The Rithmatist

snapping the book closed. After two weeks, he’d finished all of the census records.
    He flipped through the stack of papers. The oldest page listed the graduates eighty years back, and he’d been able to cross off every name on that list. The same for the next seven or eight years. The lists went all the way up to the graduates from one year ago. Only one of those had died—during an accident at Nebrask.
    Along with the other reports, Joel had also included a special list of Rithmatists who had vanished, their whereabouts unknown. There weren’t any of those that had happened recently—save for Lilly Whiting—but he figured that Fitch might be interested.
    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