Down the cobblestones the twins go, at the teetering half-run that is every toddler's primary mode of travel — somewhere between controlled and catastrophic, always exactly one pebble from disaster but somehow never quite reaching it. Flavio leads with the boutonnière raised like a compass, as if the flower alone knows the way. Aurora follows two steps behind, chewing something (possibly a second petal; today's inventory is already in dispute). The Observer slips out of the church gate and trails them at a respectful distance, hands in the pockets of the terracotta blazer, moving with the studied nonchalance of someone who is absolutely not chasing toddlers. The twins are faster than they look. They round the first bend, pass a startled cat on a window ledge, and begin the descent toward the harbour. Down below, the waterfront restaurant hums with centrepiece-arranging and last-minute napkin-folding, entirely unaware that two small inspectors are on their way.