Aurora spots the orange person first. She has an eye for unusual things — it is the same eye that found the cocktail olive, and, before that, the flower petal — and the terracotta blazer cutting through the sea of cream and navy is simply too interesting to ignore. She slides off her chair without ceremony, olive tucked firmly in one cheek. Flavio, who monitors his sister at a frequency only twins can perceive, notices immediately. He hops down, boutonnière at the ready, and falls into step beside her. Together they drift through a forest of adult knees and swinging handbags, following the warm-orange figure who is moving — very deliberately — toward the far edge of the terrace, where the harbour wall meets the sea breeze, and where something small and yellow-beaked is perched on the railing, watching the reception with enormous, proprietary calm.