A flash of terracotta catches Aurora's eye — warm as a sunset, unmistakable among the sea of navy and grey. Somewhere in the middle pews, a figure in a blazer the colour of baked earth has risen with extraordinary casualness and is making for the side door, moving with the practised silence of someone who has absolutely not just knocked their order-of-service pamphlet onto the floor. Aurora taps Flavio. Flavio has already seen them. Some unspoken twin calculus takes place — one exchanged glance, a half-shrug — and the matter is settled. They detach from the priest's robes (who exhales with only the most discreet relief) and set off in pursuit at a determined trot, Flavio's loose sock now slapping the flagstones with increasing enthusiasm. Twenty-seven guests study their pamphlets even harder than before. The Harbour Gull on the flower arch pivots its head to track the terracotta blazer, then pivots again to track the twins tracking it, with the impartial attention of a small maritime adjudicator.