Gianni, both twins still companionably draped against him like warm and unpredictable sandbags, cannot resist a professional sweep of the nearby pews. Someone is sitting in their very best with a small, flower-shaped absence on their lapel and the quiet dignity not to mention it. He scans left, scans right. Three rows ahead, slightly across the aisle: a lean figure in a bold terracotta blazer, sitting with the particular composed neutrality of someone who has decided not to make a fuss. The lapel is bare. The Observer feels the gaze, turns the merest fraction, and their eyes travel — slowly, deliberately — down to Flavio's boutonnière, which is still raised aloft in the manner of a tiny victorious sceptre. A long pause. Then the Observer lifts one corner of their mouth by the absolute minimum amount a mouth can be lifted. They are not going to ask for it back. They have clearly decided this was worth the price of admission.