The Observer in the terracotta blazer has been watching from the third pew with the alert stillness of someone who saw this coming two chapters ago. They slide out into the aisle ahead of Flavio's advance — no knocked hymnals, no scraped kneelers — and crouch to toddler altitude with arms held open and a face arranged into the expression of friendly inevitability. Flavio stops. The boutonnière-wand is lowered, millimetre by solemn millimetre. He regards the crouching figure with the gravity of a small diplomat encountering an unexpected treaty — bottom lip out, eyebrows raised — and then, having evidently concluded that this new person is acceptable, toddles directly into the outstretched arms. The boutonnière is surrendered without negotiation. From across the nave, Gianni exhales so completely that Aurora's ribbon flutters. The organist plays on. The bride and groom, up at the altar, have not yet turned round — which is, on balance, for the best.