

– Just another hunter, same as you are. Perhaps, a tad different than you, since you hunt in the libraries, and I walk these streets, when the Swarm is out, or Beasts prowl the cobbled roads. 

“The key, finally!” 

Lock yielded, door screeched, let him in and closed soundly. 

– Have a good night, Ezekiel Thorne, – boomed the voice of the stranger. – For the Hunter’s Moon is out! 

Only the grumble of the bolt was the answer for him, on part of the clerk. 

In the house Number 13, Trellis street, Miss Judith Fernworth, alone in her room, has stripped naked to let the moonlight caress her skin, and whispered:

– Please, Moon of Changes, change me, show me the way to freedom!