The Rithmatist

Joel had gone over his head, approaching Principal York directly?
    There was only one way to find out. He knocked on the door. A short time passed with no answer. He reached up to knock again, but at that moment, the door was flung open. Fitch stood inside, his grey Rithmatist’s coat unbuttoned, showing the white vest and trousers he wore underneath.
    “Yes? Hum?” Fitch asked. “Oh, the chalkmaker’s son. What brings you here, lad?”
    Joel hesitantly raised the form that Principal York had given him.
    “Hum? What is this?” Fitch took the form, looking it over. “Research assistant? You?”
    Joel nodded.
    “Ha!” Fitch exclaimed. “What a wonderful idea! Why didn’t I think of this? Yes, yes, come in.”
    Joel let out a relieved breath, allowing Fitch to usher him through the door. The chamber beyond felt more like a hallway than a room. It was much longer than it was wide, and was cramped with piles of books. A few slot windows in the right wall illuminated an amalgamation of furniture and knickknacks piled against both walls. Two small springwork lanterns hung from the ceiling, their gears clicking as they shone.
    “Indeed,” Fitch said, picking his way through the stacks of books, “I should have known York would make everything work out. He’s a brilliant administrator. Heaven only knows how he manages to balance all of the egos bumping around this campus. Sons of knight-senators mixing with Rithmatists and men who see themselves as heroes from Nebrask. My, my.”
    Joel followed the professor. The room ran along the outside of the building; at the corner, it turned at a ninety-degree angle, then continued northward along that wall as well. The room eventually ended at a brick wall, against which sat a small, neatly made bed. The tucked-in sheets and quilted covering seemed quite a contrast to the clutter in the rest of Fitch’s dark, brick-walled office.
    Joel stood at the corner, watching Fitch rifle through his books, stacking some aside, uncovering a plush stool and matching easy chair. There was a musty scent to the place: the smell of old books and parchment mixed with that of dank brick walls. The air was slightly chilly, despite the approaching summer weather outside.
    Joel found himself smiling. The office was much as he had imagined. The left wall was hung with sheets of paper bearing aged Rithmatic sketches. Some were protected in frames, and all were covered with annotations. There were so many books that the piles themselves seemed to pile on top of one another. Exotic knickknacks lay half buried—a flute that looked Asian in origin, a ceramic bowl with a colorful glaze, several Egyptian paintings.

    And the Rithmatic Lines … they were everywhere. Not just on the wall hangings. They were printed on the covers of the books, scratched into the floorboards, woven into the rug, and even sketched onto the ceiling.
    “I asked York for an assistant,” Fitch was saying as he puttered about, “but I would never have dared ask for a non-Rithmatist. Too untraditional. But there must not be a rule about it, and … Lad?”

    Joel looked at the middle-aged Rithmatist. “Yes?”
    “You seem distracted,” Fitch said. “I’m sorry the place is such a mess. I keep meaning to clean it, but since nobody ever comes in here but me—and, well, I guess now you—there didn’t ever seem to be a point.”
    “No,” Joel said. “No, it’s perfect. I…” How could he explain? “Coming in here feels like coming home. ”
    Fitch smiled. He straightened his long coat, then settled into the chair. “Well then,” he said, “I suppose I should put you to work! Let me see—”

    He cut off as a quiet knock echoed through the room. Fitch cocked his head, then stood. “Now, who … Oh yes. The other student.”
    “Other student?” Joel asked, trailing Fitch as he rounded the corner and walked down the cluttered hallway.
    “Yes, hum,” Fitch said. “York assigned her to me for a remedial tutelage. She gave a very poor showing in my—well, Professor Nalizar’s—Rithmatics class.”
    Joel hesitated. “It’s not…”
    He trailed off as Fitch pulled open the door. Sure enough, the red-curled Melody stood outside, wearing her white skirt. She’d traded her grey sweater for a short-sleeved, buttoned blouse. She was actually kind of pretty—she had nice eyes, at least.
    “I’m here,” she announced with a loud voice. “Let the flogging commence!”

    Too bad she was