Flavio marches the last three cobblestones to the counter and presents the boutonnière flat on both palms, the way he has seen people offer very important things — or at least the way it looks like people offer very important things, which is close enough. He stands there. Aurora takes up position beside him, folds her hands, and waits with the focused serenity of someone who has never once doubted that this will work. The gelato vendor turns. He sees a toddler in a dusty-red shirt offering him a slightly battered flower with the gravity of a small ambassador. He sees another toddler in a sage-green smock watching him with enormous dark eyes. Beside the lamppost, the golden dog pauses its pigeon campaign and tilts its head. The vendor looks at the boutonnière. Looks at the children. Looks at the boutonnière again. Something in him surrenders — as it must, as it always must — and he reaches for the cones.