The tall young woman — paint smudge and all — squares her shoulders and attempts the universal language of early-childhood diplomacy: she crouches to twin height, smiles with tremendous warmth, and says "Hej!" in a voice that has clearly coaxed less cooperative creatures than this before. Aurora surfaces from the centrepiece bowl, a rose petal on her lower lip, and studies the woman with the expression of a toddler receiving a visa application — interested, unmoved. The napkin folder tries again, gesturing gently toward a chair with the bright mime of someone who has run out of Swedish but still has conviction. Aurora tips her head. Flavio, meanwhile, has completed his cutlery reorganisation — forks on the right, knives fanned outward like a small peacock — and turns to observe the negotiation with the satisfied air of a man who has finished his important work. He extends the boutonnière toward the napkin folder, either as a gift or a business card. She accepts it, uncertain which. The Observer stays exactly where they are, at the doorway, quietly delighted, absolutely not helping.