The twins launch themselves down the cobblestone path with the full commitment of people who have not yet learned that cobblestones and small legs are complicated allies. Flavio leads, boutonnière-wand raised like a battle standard, his cowlick streaming behind him. Aurora is half a step back, one pigtail already escaping its yellow ribbon, grass-stained hem working against her but certainly not stopping her. The seagull — enormous, magnificent, entirely unimpressed by the approaching reinforcements — has the roll clamped in its beak and is performing a very slow victory shuffle toward the terrace railing. A figure in a terracotta blazer, standing near the flower-dressed tables, spots the twins and goes very still in the way people go still when deciding whether to intervene or simply witness history. The seagull and the twins lock eyes. The seagull blinks. This is either going to end in a triumphant rescue or a diplomatic incident. Possibly both.