Selander peeked over the lip of the roof as fast as he could. The grey of the street below was nothing but a blur. It was inconsequential … a fleeting thought … and tremendously solid.

Gulping down the sudden urge to vomit, Selander staggered backwards, his spine colliding with the chimney stack and dislodging a cloud of soot.

He wanted to do this. He wanted to do this.

He had to do this.

It wasn’t enough, conquering the city’s underground. He must have its skies. And given the number of airships the government were deploying at the moment, it just made sense. Think of the supplies he could steal right out from under them! Think of the distances he could travel if he weren’t limited by the laughable geometry of the streets.

He could move without obstacle, without pause, if only he could summon the courage to jump.

‘Take a leap of faith,’ he’d said, when he’d told Oswin what he planned to do that morning. ‘This city isn’t done with us yet.’

Now he wished that he could travel back in time and slap himself in the face.

Slowly, he crept towards the edge of the roof. The police station wasn’t a tremendously large building - he had some common sense - but granting himself the perspective of an additional two storeys suddenly seemed terrifying. And falling here would only land him in a cramped, cold, cell.

‘Focus, damnit,’ Selander told himself, ‘you’re clever. You know you’re clever. So work it out.’

With that, he took a steadying breath and got to work.

There was a drainpipe to the left of the building opposite that looked sturdy enough at first glance but Selander could see rust flaking from its bolts. If he tried swinging from that he’d meet the cobblestones far sooner than he wanted.

On the right, however, was a ladder. With a fresh coat of black paint, it was firmly bolted to the ledge of the roof opposite and in a perfect position for Selander to grab it.

The problem - the only problem, really - was that it was less than a metre in length. Twisted points of iron pointed marked where rust had started to eat away at the metal. So someone had removed the bottom half before the rest rotted.

That gave Selander the smallest window of opportunity to not paint the street with strawberry jam.

So before he could overthink it, Selander got to work.

Step one was donning his leather gloves. They had much better grip than his hands which were so sweaty he felt like a melted candle.

Step two was stretching. Selander hated to admit it m, but running an underground criminal empire gave him very little opportunity to exercise and the last thing he needed right now was cramps.

And then finally, step three. The run up.

This was it. No going back. Now or never.

His legs carried him to the edge of the roof, extending to their full length to compensate for what Selander was suddenly realising was a very wide gap. Then the copper-coloured bricks of the building opposite came rushing up to meet him and he realised it was no distance at all.

His gloved hands struck out, scraping stone before snagging on the final ladder rung.

For a moment, Selander hung there, his heart in his throat, his breathing laboured before -

‘Step four!’ he huffed. ‘Climb the ladder.’