They run. Julia takes off the second her feet hit the grass below the window, and feels the rush of the others build behind her. They stream down the great front lawn like wild birds thrown across the sky. In front of them the guardhouse glows yellow, but they’re safe as houses: the night watchman never takes his eyes off his laptop except to do his rounds at midnight and again at two, and anyway they’re invisible, they’re soundless, they don’t cast shadows; they could sneak up close enough to touch him, they could press their faces against the glass and singsong his name, he’d never blink. They’ve done it before, when they wanted to see what he did in there. He plays online poker.

They swing right, white pebbles fly up under their feet and they’re in under the trees, faster and faster down the paths, chests burning, ribs aching, Julia running like she wants to take them skimming right off the surface of the path and up, into the cartwheel moon. By the time they collapse in the clearing, she’s run everything else out of her mind.

They’re all laughing, with what little breath they’ve got left. ‘Jesus,’ Holly says, doubling over with her hand pressed to a stitch. ‘What was that? Are you, like, going out for cross-country next year?’

‘You just pretend Sister Cornelius is coming up behind you,’ Julia says. The moon is almost full, just one blurred edge for the next night to fill in, and she feels like she could leap the waist-high bushes from a standing start, up and over with her feet pedalling slow underwater circles in midair, down on her toes as light as a dandelion seed. She isn’t even out of breath. ‘“Girls! I have told you and informed you and let you know that you should never run on grass and herbaceous plants and – and verdant pastures—’

That explodes them. ‘“The Bible tells us that our Lord Jesus never ran or jogged or galloped—”’ Becca is helpless with panting and laughter.

Holly stabs a finger. ‘“—and who are you to think or believe that you are better than Our Lord? Well?”’

‘“You, Holly Mackey—”’

‘“—whatever class of a name that is, there’s no saint named Holly, I think we’ll have to call you Bernadette from now on—”’

‘“—you, Bernadette Mackey, stop running this instant—”’

‘“—and moment and minute—”’

‘“—and tell me what Our Lord would have thought of you! Well?”’

Julia realises Selena hasn’t joined in. She’s sitting up, with her arms clasped round her knees and her face tilted up to the sky. The moonlight hits her full on, burning her out to something you can only half-see, a ghost or a saint. She looks like she’s praying. Maybe she is.

Holly is watching Selena too, and she’s stopped laughing. She says, quietly, ‘Lenie.’