“After that,” she continued, speaking as if she hadn’t heard his protest, “you got a job at the campus office—the same place that I, unfortunately, have to do service.”
“I’ve had that job since the beginning of the term!”
“And finally,” she said, “you followed me to Fitch’s office. Pretty suspicious.”
“I didn’t follow you. I was here before you!”
“Yes,” Melody said, “a convenient excuse. Just don’t show up outside my window at night, or I shall have to scream and throw something at you.”
“Ah!” Fitch exclaimed, pulling out a large artist’s sketch pad. Then he regarded the wall, rubbing his chin in thought. He eventually pointed at one of the hangings—it depicted a simplified Matson Defense.
Fitch took the hanging off the wall, then shoved aside some books with his foot, making room on the floor. “You, young lady,” he said to Melody, “may think that you are a lost cause. I hardly believe that to be the case. You just need some practice in the fundamentals.” He set the diagram of the Matson Defense on the ground, then ripped a sheet out of the large sketch pad and laid it over the top.
Melody sighed. “Tracing?”
“Yes indeed.”
“It’s something we did back in seventh grade!”
“That, my dear,” Fitch said, “is why this is called a remedial tutelage. I should think that you’ll be able to complete ten copies or so by the time the day is through. Make certain you trace the crosslines in the center and mark the bind points!”
Melody sighed again—she did that a lot, apparently—and shot Joel a glance, as if she blamed him for witnessing her humiliation. He shrugged. Drawing Rithmatic patterns seemed like a fun way to spend the afternoon.
“Get to work, Melody,” Fitch said, rising. “Now, Joel, I have something for you to do as well.” Fitch began to walk down the hallway, and Joel hurried after, smiling in anticipation. Principal York had said the project Fitch was working on was at the request of the federal inspector, so it must be very important. Joel had spent much of the night lying in bed, thinking about what kind of work Fitch was doing. Something involving Rithmatics, lines, and …
“Census records,” Fitch said, hefting a pile of hardbound ledgers and handing them to Joel.
“Excuse me?” Joel asked.
“Your job,” Fitch said, “is to look through the death notices in these ledgers and search out all of the Rithmatists who have died during the last twenty years. Then I want you to cross-reference those with the lists of Armedius graduates I have over here. Every Rithmatist who has passed away, cross off the list.”
Joel frowned. “That sounds like a lot of work.”
“That is precisely,” Fitch said, “the reason I requested a student assistant!”
Joel glanced through the books Fitch had handed him. They were obituary reports from all across the sixty isles.
“It will be easier than you think, lad,” Fitch said. “In those reports, a Rithmatist is always noted by an asterisk, and their obituary will state which of the eight schools they went to. Just scan each page looking for deceased Rithmatists who went to Armedius. When you find one, locate them on this other list and cross them off. In addition, when you find a former Armedius student who died, I want you to read the obituary and note anything … odd in it.”
“Odd?” Joel asked.
“Yes, yes,” Fitch said. “If they died in an unusual way, or were murdered, or something of that nature. Armedius has about twenty Rithmatic graduates a year. Figure an eighty-year period; that means we have over fifteen hundred Rithmatists to look through! I want to know who among them is dead, and I want to know how they passed.” The professor rubbed his chin. “It occurred to me that the school should have this information, but a check with Exton at the office informed me that they don’t keep strict track of alumni deaths. It is an oversight for which we—well, you—will now have to pay the penalty.”
Joel sank down on the stool, looking at the seemingly endless stacks of census reports. To the side, Melody glanced at him, then smiled to herself before turning back to her sketching.
What have I gotten myself into? Joel wondered.
* * *
“My life,” Melody declared, “is a tragedy.”
Joel looked up from his stack of books, names, and dead people. Melody sat on the floor a short distance away; she’d spent hours drawing copies of the Matson Defense. Her tracings were terrible.