Flavio raises the boutonnière with the solemn authority of someone who has been waiting his entire life for this — approximately four minutes, which for a two-year-old is the same thing. The ring hymn swells through the vaulted nave, and Flavio brings his wand down precisely on the downbeat. Uncle Gianni goes rigid. The organist, a stout woman named Birgitta who has played this particular hymn four hundred and eighteen times, glances sideways, observes a small boy conducting the congregation from the back pew, and misses exactly zero notes, because Birgitta has seen everything. The congregation, however, does notice. A warm current of quiet laughter moves through the pews. Someone in the second row whispers *han har det* — he's got it — in Swedish. Flavio does not acknowledge the review. He is working. His free hand rises for the swell. His eyebrows lift with the melody. Gianni, pink behind the collar, feels something give way in his chest that is either cardiac concern or unqualified pride. Beside him, Aurora is very still. She is watching the hat.