The ceremony is three minutes old and going beautifully. The organist plays. The priest speaks. Uncle Gianni, wedged into the last pew with a twin anchored on each side, permits himself a careful exhale of relief. Then he notices Flavio's eyes. They have drifted — with the slow, terrible magnetism of a compass finding north — to the candles at the altar. Tall white candles in brass holders, dancing gold, very much alive. Flavio watches them the way a very small scientist watches a very interesting experiment. His mouth has gone slightly open. His hand has begun, almost independently, to rise. Aurora finishes whatever she was chewing, follows his gaze, and then looks back at Flavio with an expression that says: *yes, and?* Gianni's moustache twitches. He shifts his considerable bulk very quietly between both twins and the aisle — a one-man human barrier — and places one enormous hand, gently, over Flavio's slowly-rising fist.