They tiptoe around the mossy north side of the church — past a stone angel whose expression says *I have witnessed many things and none of them surprise me anymore* — and find the source of the barking: a small golden dog tied to the garden gate with a length of cord, his brass bell jingling with every furious bark. The target of his outrage is a bumblebee the approximate size of a grape, which has decided that Flavio's boutonnière is a perfectly acceptable flower and is investigating it with great thoroughness. The bee is not wrong. Flavio freezes, wand held aloft, eyes enormous. The dog barks. The bee considers the situation. Aurora squats down, nose to nose with the dog, and pats him on the head with the solemn confidence of someone who has never been bitten by anything and sees no reason to start now. The dog stops barking at once, ears still pricked, tail converting from frantic to joyful at exactly the speed of light. He licks Aurora on the nose. Aurora accepts this as tribute. Flavio taps the air with the boutonnière. The bee moves on.