ash, which you would have learned about in First Year. What Year are you in now, Omen?”
“Um, Third, sir.”
“So for the last two years you haven’t caught anything I’ve said?”
Omen lowered his head. “I wasn’t paying attention.”
“Sorry, Omen, what was that?”
“I wasn’t paying attention,” Omen repeated, louder this time.
“I am shocked,” Valance said. “Shocked and appalled. Could you do me a favour, Omen? Could you try to pay attention? Could you do that for me? Or, at the very least, could you try not to be so obvious when your attention wanders? I am a very sensitive educator, and this will not have done my confidence any good whatsoever.”
Everyone else was enjoying this immensely. Omen kept his eyes on his desk. “Yes, sir.”
“Thank you,” Valance said, and went back to teaching.
Omen copied down the notes and did his best to listen and look attentive, until the bell rang and he joined the others in filing out into the corridor. He dumped his bag in his locker and went walking, hands in his pockets, head down but eyes up.
Searching for the recruiter.
He passed the main gate, glanced at the street beyond. Only Sixth Years were allowed out after the school day had ended. They could spend their afternoons in Roarhaven and only had to be back for Evening Study. Omen, like everyone else, was stuck in here all day, five days a week. Of course, with his parents being the kind of parents they were, he rarely got to go home on the weekends, either. Not that this was necessarily a bad thing. He much preferred walking the school’s empty corridors on a Saturday and Sunday evening than sitting in his bedroom being criticised by his mum and dad.
He wandered for hours, spying. He passed the staffroom where the faculty watched the Global Link on TV, catching up on news of all things magical from around the world. He followed students, listening in to snippets of conversation, and trailed after various teachers, veering off when they started to notice. He enjoyed trailing after Miss Wicked the most. Of course, she was also the quickest to sense him, and his face burned with the heat of a thousand suns as he panicked and turned abruptly left. He walked into a wall and stayed there, like he’d meant to do it all along.
He got to the fourth floor without uncovering any evidence of enemy conspiracies. He saw Peccant coming the opposite way and dived round the corner. He waited there, back pressed flat against the wall. Students passed, ignoring him. He didn’t care about them. All he cared about was that Peccant should pass by, too.
Peccant turned the corner, stopped suddenly and glared. “Mr Darkly.” His voice was deep, his eyes narrow, his face lined. His hair was grey and his suit was tweed. “I’ve been looking for you.”
Omen stepped away from the wall, and tried smiling. “Yes, sir?”
“Where were you this morning, Mr Darkly? You were supposed to be in my class, were you not?”
“I got mixed up, sir.”
“Mixed up?”
“I got my timetable mixed up, sir. I’m really sorry.”
Peccant loomed over him. “And where were you?”
“In a study class, sir.”
“Supervised by whom?”
“Miss Ether.”
“And do you usually have a study class supervised by Miss Ether on a Tuesday?”
Omen swallowed. “No, sir.”
“Who usually supervises your Tuesday study class?”
“Uh … you do, sir.”
“And did it not strike you as odd, Mr Darkly, that I was not supervising this study class? Did it not occur to you that, maybe, you had got your timetable ‘mixed up’? Or did you think that I had suddenly become younger, and a woman?”
“No, sir.”
“None of that struck you as odd?”
“No, I mean, yes, I mean … I didn’t think, sir.”
Peccant leaned down. “There we have it. The crux of the problem. You didn’t think. That’s how you operate, after all, is it not? That’s how you work your way through life.”
Omen swallowed. “Yes, sir.”
“Yes, sir,” said Peccant, mocking his voice. “So polite. So benign. I find it hard to believe you share even the flimsiest strand of DNA with your brother. Even when he’s caught breaking the rules, at least he does it with gusto. There’s no gusto with you, is there?”
“No, sir.”
Peccant took another moment to glare at him, then straightened up. “You have detention tomorrow. Be there on time or you get double.”
Peccant strode away and Omen stood with shoulders slumped.
“He hates you.”
Omen looked up as Filament Sclavi strolled over, hands in his pockets and an amused smile on his face.
“I have seen him take a dislike to people before,” Filament said, “but that was … what is the word, for the thing? That was malicious. It was as if he were gaining personal satisfaction from it.”
Omen didn’t know what to say, so he just said, “Yeah.”
“You are Omen, yes? Auger’s brother? My name is Filament. How is it going?”
“Going fine,” said Omen without thinking. “Well, I mean, apart from the detention I just got.”
“That does suck, yes,” Filament said. He was only a Fourth Year, but he looked older, about eighteen. He was tall and strong and handsome, like an Italian version of Omen’s brother. The only other thing Omen knew about him was that he was a member of the Eternity Institute, a self-help organisation that had posters up all over the school. “Do you play any sports, Omen?”
“Me?” Omen asked, even though it was obvious that it was him Filament was talking to. “No, I don’t. Never really understood it.”
“You have, um, never understood any sport in particular, or just sports in general?”
“In general,” said Omen. “Could never wrap my head around the, y’know, the point.”
Filament grinned. “So, if I suggested that maybe you try to join the rugby team, you would have no interest?”
Omen frowned. “I’d get squashed.”
Filament laughed. “You would not get squashed.”
“I would, though. Those guys are all huge.”
“Not all of them. Not even
