The grandmother moves with surprising speed for someone wearing a hat that wide. She angles herself between Aurora and the flower arch with the unhurried precision of a woman who has managed small children at formal occasions for six decades. The hat — cornflower blue, festooned with silk roses — catches the gull's attention almost immediately. The bird cocks its yellow head. One bright eye fixes on the silk blooms with an interest that feels distressingly professional. Aurora, momentarily distracted by the splendid spectacle of the hat advancing toward her, lowers her birdseed fist a fraction. Progress. The grandmother bends, murmurs something, holds out a gloved hand. For one shining moment it looks like it might actually work. Then Flavio, sensing that general attention has shifted, raises his boutonnière wand toward the candle at the end of the nearest pew and begins to conduct.