The Observer's hand closes over Aurora's fist with the decisive gentleness of someone defusing something small and precious. Aurora freezes. She looks up — enormous eyes, pure betrayal — at the person who has committed the unacceptable act of interrupting a perfectly reasonable plan. One seed escapes anyway, tumbling to the stone floor with a click that, in the church's sudden holding-breath quiet, is approximately the loudest sound in Sweden. The gull's head snaps down. It shuffles on its rose, adjusting its grip with great professional interest. The Observer holds Aurora's fist and holds Flavio's attention and holds their own expression steady, which is three things at once and frankly impressive. Then Flavio's head turns. Slowly. Following the click of the seed, then the congregants' collective intake of breath, then the shadow on the flower arch. His boutonnière wand rises, with tremendous ceremony, in the direction of the gull.