The Observer holds Flavio's gaze — steady, attentive, the boutonnière wand tracking their every micro-expression — and quietly lets Aurora take the wheel. Aurora, for her part, has already formed a plan of considerable two-year-old sophistication: she turns sideways, deposits a careful pinch of birdseed on the nearest pew cushion, and looks back at Flavio with the authority of someone who has thought this through. Flavio's eyes slide from the Observer's lapel to the pew. Then back. Then to the pew. The Observer gives the faintest encouraging nod. Flavio marches to the pew and climbs it, wand first, and plants himself on the cushion with the gravitas of a tiny king. Aurora distributes the remaining birdseed between them with the solemnity of a treaty signing, tucks herself in beside him, and folds her hands. The organist softens, just slightly. At the altar, the ceremony breathes.