Gianni's hand moves before his brain quite signs off on it — a lifetime of reflexes, honed by Neapolitan Christmases and at least one incident involving a fondue set. His finger taps the boutonnière already clenched in Aurora's fist, gently, twice. Aurora pauses. She looks at the flower in her hand. She looks at the hat. She considers the flower again with the slow, deliberate gravity of a two-year-old reconsidering a thesis. Then her fist closes. The hat is safe. The Hat Lady, magnificent and oblivious, mouths along to the ring hymn with tremendous conviction. Flavio, having fully mapped the moustache, leans back against Uncle Gianni's arm and sighs the deep, satisfied sigh of a scientist at rest. The rings are exchanged. The congregation rustles, smiles, and reaches quietly for tissues. And the twins — for approximately eleven consecutive minutes — are entirely, improbably, wonderful.