Omen didn’t answer. The mask had dislodged slightly, obscuring his vision. He did his best to help as Peccant dragged him in and then let go, leaving Omen to tumble through to the floor.

Still, better to tumble to the floor of Peccant’s office than to smash to the courtyard below it.

Peccant strode in after him. “Tomfoolery!” he said, the word exploding from his mouth like a curse. Peccant was the only person Omen knew who used words like tomfoolery. “What did you think you were playing at? Eh? Take off that bloody mask, for goodness’ sake!”

Omen didn’t take the mask off.

“This is what happens when children are allowed to lark about unsupervised! This is what happens!”

The office was impeccably neat. The only thing out of place was a black book that had fallen from the desk, presumably when Peccant had leaped to the balcony. Helpfully, Omen picked it up. It was more of a ledger than a book, now that he took a closer look, and there was a crest on the cover, a wolf and a snake.

“Give me that,” Peccant snapped, yanking the book from Omen’s hands. He threw it into a desk drawer and slammed it shut. “And take off that ridiculous mask! Do you even realise how inaccurate it all is? Rebus Arcanum despised the society that wore those masks. For a history teacher, Lilt does like to leave out a lot of little things like details, doesn’t he? If he hadn’t been arrested for whatever he was arrested for, he should have been arrested for being a damn fool and a bad teacher!”

Omen stood on trembling legs while Peccant went back to the balcony, craning his head upwards. “Where did you fall from? Which window? Is there anyone else being irresponsible up there?”

Omen reached for the door. Opened it. Nobody outside. He stepped out, started walking. Picked up speed. He took off the gold mask and dropped it.

“Hey!” Peccant yelled from inside his office, and Omen ran.

28

“Slow down,” Valkyrie muttered, following Skulduggery through twisting alleyways. “You’re being conspicuous.”

Skulduggery glanced back at her. His façade this morning was of a pale man with arched eyebrows and a widow’s peak. He held his hat in his hand, but his black suit was exquisite and he did nothing to hide the confidence he demonstrated in his every step. Try as he might to disguise who he was, he was still drawing stares.

“Much as it wounds my ego,” he said, “they’re not actually looking at me.”

She frowned, turned her attention to the people they passed. He was right. It was her face that was widening eyes. It was her presence that was generating whispers.

“How much further?” she asked, walking beside him now with her head down.

“A few more turns.”