The ceremony has barely begun when Uncle Gianni's hand moves to his lapel — and finds nothing there but wool. His eyes travel the church with the calm, systematic sweep of a man who has survived several decades of Italian family gatherings and knows exactly what that particular absence means. There, halfway up the side aisle, is his boutonnière, elevated to the status of a magic wand and gripped in the determined fist of a two-year-old. Flavio is marching with magnificent purpose. Aurora waddles alongside, one pigtail already half-free. Gianni is already moving, barrel chest cutting through the pew ends with remarkable grace for a man of his dimensions. He is perhaps six steps from intercepting them when Flavio stops, turns, and spots him. For a brief, electric moment, the boutonnière-wand is levelled directly at Uncle Gianni. "Uh," says Flavio, very seriously. The magnificent moustache quivers. The only question now is whether Gianni can get his arms around both of them before they scatter in opposite directions.