The Observer slips from the pew with the quiet efficiency of someone finally ready to act. Three steps along the aisle — four — the arm is still rising, degrees from release. The gull sits. The birdseed waits. The Observer crouches beside Aurora and cups both hands gently but firmly around the small fist, arresting its arc at eleven fifty-nine. Aurora blinks. The gull blinks. A moment of profound reconsideration hangs in the air, smelling of candle wax and birdseed. Then Aurora opens her hand — not to throw, but to inspect the seeds more closely, reconsidering her methodology. The congregation exhales, in unison, without quite knowing they'd stopped. That's when the boutonnière wand swings. Flavio, watching from the aisle with the patience of a chess grandmaster, tilts the flower deliberately toward the enormous hat. The hat-lady goes very still.