The awe lasts approximately four seconds — which is, for a two-year-old, a geological epoch. Then Flavio's jaw closes. His chin lifts. And the boutonnière wand, with the slow inevitability of a very small sunrise, begins to rise again. The gull has not gone anywhere. It occupies the Hat Lady's brim with the sovereign calm of a creature that has simply found a better vantage point, yellow beak aimed at some middle distance only seagulls can perceive. Flavio squints. He has a new objective now. The wand reaches forty-five degrees. Fifty. The gull turns its head — one bright eye swivelling down to consider this sturdy, determined creature pointing a flower at it. Behind Flavio, Aurora has quietly resumed birdseed operations. Uncle Gianni, who has been suspended mid-rise for a full ten seconds, finally completes his ascent — only to discover the aisle now contains a toddler in a formal standoff with a seagull. The organist plays louder still.