With that, she pulled the door shut behind her.
Fitch sighed, shaking his head and walking back to his desk. “I’m sure she’ll get over it,” he said, sitting and shuffling through his papers.
“Yeah,” Joel said, still looking after her. Would this make her bitter against him again, after he’d just gotten on her good side? He was having a devil of a time figuring that girl out. “What do you want me to do, Professor?”
“Oh, hum? Ah. Well, I honestly don’t know. I planned for you to be working on those census reports for a few more weeks yet. Hum.” Fitch tapped the table with his index finger. “Why don’t you take the day off? You worked so hard the last few weeks. It will give me an opportunity to sort through what Harding has given me. I’m certain I’ll have something for you to do tomorrow.”
Joel opened his mouth to protest—he could certainly help with the professor’s research into the strange lines—but then hesitated. He glanced at the book he was still carrying, the one Melody had checked out for him.
“All right,” he decided. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Fitch nodded, turning back to his papers. Joel pulled open the door to walk out. He nearly stumbled over Melody, who had indeed set up drawing right in front of the doorway. She grumpily made way for him, and he left via the stairwell, intent on finding a shady spot in which to poke through the tome in peace.
Joel sat beneath a tree, book in his hands. Some students played soccer as their summer elective on a field in the distance, kicking the ball back and forth toward the goal. Joel could hear their shouting, but it didn’t bother him.
Police officers patrolled the grounds, but they kept to themselves, as Harding had promised. A bird whistled in the branches above him, and a small springwork crab puttered along on the green, clipping at patches of grass. Long metal feelers dangled in front of it, keeping it from wandering off the green and from clipping things it shouldn’t.
Joel leaned back against the trunk of the tree, staring up at the sparkling leaves. When he’d chosen the book, he’d assumed from the title—Origins of Power—that it had to do with the way that Rithmatics had been discovered, back in the early days when the United Isles had still been new. He’d expected an in-depth look at King Gregory and the first Rithmatists.
The book, however, was about how people became Rithmatists.
It happened during the inception ceremony, an event that occurred every Fourth of July. Every boy or girl who had turned eight since the last inception ceremony was brought to their local Monarchical chapel. The group was blessed by the vicar. Then, one at a time, the children walked into the chamber of inception. They stayed inside for a few minutes, then walked out the other side—a symbol of new birth. They were then given chalk and asked to draw a line. From that point on, some could create sketches with Rithmatic power. The others could not. It was that simple.
And yet, the book made the process sound anything but simple. Joel leafed through it again, frowning in confusion as the groundskeeping crab clipped its way closer, then turned around as its feelers brushed his leg. The book assumed that the reader was a Rithmatist. It talked of things like the “chaining” and spoke of something known as a “Shadowblaze.”
There was apparently far more to the inception than Joel had originally thought. Something happened in that room—something that physically changed some of the children, giving them Rithmatic power. It wasn’t just the invisible touch of the Master.
If what the book said was true, then Rithmatists had some sort of special vision or experience inside the chamber of inception, one they didn’t speak of. When they went outside to draw their first line, they already knew that they had become Rithmatists.
It flew in the face of everything Joel understood. Or, at least, that was what it seemed to say. He considered himself well educated when it came to Rithmatics, but this text was completely over his head.
The chaining of a Shadowblaze, fourth entity removed, is an often undeterminable process, and the bindagent should consider wisely the situation before making any decisions regarding the vessels to be indentured.
What did that even mean? Joel had always assumed that if he could just get into the Rithmatic section of the library, he’d be able to learn so much. It hadn’t occurred to him that many of the books would be beyond his understanding.
He snapped the book closed. To the side, the springwork crab was starting to run more slowly. The hour was late, and the groundskeeper would probably pass by soon and either wind the device or pack it up for the evening.
Joel stood, tucking the book under his arm, and began to wander toward the dining hall. He felt odd, having just spent an afternoon studying. The entire campus was coming under an increasingly tight lockdown, and students were disappearing in the night. It felt wrong to simply sit about and read a book. He wanted to be helping somehow.
I could get that book Nalizar checked out, he thought. Despite Harding’s words, Joel just didn’t trust the professor. There was something important in that book. But what? And how to get it?
With a shake of the head, he entered the dining hall. His mother was there—which was good—and so Joel went and dished himself up some of the evening’s main dish: stir-fried spaghetti and meatballs. He dumped some parmesan cheese on, grabbed a pair of chopsticks, then made his way to the table.
“Hey, Mom,” he said, sitting down. “How was your day?”
“Worrying,” she said, glancing toward a small group of police officers sitting at a table and eating together. “Maybe you shouldn’t be out alone at night.”
“This campus is probably the safest place in the city right now,” Joel said, digging into his food. Spaghetti mixed with fried peppers, mushrooms, water chestnuts, and a tangy tomato soy sauce. Italian food was one of his favorites.
His mother continued to watch the officers. They were probably there to remind people, as Harding had said, that the campus was being protected. However, the officers seemed to also make people more nervous by reminding them that there was danger.
The room buzzed with the sounds of low conversation. Joel heard mention of both Herman and Lilly several times, though as some of the cooks passed, he also heard them grumbling about “those Rithmatists” bringing danger to the campus.
“How can they be so foolish?” Joel asked. “We need the Rithmatists. Do they want the chalklings to get off of Nebrask?”
“People are frightened, Son,” his mother said. She stirred her food, but didn’t seem to be eating much of it. “Who knows? Perhaps this whole thing is the result of a squabble between Rithmatists. They’re so secretive.…”
She looked toward the professors. Fitch wasn’t there—probably working late on the disappearances. Nalizar wasn’t at his seat either. Joel narrowed his eyes. He was involved somehow, wasn’t he?
At the table of the student Rithmatists, the teens whispered among themselves, looking worried, anxious. Like a group of mice who had just smelled a cat. As usual, Melody sat at the end of the table with at least two seats open on either side of her. She looked down as she ate, not talking to anyone.
It must be hard for her, he realized, to not have anyone to talk with, particularly at this time of tension. He slurped up some spaghetti, thinking of how much she’d overreacted to being excluded from his meeting with Fitch and Harding. And yet … perhaps she had a reason. Was it because she was so commonly excluded by the rest of the Rithmatists?
Joel felt a stab of guilt.
“Joel,” his mother said, “maybe it isn’t a good idea for you to be studying with Professor Fitch during this time.”