The Rithmatist

Joel for just a moment. He realized he knew very little about Melody’s past, or why her family didn’t seem to care about what happened to her.
    She was also genuine. She didn’t hide her feelings—she belted them out, trumpeted them. She was straightforward with him. With everyone, it seemed.
    And, he realized, he liked that about her.
    “No,” Joel said. “It’s not her, Inspector.”
    “Well, a vote of faith from you means a lot, in my estimation.”
    “You’ll let her go, then?”
    “After just a few more questions,” Harding said, walking back toward the kitchen. Joel followed.
    “All right,” Harding said, entering. “Joel has vouched for you, young lady, and that makes me more likely to listen to what you have to say. But you are still in serious trouble. Answer my questions, and perhaps I won’t have to bring charges against you.”
    She glanced at Joel. “What questions?”
    “My men reported that you sent a chalkling all the way to the building,” Harding said. “How in the name of the Master did you manage such a thing?”
    She shrugged. “I don’t know. I just did.”
    “Dear,” Fitch said, “I know many of the most skilled Rithmatists in the world. The string of glyphs you’d need to use in order to instruct a chalkling to cross that distance, climb the stairs, then go to the room … Why, that list would be incredible! I had no idea you had that kind of ability.”
    “What was the point?” Harding asked. “Why make a chalkling go all that way, then come back? Were you trying to get caught?”
    “Dusts, no!” Melody said. “I just wanted to know what was going on.”
    “And you expected a chalkling to tell you?”
    She hesitated. “No,” she finally admitted. “I just … well, I lost control of it, all right? I made it to distract some of the officers.”
    Joel frowned. She’s lying, he thought, noticing how she looked down when she spoke. As he’d noted earlier, she was genuine, and her lie was easy to see.
    She’s strangely good with chalklings, he thought. She wouldn’t have lost control of that one. But … did that mean that she did expect it to report to her on what it found? Chalklings couldn’t talk. They were like springwork creatures—they didn’t think beyond what they were told to do.
    Yet that unicorn chalkling had fled directly back to Melody.
    “Chalklings do act very strangely sometimes, Inspector,” Fitch said.
    “Believe me,” Harding said, “I’m aware of this. I heard that excuse from Rithmatists every week on the battlefield. I’m amazed you people can ever make them do anything, considering how often they simply go off in the wrong direction for no reason.”
    Melody smiled wanly.
    “You, young lady, are still suspicious,” Harding said, pointing.
    “Inspector,” Fitch said. “Really. We now know from the drawing above that the Scribbler is a man, or at least a woman dressed very convincingly as one. I doubt Melody could have managed that, and I’m certain there are those who can vouch for her location last night.”
    Melody nodded eagerly. “I have two roommates in my dormitory room.”
    “Beyond that, Inspector,” Fitch said, raising a finger, “the description we discovered in Charles’s room indicated that the kidnapper’s Rithmatic lines act very oddly. I have seen Miss Muns’s lines, and they are quite normal. To be honest, they’re often rather poorly drawn.”
    “Fine,” Harding said. “You may go, Miss Muns. But I will be keeping an eye on you.”
    She sighed in relief.
    “Excellent,” Fitch said, standing from his chair. “I have more sketches to complete. Joel, would you walk Melody to the station? And, uh, make certain she doesn’t get into any more trouble along the way?”
    “Sure,” Joel said.
    Harding went back to his work, though he did assign two officers to go with Joel and Melody, making certain she left the building. She went sullenly, Joel trailing along behind, and she gave the officers a world-class scowl once they reached the door.
    The police remained inside; Joel strolled along the lawn outside with Melody.
    “That,” she declared, “was decidedly less than enjoyable.”
    “What did you expect,” Joel asked, “spying on a crime scene?”
    “They let you in.”
    “What’s that supposed to mean?”
    She looked up at the sky, then shook her head. “I’m sorry. I just … well, it’s frustrating. It seems like every time I want to be involved in something, I’m told