The Church of Lysekil crowns the hill like a large birthday cake, its stone spire pointing cheerfully at a sky the colour of Swedish summer — which is to say, approximately the colour of hope. Below, the harbour glitters. Down on the waterfront, a restaurant with a sea-view terrace is being dressed in more flowers than anyone strictly needs, and twenty-seven guests in their finest are making their way up the cobblestones, tugging at collars, smoothing lapels, and silently pretending the gentle climb hasn't affected them in the slightest. The guests chatter warmly in two languages, Swedish and Italian weaving together like a very happy braid. The bride and groom are radiant. The sea is doing its best impression of a postcard. And then there are Aurora and Flavio. Two years old each — a pair of round-cheeked conspirators in miniature dress clothes that are already coming untucked — the twins stand at the church gate in the precise way that toddlers stand when they are technically being supervised but have already clocked three separate escape routes. Flavio is gripping a boutonnière he has quietly liberated from someone's lapel and is now wielding as a wand. Aurora is eating a petal, thoughtfully, purely for research. Neither of them has been consulted about the day's schedule, which is, from their shared perspective, a significant oversight. The old bells begin to ring, their sound rolling warmly down the hillside and out across the glittering fjord. The congregation shuffles into the pews. Someone whispers "aren't they adorable" in the direction of the two small figures by the door. Aurora and Flavio exchange a look. It is the look that only twins can exchange — wide-eyed, unhurried, and absolutely electric with possibility. It says, without a single word: *this is going to be a very interesting afternoon.* The flower-wand is raised. A petal is swallowed with great ceremony. And off they go.