A young mother, ash blonde and fair-skinned, wanders along looking exhausted and dazed. Mary had seen her outside the main entrance, sitting on a ledge beside a beggar, breastfeeding her infant, while her son, a small boy with her very blond hair and colouring, clung to the hem of her short frock. Her husband, also young, blond, and fierce looking, is reading enthusiastically from a guidebook as his wife tries to follow, the baby in her arms; the little boy is scared, still clings to her skirt. The crowd is dense here, there is a danger a large man, who is so intent on admiring the carved pulpit, will knock her to the ground. Frantically she speaks to her husband. He looks up from the book, immediately thumps the man on the back, and shouts at him. The man turns, looks puzzled, as though an insect has buzzed around him, and moves on. The husband, duty done, returns to the guidebook and continues to recite the facts about the cathedral while his family follow, dazed, tired and bewildered. Mary wants to stand and shout: 'This is a place of worship, not a theme park!' Get hold of yourself woman, she says. Through a sudden gap in the crowd, she spots Eamon across an aisle from her. He is sitting bedside a couple who appear to be deep in prayer. They kneel for a time, then get up and leave. Eamon picks up his bag and follows them through the side door. Mary sits on, watching. Although she has seen nothing unusual, she has a sense of being followed, an eerie feeling of having shadows around her. She moves again, heading slowly for the same side door as Eamon.
         Four musicians, a double bass, guitar, flute and mandolin, sit in a side street off the Rúa Azabaceira and play the adagio by Albinoni, followed by Rodrigo's Aranjuez. Mary sees that Eamon is not the only one to have left the noisy packed cathedral to sit in the cool air and listen to the quartet. They have CDs on display and when they take a rest, there are steady sales, with people asking the musicians to autograph the cover.
        The pilgrims come down the hill in twos, threes, and larger groups, hikers and cyclists. Now a lone man, weighed down by his rucksack, with sleeping mat and bag, and a mug dangling from a strap, his brown legs encased in stout walking boots, his staff with the obligatory goatskin gourd attached to the top, walks slowly, obviously tired and overcome with emotion. By the side door of the cathedral, he stops, removes his baseball cap and bows his head as he prays. Mary realises there is a car behind him. Inside a TV camera records the scene. The actor moves on and stops. He lights a cigarette as the director hops from the car and they discuss the shot.
        She finds Eamon alone on a stone bench, lost in thought as he gazes up at the cathedral. 'You're looking a bit better than earlier,' she says, she slips her arm through his.
        'Things are starting to happen at last. He's due in at eight tonight on an Iberia flight from Madrid. Normally he picks up his BMW at the airport and drives in here.'
        Eamon stops, looks around. Mary is relieved to see the lines of tiredness have lifted and he looks more like his usual self. 'I'd like you to go out to the airport, watch him arrive, then let me know, and I'll pick him up here.'
        'Okay.' Mary finds she is pleased to have something to do. 'And the car?'

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