The grandmother's expression has shifted from reserved judgement to something that looks alarmingly like readiness — she can manage a flower wand. The observer swivels. Aurora has stopped marching. She stands dead centre in the aisle, sage-green smock listing to port, and her gaze has climbed all the way to the flower arch above the altar where — with the serene authority of a creature who was absolutely not invited but has decided not to let that bother it — a large herring gull sits, yellow beak gleaming, surveying the congregation below with mild contempt. Aurora looks at the gull. The gull looks at Aurora. Aurora looks at her fist. The fist is full of birdseed. The logic, from the perspective of a two-year-old, is flawless. The church contains a bird. She contains bird food. These two facts are simply crying out to be introduced. The arm begins, with great deliberateness, to rise.