He reached over to twist the key in the lantern beside his library desk, letting the clockwork wind down and the light spin out. He was surprised at the sense of accomplishment he felt.
He tucked the pile of sheets under his arm, grabbed the books he’d been working on, and walked through the library. It was late—he had probably missed dinner. He’d been so close, he hadn’t been able to stop.
The library was a maze of bookshelves, though most of them were only about five feet tall. Other people worked in some of the alcoves, their lamps giving each one a flickering light. The building would close soon, expelling its hermitlike occupants.
Joel passed Ms. Torrent, the librarian, then pushed his way out onto the green. He crossed the grounds in the near darkness, trying to decide if he’d be able to beg some food off the kitchen staff. However, he’d just finished something big—he didn’t want to go eat; he wanted to share it with someone.
It isn’t even ten yet, Joel thought, glancing toward the Rithmatic campus. Professor Fitch will still be up. He’d want to know that Joel was finished, wouldn’t he?
Decision made, Joel took off across the grounds, passing between pockets of light shining from clockwork lanterns, with their spinning gears and shining coils. He passed a familiar figure sitting on the green outside the Rithmatist dormitory.
“Hey, Melody,” he said.
She didn’t look up from her sketch pad as she drew by the light of the lantern.
Joel sighed. Melody, apparently, knew how to hold a grudge. He had apologized for his wisecrack three times, but still she wouldn’t speak to him. Fine, he thought. Why should I care?
He moved past her quickly and arrived at Warding Hall with a spring in his step. He climbed the stairs to Fitch’s door and knocked eagerly.
The professor opened the door a few moments later. Joel was right—the man hadn’t even gotten ready for bed. He still wore his white vest and long Rithmatist’s coat. He looked frazzled—hair disheveled, eyes unfocused. But, then, that wasn’t odd for Fitch.
“What? Hum?” Fitch said. “Oh, Joel. What is it, lad?”
“I finished!” Joel said, holding up the stack of papers and books. “I’m done, Professor. I got through every single ledger!”
“Oh. Is that so?” Fitch’s voice was almost monotone. “Wonderful, lad, that’s wonderful. You worked so hard.” With that, Fitch walked away, almost as if he were in a daze, leaving Joel at the door.
Joel lowered the stack of papers. That’s it? he thought. I spent two weeks on this! I worked evenings! I stayed up late when I should have been sleeping!
Fitch wandered back to his desk at the corner of the L-shaped office. Joel entered and pushed the door closed. “It’s just what you wanted, Professor. All the names indexed. Look, I even kept a list of disappearances!”
“Yes, thank you, Joel,” Fitch said, sitting. “You can leave the papers on that stack over there.”
Joel felt a sharp disappointment. He set the papers down, and a sudden horror struck him. Had it all been busywork? Had Fitch and the principal devised this entire research assistant plan to keep Joel out of trouble? Would his lists be forgotten and gather dust like the hundreds of tomes crammed into the hallways?
Joel looked up, trying to dismiss those thoughts. Professor Fitch sat huddled over his desk, leaning with his left elbow on the top, left hand on the side of his face. His other hand tapped a pen against a piece of paper.
“Professor?” Joel asked. “Are you all right?”
“Yes, fine,” Fitch said in a tired voice. “Well, I just … I feel I should have figured things out by now!”
“Figured what out?” Joel asked, picking his way through the room.
Fitch didn’t answer—he seemed too distracted by the papers on his desk. Joel tried another tactic.
“Professor?”
“Hum?”
“What would you like me to do now? I’ve finished the first project. I assume you have something else to fill my time?” Something having to do with what you’re working on?
“Ah, well, yes,” Fitch said. “You did so well at that research; worked far more quickly than I expected. You must enjoy that sort of thing.”
“I wouldn’t say that…” Joel said.
Fitch continued. “It would be very useful if you tracked down the locations of all the Rithmatists living here on the island who have retired from their service in Nebrask. Why don’t you get started on that?”
“Track down…” Joel said. “Professor, how would I even start something like that?”
“Hum? Well, you could look through the last year’s census, then compare the names on it to the names on the lists of graduates from the various academies.”
“You’re kidding me,” Joel said. He knew just enough to realize that the project Fitch was talking about could take months to get through.
“Yes, yes,” Fitch said. He was obviously barely paying attention. “Very important…”
“Professor?” Joel asked. “Is something wrong? Did something happen?”
Fitch looked up, focusing, as if seeing Joel there for the first time. “Something happen…?” Fitch asked. “Didn’t you hear, lad?”
“Hear what?”
“Another student vanished last night,” Fitch said. “The police released information about it this afternoon.”
“I’ve been in the library all afternoon,” Joel said, stepping up to the desk. “Was it another Rithmatist?”
“Yes,” Fitch said. “Herman Libel. A pupil from my old class.”
“I’m sorry,” Joel said, noting the distressed look in Fitch’s eyes. “Do they still think a Rithmatist is behind the disappearances?”
Fitch looked up. “How do you know that?”
“I … Well, you have me searching out the locations of Rithmatists, and the principal told me you were working on an important project for the federal inspectors. It seemed obvious.”
“Oh,” Fitch said. He glanced down at the papers. “So, you know this is my fault, then.”
“Your fault?”
“Yes,” Fitch said. “I was the one in charge of deciphering this puzzle. But so far I have nothing! I feel useless. If I’d been able to figure this out earlier, then perhaps poor Herman wouldn’t have … well, who knows what happened to him?”
“You can’t blame yourself, Professor,” Joel said. “It’s not your fault.”
“It is,” Fitch said. “I’m responsible. If I hadn’t proven unable to do this task…” Fitch sighed. “Perhaps York should have given this problem to Professor Nalizar.”
“Professor!” Joel said. “Nalizar might have beaten you in a duel, but he’s not even twenty-five years old. You’ve spent a lifetime studying Rithmatics. You’re a far better scholar than he is.”
“I don’t know…” Fitch said. On the desk, Joel could see several sheets with detailed notes and drawings, all in ink.
“What’s this?” Joel asked, pointing at a sketch. It appeared to be a simplified Matson Defense. Or, rather, what was left of one. The detailed sketch showed numerous chunks missing—as if pieces of the defense been clawed free by chalklings. Even where the lines weren’t breached, they were scored and uneven.
Fitch covered the sheet with his arms. “It’s nothing.”
“Maybe I can help.”
“Lad, you just told me that Professor Nalizar seemed too inexperienced at age twenty-four. You’re sixteen!”