The Rithmatist

so Trent always said.
    “The best chalk for Rithmatists, in his opinion, was that which is constructed for the purpose. It can’t be too hard, otherwise the lines won’t come down thickly. It also can’t be too soft, otherwise it will break easily. A glaze on the outside will keep it from getting on the Rithmatist’s fingers, and he had some compounds he could mix with it that would make it put out less dust.”
    Joel sat quietly. It was difficult to get his mother to talk about his father.
    “Some Rithmatists demand certain colors,” she said, “and Trent would work for hours, getting the shade just right. Most schools don’t employ a chalkmaker, though. Principal York never replaced Trent—could never find someone he thought was competent enough for the job. The truth is, a chalkmaker isn’t really necessary, since ordinary chalk will work.
    “But Trent always argued with those who called his work frivolous. Taste is frivolous when eating, he’d say—the body can get the same nutrients from bland food as it can from food that tastes good. Colors for fabric, paintings on walls, beautiful music—none of these things are necessary. However, humans are more than their need to survive. Crafting better, more useful kinds of chalk was a quest for him.
    “At one point, he had belts filled with six different kinds of chalk—different hardnesses and curves to their tips—for use in drawing on different surfaces. A lot of the professors wore them.” She sighed. “That’s past, though. Those who want specialty chalk now just order it in from Maineford.”
    She trailed off, then glanced at the large ticking clock set into the wall. “Dusts! I have to get back to work. Melody, nice to meet you.”
    Melody stood up as Joel’s mother rushed away. Once she was gone, Melody sat back down, digging into her meal. “Your father sounds like he was an interesting person.”
    Joel nodded.
    “You remember much of him?” she asked.
    “Yeah,” Joel said. “I was eight when he died, and we have some daguerreotypes of him hanging in our room. He was a kind man—big, burly. More like a fieldworker than an artisan. He liked to laugh.”
    “You’re lucky,” Melody said.
    “What?” Joel asked. “Because my father died?”
    She blushed. “You’re lucky to have had a parent like him, and to be able to live with your mother.”
    “It’s not all that fun. Our room is practically a closet, and Mother works herself near to death. The rest of the students are nice to me, but I can’t ever make good friends. They’re not sure how to treat the son of a cleaning lady.”
    “I don’t even have that.”
    “You’re an orphan?” Joel asked with surprise.
    “Nothing so drastic,” she said with a sigh, scooping at her spaghetti with the fork. “My family lives down in the Floridian Atolls. My parents are perfectly healthy, and they are also perfectly uninterested in visiting me. I guess after their fourth Rithmatist child, the novelty kind of wears off.”
    “There are four Rithmatists in your family?”
    “Well, six if you count my parents,” she said. “They’re both Rithmatists too.”
    Joel sat back, frowning. Rithmatics wasn’t hereditary. Numerous studies had proven that if there was a higher likelihood of a Rithmatist having Rithmatist children, it was very slight at best.
    “That’s impossible,” Joel said.
    “Not impossible,” she said, taking a bite of spaghetti. “Just unlikely.”
    Joel glanced to the side. The book he’d spent all day reading still sat on the table, dark brown cover aging and scuffed. “So,” he said offhandedly. “I’ve been reading about what happens to Rithmatists when they enter the chamber of inception.”
    Melody froze, several lines of spaghetti hanging from her mouth and down to her bowl.
    “Interesting reading,” Joel continued, turning the book about. “Though, there are some questions I had about the process.”
    She slurped up the spaghetti. “That?” she said. “ That’s what the book is about?”
    Joel nodded.
    “Oh, dusts,” she said, grabbing her head. “Oh, dusts . I’m going to be in big trouble, aren’t I?”
    “I don’t see why. I mean, what’s the problem? Everyone goes into the chamber of inception, right? So, it’s not like everything about the place has to be kept secret.”
    “It’s not secret, really,” Melody said. “It’s just … well, I don’t know. Holy. There are things you’re not supposed to talk