Uncle Gianni surveys the situation with the calm of a man who has survived sixty-three Italian Christmases and at least four weddings that nearly became international incidents. Aurora is now in possession of two boutonnières and wearing the expression of someone who has just completed a collection. And then he spots it: the flower-girl basket, half-full of petals, sitting entirely unclaimed by the church door. The official flower girl is already inside, perfectly on schedule. But there is, it turns out, room in this world for an unofficial one. With great ceremony, Gianni crouches, sets Aurora down, and places the basket solemnly in her arms. She receives it like a tiny queen accepting a sceptre. Then she turns to face the aisle. The congregation, catching on, begins to murmur warmly. The organist reads the room and restarts the processional. Aurora takes her first official step — one boutonnière tucked in the basket, one clutched as personal insurance — and the whole church holds its breath in collective, helpless delight. Flavio, still tucked under Uncle Gianni's arm, watches his sister with very large eyes. She has a basket. He does not have a basket. This, his expression suggests, is a situation that will require immediate correction.