The back pew has gone entirely still. Three Swedish guests in the row ahead have turned by degrees, each convinced they'd just glance once, and none of them have looked back. Gianni himself has surrendered — watching Flavio with the helpless tenderness of a man whose dignity left the building twenty minutes ago. This is the moment Aurora needs. She slides off the pew with the quiet efficiency of a cat leaving a warm blanket, boutonnière in her fist, and pads four steps to the end of the row. The Hat Lady's silk roses are directly at eye level. Aurora studies them the way Flavio studies the moustache — with full scientific dedication. Then, with great solemnity, she reaches up and tucks her boutonnière between two roses: a small, pink contribution to the collection. The Hat Lady turns. She looks at the flowers. She looks at Aurora. Aurora looks back with perfect serenity, as though this were a perfectly standard hat-improvement transaction. From the back pew, Flavio's wand rises for the final swell.