The group is down to eleven. Just eleven chances now, eleven flames to swell and flicker, eleven attempts at this madness. Luke checks his bag again: he is in charge of equipment. He ticks things off: eleven candles, eleven scripts, eleven tiny moulded figures, each one slightly different to the next. He checks his watch – 10.40pm. He had better get moving if he is to make it to the cave before eleven thirty. Mads arrives, dressed head to toe in black. "I brought snacks," she says, waving chocolate bars, "Eleven now, right?" Luke nods. He felt happier when there were twelve of them, somehow. Even number. Reliable. Positive. Eleven is off-balance. Eleven might spell the end of all of them. He grabs the bag, nods to Mads, and they head off into the night.