The bookseller put a tray on a pile of books, ignoring how unstable it was, poured milk in the two chipped cups, then tea.

- I have some new purchases you should be interested in, he said throwing a handle of sugar cubes in his cup. How is your thesis going?

- Quite well. I finished the infant mortality, I’m so glad, I was starting to be fed up. And the librarian too I think. I’ve started to study the various mortuary symbols, it’s really fascinating. Did you know that ivy...

He shut up. The old bookseller was not listening to him anymore, he had finished the filthy sugary dishwater he obstinately called tea and was rummaging through his shelves with the great excitement of passion.

Hal was fascinated by 19th century since his earliest childhood and wrote a PhD thesis about death in Victorian era, but the old man’s hobby was ancient books. He shared this taste in a more moderate way, and the bookseller was always glad to find him interesting pieces.

- Look at this, he said, throwing on his knees a black-covered book as thick as a brick. The complete works of Doctor James Parkinson, published during the author’s lifetime.

Hal resisted to the temptation of opening it.

- I can’t afford it, even with a special discount.

- You can still admire it, the bookseller assured, already looking for more books. Have you seen how well preserved it is?

- 1820?

- Almost. 21. Ow, look at this one! Frankenstein or the modern Prometheus.

It was the book from the shop window. It wasn’t very tick and was dog-eared: Hal knew it reduced its value a lot. Besides, it looked like an old grimoire, and this was interesting.

- Come on, have a guess! the bookseller said joyfully, as excited as a kid.

Hal examined carefully the brilliance of the cover’s gilt, the state of the corners, opened cautiously the book to observe the paper’s yellowing, and declared with confidence:

- 1865. 70 at the very maximum.

- 68, the bookseller confirmed with a big smile.

- Author’s lifetime?

- Of course not! Mary Shelley died in 1851!

Hal refrained a smile. He thought he had a rather correct literary culture for an historian, especially when it came to 19th century, but the bookseller’s one was much better than his. And, to be fair, much better than anyone’s Hal knew.

- Don’t you need good old Doctor Frankenstein for your thesis?

Maybe, but it was literary material, so very secondary. And it was very easy to find at the university library for free.

Of course, Hal bought the book nevertheless, drank his tea and left the shop. He had some work to finish at university before the night. Then he called his father, who lived alone in a small house of Bedfordshire, and they had a small talk.

Hal’s mother had died just after his birth, and he was convinced this tragic event shaped the very special relationship he had with his father. They cared a lot about each other, and Hal felt very lucky about it.

When he arrived home, Jane was not here yet, and he ran a bath straight away. Then he felt so comfortable in hot water that he fell asleep. Knocks on the door woke him up.

- We are only two people living here, so I would like to know why this bloody bathroom is always occupied when I want to go in, you moron!