The observer eases out of the pew with the careful silence of someone who has once talked a cat down from a chandelier. Three soft steps bring them level with the twins just as Flavio's wand reaches its critical arc. A gentle finger intervenes — barely a touch, really, more of a suggestion — and the boutonnière swings obediently toward the altar flowers, where any reasonable wand ought to point. Flavio blinks up at the terracotta blazer with the philosophical acceptance of a toddler who has simply received new information. He adjusts his grip. The solemn forty-five degrees is restored. The hat survives. The grandmotherly woman in the enormous hat exhales by precisely one millimetre, which is the maximum she will allow herself, and returns the observer's apologetic nod with the gravity of a diplomat. Then Aurora, who has watched this entire negotiation with great interest, opens her fist — and considers the birdseed.