The Observer makes the calculation in under a second: Aurora's birdseed is already starting to fall, Flavio's wand is already occupied — the only way to redirect chaos is through heroism. They catch Flavio's eye with a gentle shoulder-tap and point. Slowly. Reverently. Straight at the gull. Flavio turns. He sees it. The gull sees Flavio. Something fundamental shifts behind his eyes — the boutonnière wand rises, not at an altar flower, not at an enormous hat, but at a real, actual bird sitting where birds absolutely should not sit, which is, by any two-year-old's reckoning, the most important thing that has ever happened. His chest puffs. His chin lifts. Aurora's fingers freeze mid-release, birdseed half-spilled across the aisle tiles, because even she can tell that her brother has just found his purpose. The gull tips its enormous yellow beak. The congregation holds its breath. Birgitta plays a very loud chord.