Near the central altar, eight women were seated. Against the dark wool of their serapes, colored yarns stood out in geometrical figures. On their heads they wore yaguales, the padded rings used for balancing heavy loads, which were also made of colored yarns; from the yaguales, heavy, brilliant mantles hung down to the soles of their feet. Each woman had a basket filled with sweet-smelling nichimes in front of her and held a rosary from which ribbons hung. Those who approached the women were given the rosaries to kiss.

These were the women who illuminate the sacrament.

César bent down, simulating a bow, in the hope of finding Catalina Díaz Puiljá among them. He had to move away, disappointed.

The two Ladinos left the church and returned to the plaza. How greedily they breathed the cold, pure air! The spot where Doña Mercedes had set up her stand was visible in the distance.

She could hardly cope with the clientele. The mule driver was lending an awkward and unwilling hand.

“Come on over here, patróns. Didn’t I tell you that today I had made the sign of the cross with my right hand? With all I earn this Easter season, I’ll certainly be able to hold my head high in Ciudad Real again, God willing.”

Fernando and César took shelter under the awning that protected the two vendors from the strong, sharp light of the morning sun.

“Make a little place for them, mi alma, they’re refined people and have to be treated as they deserve. Pile the diabolos and dancing puppets up over here; after all, there’s no point in damaging them. Take away those parcels of brown sugar. Run quickly and hurry back with a little leather stool, so they can sit down, even if they have to take turns.”

“We don’t want to trouble you, Doña.”

“What trouble? A big lug like him isn’t going to be able to shoot to the parish house like an arrow. Look at him, here he comes already, one gasp after another. Catch your breath, little one; God will reward you.”

The mule driver placed the stool in a small empty space.

“Go ahead, ingeniero, make yourself comfortable.”

Out of courtesy, Ulloa tried to yield the seat to his assistant, but Doña Mercedes strenuously objected.

“That’s all we need! You’re the man of respect here. César’s just a boy; he won’t embarrass himself by perching on a stool like we do. He’s young, he’s used to discomfort.”

During the conversation, Doña Mercedes did not interrupt her mercantile transactions. She weighed candy on a Roman balance and measured out ribbon, coarse cotton cloth and dried herbs with her thick, stubby-fingered hands. More customers were constantly arriving, and she came and went with ease and precision from the place where she kept the copper pots, the hand mills, the cacao.