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Over the next few weeks he perfected the plan. There could be no risk of being seen, he realised: neither the local police nor the curators would welcome any further intransigence on his part. He made fewer observations—he could conjure the stones both seen and unseen at will, which was more than the site itself could provide him with—and no experiments at all, so as not to raise suspicion.

Head buzzing with new alignments and new possibilities for success, feet itchy for the Durrington Down road, a torch and some biscuits in his rucksack, he practically fell down the stairs—two, then three, then a final four steps at a time—and was reaching out for the front door when his mum called from the front room.

"Rhys! Come in here a sec!"