Gianni looks at Flavio. Flavio looks at Aurora — four steps down the aisle, already being worshipped by twenty-seven people. Something resolves behind his round eyes: not a tantrum, but a decision of the kind only a two-year-old with a boutonnière-wand can make in complete confidence. He slides from Gianni's arm, lands with a thump, straightens his tiny shirt, and strides forward. He does not want the basket. He has the wand. He is not the flower girl. He is the flower girl's escort — no, grander — he is the procession's Official Dignitary. He plants himself two steps behind Aurora, raises the boutonnière aloft, and marches. Aurora senses a presence, glances back, assesses, and faces front again. She does not share. She does not object. Uncle Gianni stands at the entrance, both hands free for the first time in what feels like a geological era, moustache trembling in the good way. The congregation laughs, then applauds, then laughs again. Toward the front, someone is crying — entirely the good kind.