The Name in the Margin

The printer had left a blank line at the bottom of the footbridge notice.

“Proofread by,” the line read. The type was already set around it, ready for my name or a clean strip of white space.

The press waited behind him. The printer had one hoof on the lever and the other beside the proof, giving me the sort of patient silence that made the decision feel larger than the available space.

I read the notice again. The west footbridge would close for inspection on Tuesday, not Thursday. The correction would keep ponies from planning around the wrong day. It was useful work. It was mine, in the way catching a mistake belonged to the person who caught it.

My name on the town board was another matter.

“David Silver,” I read aloud, looking at the blank. “No title?”

The printer squared the proof against the table. “You checked the dates. You didn't write the notice. That line says what you did.”

A sensible distinction. Sensible distinctions were my favorite kind until they came with a public audience.

“I can leave it off,” he added, nudging the type case closer. “The shop ledger will still have your work.”

I looked at the type. A pony could know me as the strange unicorn with the dark coat and no cutie mark, or as the fellow who had caught the date error. Putting my name there wouldn't make either fact less true. It would make the second one easier to find.

“Set it,” I said, and touched the blank line with my hoof. “Full name.”

The printer fitted the letters in place. He checked the spacing, then turned the proof so I could inspect it once more. David Silver looked a little too formal in black ink. It also looked like mine.

I signed the approval box with the quill. My magic held it steady for the last stroke, and the final loop came out smaller than I intended. No one had ever accused my hornwork of being a calligrapher's dream.

The printer lifted the proof. “All right. This one goes to the board.”

The first sheet came off the press with the familiar clack of a machine doing a job it understood. I didn't. Still, I watched the notice settle onto the stack, each fresh copy carrying the correction and my name.

When the printer handed me one, I took it carefully by the corners. The ink was still tacky. “I can carry it over.”

He studied me over the top of the stack. “You don't have to.”

“I know.” I tucked the notice under my foreleg. “I want to see where it goes.”