The Observer's hand moves with the care of someone defusing something small and sticky and absolutely unpredictable. Aurora is too busy watching Flavio hold his heroic pose to notice — her gaze is fixed on her brother with the reverent attention of a very junior general observing a very senior one. The fingers close gently around her wrist. Aurora blinks, looks down, and in the half-second she takes to process events, the remaining birdseed has been redirected into the Observer's cupped palm. Clean. Silent. Not a grain on the tiles. The gull, which had been tracking that small fist with the professional intensity of a career thief, slowly turns its enormous yellow beak toward the empty aisle. Its expression, insofar as gulls have expressions, is one of profound institutional disappointment. It shuffles its wide feet on the rose arch. Then it turns to look at Flavio. Then at the boutonnière. Its head tilts.