Gianni stares at the butterscotch. He stares at the priest. The priest is saying something genuinely lovely about love and eternity. And then — perhaps it is the vintage label, perhaps it is the gravitational pull of an object that has clearly outlasted several Swedish governments — Gianni's moustache makes a decision before his brain does. He rises to a half-crouch, shuffles into the aisle, and pads toward the altar with a dignity that is, under the circumstances, extraordinary. The priest pauses mid-blessing. Gianni extends his palm. The butterscotch sits there: cellophane fused, label faded, radiating an ancient and unearned authority. "Per la cerimonia," Gianni murmurs, with complete sincerity. The priest stares at it for one long second. Then, because some offerings simply cannot be declined with any grace, he takes it — and, after a beat, tucks it into his breast pocket. From the pews comes a sound that is not quite a laugh and not quite a sob. The bride is shaking. Flavio, watching from the last pew, reaches a firm conclusion: the wand definitely worked.