The observer's free hand — they appear to have developed an unexpected talent for simultaneous crisis management — curves gently around Aurora's fist just as the first seed threatens to meet the flagstones. Aurora looks down at her closed hand. She looks up at the terracotta blazer. She weighs this new development with the composure of a two-year-old diplomat who has not yet decided whether to lodge a formal complaint. Then, with the terrible logical clarity that only toddlers possess, she reaches into the front of her smock with her other hand and produces — from some impossible small-child pocket dimension — a second fistful of birdseed. The congregation's collective intake of breath is silent but absolutely unanimous. Flavio, meanwhile, has spotted something new: the groom's ivory pocket square, catching the afternoon light in a way that a boutonnière wand simply cannot overlook. He adjusts his trajectory by twelve degrees. The observer, now two twins into a three-part problem with only two hands, recalculates at speed.