The pew is smooth and smells of old wood and candle wax, and from here the whole comedy is perfectly arranged. Aurora and Flavio have made it inside — nobody caught them at the door, owing to a dropped hymn book at a critical moment — and are now proceeding up the aisle in the unhurried way of very small people with somewhere to be and no interest in being there quietly. Flavio's boutonnière wand is raised at a solemn forty-five degrees, pointing — with great ceremony and absolutely no discernible logic — toward the altar flowers. Aurora marches beside him, sage green smock listing slightly to port, one fist mysteriously full of birdseed she absolutely was not supposed to have. The congregation is beginning to notice. The organist, to her eternal credit, plays louder. From the front row, a grandmotherly woman in an enormous hat watches the twins' approach with the expression of someone who has seen many things and is reserving judgement. Slowly, Flavio's wand swings toward the hat.