The Rithmatist

himself with Lines of Forbiddance.”
    It was a terrible dueling tactic—a Line of Forbiddance not only blocked chalklings, but physical objects as well. The Rithmatist himself couldn’t reach past one to draw lines and defend himself. By boxing himself in, Herman had sealed his fate.
    “He shouldn’t have done that,” Joel said.
    “Perhaps,” Fitch said. “But, if he feared being overwhelmed, this could have been the only way. Lines of Forbiddance are stronger than a Circle of Warding.”
    “Except at the corners,” Joel said.
    Lines of Forbiddance had to be straight—and straight lines had no bind points. The chalklings had gotten in at the corners. But perhaps Fitch was right. Chalklings were fast, and running might have been a bad idea.
    The only option would be to bunker in, drawing lots of lines, locking yourself in place and yelling for help. Then you’d wait, hoping someone would hear you and be able to do something. You’d sit, watching while a squirming mass of chalk drawings chewed and clawed their way closer, getting past the lines one at a time.…
    Joel shivered. “Did you notice these specks?”
    Fitch looked more closely. “Hum. Yes.”
    “They look like they might be remnants of chalklings,” Joel said. “After they get torn apart.”
    “Maybe,” Fitch said, squinting. “They weren’t re-created very well. Blast! The police sketch artists don’t know what is important and what isn’t!”
    “We need to see the scene itself,” Joel said.
    “Yes,” Fitch said. “However, it is probably too late now. The police will have moved about, scuffing the chalk, throwing acid on the Lines of Forbiddance to remove them so that they can search the room. And that means…”
    He trailed off.
    We won’t be able to look at a crime scene unless there’s another incident, Joel thought, and the police know not to touch anything until we get there.
    That meant waiting for another person to disappear, which seemed like a bad idea. Better to work on what they had at the moment.
    “Here,” Fitch said, looking at the third—and final—sheet. It contained a pattern of looping lines, like the one that had been discovered at Lilly’s house. The sketch was labeled “Strange pattern of chalk discovered on the wall outside the victim’s room.”
    “How odd,” Fitch said. “The same one as before. But that’s not a Rithmatic pattern.”
    “Professor,” Joel said, taking the sheet and raising it to the light. “I’ve seen that pattern somewhere before. I know I have!”
    “It’s a fairly simple design,” Fitch said. “Perhaps you’ve just seen it on a rug or some stonework. It has an almost Celtic feel, wouldn’t you say? Perhaps it’s the symbol of the killer … or, um, kidnapper.”
    Joel shook his head. “I feel like I’ve seen it somewhere having to do with Rithmatics. Maybe one of the texts I read?”
    “If that is the case,” Fitch said, “it’s no text I’ve seen. That’s not a Rithmatic pattern.”
    “Couldn’t there be lines we don’t know about yet?” Joel said. “I mean, we didn’t even discover Rithmatics was possible until a few centuries back.”
    “I suppose,” Fitch said. “Some scholars talk about such things.”
    “Why don’t you draw that pattern? Maybe it will do something.”
    “I guess I could try. What harm could it do?” He got a piece of chalk out of his coat pocket, then cleared off the table.
    He hesitated.
    A thought struck Joel. What harm could it do? Potentially a lot, if the design really does have something to do with the kidnappings.
    In his head, Joel imagined Fitch’s sketch inadvertently calling forth an army of chalklings or drawing the attention of the person who controlled them. One of the professor’s lamps began to wind down, the light fading, and Joel quickly rushed over to rewind it.
    “I guess we’ll have to try it sometime,” Fitch said. “Perhaps you should wait outside.”
    Joel shook his head. “So far, only Rithmatists have disappeared. I think I should stay, to watch and help in case something happens to you.”
    Fitch sat for a moment, then finally he sighed and reached out to sketch a copy of the looping swirl on the desk.
    Nothing happened.
    Joel held his breath. Minutes ticked by. Still nothing. He walked nervously over to the desk. “Did you draw it right?”
    “Hum. Well, I think so,” Fitch said, holding up the sketch. “Assuming the officers at Herman’s house copied it right in the first