The organ strikes its first trembling chord and every head in the congregation turns toward the altar — programmes are smoothed, pews are found, collars are straightened — and in that precise moment of collective distraction, Aurora and Flavio execute their escape. Beneath a pew, around a stone pillar, through the heavy oak door: they are outside before the first verse begins, and the door sighs shut behind them with barely a whisper. Lysekil glitters below in the afternoon light. The cobblestone path winds down toward the flower-dressed terrace where the reception will be, the harbour where boats knock gently against their moorings, and — most urgently — a seagull that is attempting to steal a bread roll roughly its own size from an unattended table. There is also the sound of a dog barking somewhere to the left, and the faint, possibly imaginary smell of ice cream. Aurora and Flavio survey all of this with the focused calm of two generals who have very limited time and unlimited ambition.