Flavio spots the gap first — the narrow channel between the table leg and the railing, the seagull's only plausible exit. He points with the boutonnière-wand. Aurora nods, already moving. The entire plan is communicated in eyebrows. They dive. Flavio goes left, Aurora goes right, and somehow they both end up under the tablecloth at precisely the same moment, in a tangle of tulle and knocked knees and the specific smell of reception napkins. Three things happen in quick succession: a tall candle arrangement wobbles dangerously and is caught by the Observer's outstretched hand with a precision that suggests a misspent youth in circus arts; Flavio emerges on the far side of the table, boutonnière triumphantly aloft, directly in the seagull's path; and the seagull — coolly evaluating these new developments — tightens its grip on the bread roll and simply sits down. It is not shuffling anywhere. It has, apparently, decided to nest. Aurora re-emerges from under the tablecloth wearing a napkin on her head like a very small archbishop.