Aurora stays very still and watches with the focused attention of a two-year-old who has just understood something important: not being the most interesting person in the room is a superpower. The net is closing perfectly — the Observer to the left, Uncle Gianni pivoting from the right, the Hat Lady gliding in from ahead with the unhurried confidence of someone who has corralled much larger animals. Flavio's wand arm wavers. He looks left. Right. At the hat. The hat is enormous and inexorable and it is winning. Then the Hat Lady makes one smooth, practiced motion — barely a stoop — and Flavio is tucked under one stout arm like a small, formally dressed parcel, boutonnière still raised in mute protest. Uncle Gianni exhales through his entire moustache. The organist surges into something almost triumphant. Aurora watches all of this. Then, very slowly, she opens her fist and lets the last of the birdseed filter down through the pew gap. Nobody is looking at her. It would be such a waste.