The Observer spots the narrower stair cut — a left-turning alley three bends up from the waterfront, steep and partly shaded, absolutely not built for terracotta blazers at speed. They take it anyway. The twins are still on the main cobblestone run, Flavio's boutonnière swinging with navigational confidence, when the Observer steps out from between a hydrangea pot and a chalkboard reading *Today's special: grilled sea bass* and simply stands there, arms slightly spread, in the manner of someone who has given this situation exactly as much thought as there was time for. "Hello," says the Observer. A pause. Flavio stops. He considers the terracotta blazer, then the boutonnière, then back up. Aurora has ceased chewing. She tilts her head. Then — with the serene logic of a child who has decided all adults are essentially furniture with faces — she takes hold of the Observer's hand. Flavio pats the nearest knee twice, approvingly, and waves the boutonnière at the restaurant door as if granting it a formal reprieve. The kitchen staff inside never know how close it was.