The terracotta blazer blurs into motion. One swift pivot — the kind that has clearly been executed before on small people of similarly fixed opinions — and Flavio is airborne, scooped from the flagstones before his wand arm can complete its fateful arc. For a half-second he regards his captor with the expression of a general whose offensive has been countered by an unexpected reserve. Then, with great toddler practicality, he repurposes the boutonnière into a sceptre and taps the blazer's shoulder three times in solemn acceptance. Uncle Gianni — moustache bristling with renewed purpose — squares his broad shoulders and sweeps Aurora up mid-birdseed-deposit, one enormous arm, one small armful of sage-green indignation. The Hat Lady, finally, blinks. A slow, regal blink, like a satisfied empress. The organist launches into the processional with feeling. The ceremony begins, and the twins, from their respective thrones of borrowed arms, survey the decorated church with the quiet satisfaction of people who have made this day considerably more interesting.