“We will be in contact with Jenan in a few days,” Lethe was saying. “From this moment on, we are doubling our precautions. Our revolution, which one day will have seemed inevitable and unstoppable, is still a fragile thing. Parthenios’s capture serves as a reminder that even the best of us can falter. We must be vigilant. We must be ready.”

The man with the platinum hair put his hand on Lethe’s arm and spoke to the group. “How many of you are there?” he asked.

“Nine, Mr Nero,” said Jenan immediately.

“Then why are there ten gold masks in this room?”

Everyone turned, stepping away from each other and counting for themselves. Except for Omen. Omen just stood there.

The counting faded as the space around him widened.

“And who,” said Lethe, stepping forward, “might you be?”

Omen backed up, face burning under his mask. He felt the thick curtains behind him. Through them, the door handle. He turned it, felt the door open.

Jenan pushed roughly through the Scholars. “Out of the way,” he snarled, reaching out. “Who the hell are—?”

Omen surprised himself by shoving Jenan hard in the chest, sending him backwards into the others, and then he barged through the curtains, out on to the balcony, where the wind turned his sweat cold and there was nowhere to go but down. There was a balcony below him, and a balcony below that, and he swung one leg over the side, but his hands gripped the railing and he couldn’t go any further. Shapes moved behind the curtain, filling it, too many of his classmates trying to get through at the same time, all of them coming to – what? To push him? To kill him?

Nero teleported on to the balcony and Omen cried out and jerked back, lost his balance, started to fall, but Nero reached out, grabbed his wrist.

Omen hung there, his body committed to the fall, his mouth open, his heart an empty thing in his chest, and all he could feel were Nero’s fingers around his wrist.

Nero smiled, and let go.

Omen shrieked as he fell. He was past the first balcony before he even saw it. He reached for the second and banged his arm and kept falling. He saw a face at an open window and Filament Sclavi reached out, tried using the air to stop Omen’s descent, but Omen broke through and kept falling, and then there was a strong wind buffeting him closer to the wall and a hand reached down, closed around his wrist.

Omen slammed into the side of the building and hung there for a moment, gasping. He was two floors from the ground, and now he was being pulled upwards to the balcony.

Mr Peccant glared down at him. “Little fool,” he growled. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”