The twins charge down the cobblestone path with the focused urgency of two people who have never heard the phrase "not your bread roll." Flavio leads, flower-wand raised, his surviving sock flapping wildly. Aurora follows at exactly the same speed — alarmingly fast for someone whose legs are approximately twenty-three centimetres long. The seagull — enormous, magnificent, entirely unbothered — has the bread roll clenched in its beak and is reconsidering the aerodynamics. It watches the approaching twins with one amber eye. It has seen many things from its perch above Lysekil harbour. It has never seen quite this. It lifts off exactly two seconds before Flavio arrives, bread roll and all, and lands on the flower arch above the reception terrace with the sovereign calm of a creature that knows it has won. The twins skid to a halt on the harbour cobblestones, panting. The seagull is out of reach. But the smell of ice cream is no longer imaginary — and there, beside a small cart near the moorings, stands a young man in a long white apron, watching two formally-dressed toddlers with considerable bewilderment.