Gianni's hand moves before his brain does — his reflexes, as his cardiologist would note with some surprise, exceed all reasonable expectation for a man of his prosciutto intake. His fingers close around Aurora's wrist at the precise moment her small fist reaches for the nearest silk rose, a gap of perhaps two centimetres between determined toddler and catastrophe. Aurora freezes. She does not struggle. She simply turns her head and regards Gianni with an expression of pure philosophical disappointment, as if to say: *I was so close.* The hat sways gently in the draught from the door, gloriously unaware of its own near-death experience. Gianni exhales and redirects Aurora's hand — boutonnière and all — toward his own bare lapel, as a peace offering. Aurora considers this. She pins it on with more force than strictly necessary, pats it once, and turns to face forward with the serene acceptance of someone who has simply relocated her ambitions. Flavio, unaware of any of this, is still conducting.