The Observer makes a quiet calculation: the side window is still open, approximately two metres to the gull's left. Flavio's wand is already raised. Two-year-olds, the Observer has noted, are extremely susceptible to 'but what about THAT?' A lean close, a conspiratorial point toward the window. Flavio's head rotates. So does his wand — swinging from gull to window with the ponderous authority of a tiny lighthouse. He waves it once, twice, with full solemnity. The gull, for reasons science will never establish, considers its options. It considers the window. It considers the one seed on the stone floor, now surrounded by twenty-seven pairs of waiting eyes. It makes its decision the way herring gulls always do — by departing as if this was the plan all along. Three wingbeats across the nave, and it is gone. Aurora stares after it, absolutely delighted. Flavio turns to the congregation with the expression of a magician who does not take questions. The ceremony, beautifully, continues.