The observer slides sideways out of the pew with the particular care of someone doing something very wrong in a very holy place. Three rows ahead, Flavio has made a tactical decision: he has doubled back, apparently reasoning that behind Uncle Gianni is now the territory least likely to contain Uncle Gianni. It is possible toddler logic. It is absolutely toddler logic. The observer cuts across the side aisle in a low, urgent shuffle, terracotta blazer warm against the grey stone, aiming to seal the route to the altar. Flavio sees it. His wand comes up — boutonnière now aimed at the observer like a toll. A standoff, a new one. Uncle Gianni pivots. Aurora, still frozen beside her pew, watches the net tighten around her brother with the solemn fascination of someone extremely glad it is not her. From the front row, the Hat Lady rises, hat preceding her by an inch, and she is smiling.