Jenan straightened. “Yes. Sir.”
“Are you going to tell me where you’ve been?”
“I was called in to the Principal’s Office.”
Lilt sighed. “Misbehaving again, Jenan? What did you do this time?”
Jenan scowled. “Didn’t do anything.”
“I’m sure you didn’t. I’m sure Mr Rubic invited you in for a friendly chat about the weather.” Lilt waved him to his seat. “Go on, you may as well sit down. Try not to cause any more disruption.”
Jenan went to his desk and Lilt chewed his lip. “Where was I?”
“World War Two,” said Megan.
“Yes, thank you. And what were the Sanctuaries doing during all this escalating tension? Were we getting involved? No? Why not?”
“The Scandza Accord,” Jenan said as he slouched into his chair.
Lilt nodded. “You are on your way to redeeming yourself already, Jenan.”
The thought occurred to Omen that naming Lilt as a suspect was one thing, but if he really wanted Skulduggery and Valkyrie’s approval he’d be better off getting some actual proof. He smiled, liking that idea immensely.
“Can someone remind me what the Scandza Accord is?” Lilt asked. “Omen?”
God, no. Not again. Omen sat up a little straighter in his chair. He knew the answer. He knew he did. It was there, in the clutter of his mind. He just had to find it. “It’s the, uh, the thing.”
A few people laughed.
“The thing, Omen?”
“The agreement,” Omen said, blushing. “The agreement that Sanctuaries would never interfere in mortal affairs.”
“The official agreement,” Lilt corrected. “It was unofficial policy for centuries before the Elder Councils of the world thought it’d be a good idea to put it down on paper. So, if we weren’t to get involved and prevent a war and a Holocaust that killed millions, what were we to do? Anyone?”
“Observe and protect the mortals from magical threats,” said Never.
“That’s right.”
“Babysit,” Jenan muttered. That got a few laughs.
“Let’s not be mean,” Lilt said, barely suppressing a smile.
The bell went. Lilt stood.
“No homework tonight,” he said, “but you still have the essay on Archduke Ferdinand to hand in tomorrow. No less than six pages. I want some effort put into this one.”
Omen and Never squeezed out of the room, joining the throng of students in the corridor. “Do you know how to join Arcanum’s Scholars?” Omen asked, trying his best to sound casual.
Never frowned at him. “Why?”
“My mum has been on at me to do better,” Omen said. A Fifth Year barged into him on his way past, nearly spun him round. He winced, rubbing his shoulder. “I thought a study group might be a good way to get ahead.”
“A study group is a great way to get ahead,” said Never, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear, “but not that one. You know who’s in it, right? Ispolin and his cronies. Why the hell would you want to join them?”
“Ah, they can’t be all bad.”
“I’m sure they have their good points,” she said, “but being decent people is not one of them. Omen, you’re a great guy. Why would you ever want to be part of something they’re involved in?”
“I just … Jenan missed nearly the whole class and Lilt didn’t even bat an eyelid. I could really do with having a teacher on my side like that.”
Never stopped walking and turned to him. “Is this because of Peccant? Omen, Lilt isn’t going to stand up to Peccant for you. Nobody stands up to Peccant. Except maybe Miss Wicked.”
“Still, though …”
“And you’ve seen what they have to wear. You’ve seen how dumb they look, with their little masks.”
“The secret society Arcanum was part of, they wore those masks.”
“I know the history, Omen. Unlike you, I actually pay attention in class. But even that annoys me. Wearing the masks implies a grand old tradition, right? This school is less than five years old. It has no traditions. This isn’t Yale. They aren’t the Skull and Bones Society.”
“The what?”
“My point is: do you really want to wear the stupid mask and go to their secret meetings?”
“Secret?”
“Secret,” said Never. “As in behind-closed-doors secret.”
“I thought they met in the West Library.”
“Not for ages. I swear, do you pay attention to anything? These days they meet in one of the back rooms of the fifth-floor library.”
“Huh,” said Omen. “And they close the doors?”
“Yes, they do.”
“Ever wonder what they talk about?”
“Oh, I know what they talk about.”
“You do? What?”
Never rolled her eyes. “History, Omen. They talk about history.”
“Oh,” he said. “Oh, yeah.”
High heels clacked behind them, and Omen only realised that the corridor had emptied as they turned.
“Where are you two supposed to be?” Miss Wicked asked.
“Chemistry,” said Never.
“I’m not sure,” said Omen.
“Never, run off to chemistry, there’s a good girl. Omen, find out where you’re going and go there.”
“Yes, miss.”
She moved on, and Omen smelled her perfume as she went.
“Catch you on the flip-flop,” said Never, and sauntered away, her skirt swishing.
“What class do I have now?” Omen called after her.
“Look up your timetable,” she called back.
“Where’s my timetable?”
“In your bag.”
Omen
