She had climbed down from the scaffolding and now stood before him expectantly, hands in the pockets of her jeans. As before, her clothes were covered with plaster.

"You didn't tell me you were a nun," Quart said reproachfully.

She suppressed a smile, smoothing her grey hair tied in a plait. "True, I didn't," she said, surveying him with a friendly expression, as if she wanted something confirmed. "I assumed a priest would sense it without anyone's help."

"I'm a rather slow-witted priest."

There was a brief silence. Gris Marsala smiled and said, "That's not what I've heard." "From whom?"

"You know… Archbishops, angry priests." Her American accent was more pronounced with certain words. "Attractive women who ask you out to dinner."

"You can't possibly know about that," Quart said, laughing.

"Why not? Haven't you heard of the telephone? You just dial and speak. Macarena Bruner's my friend."

"Strange friendship. A nun and a banker's wife who's the talk of Seville…"

"That's not at all funny."

He nodded placatingly, realising he'd gone too far. His remark, no matter what tactical purpose it might have served, was unfair. And as ye would that men should do to you, do ye also to them likewise.

"You're right. I'm sorry," he said looking away, embarrassed by his faux pas. He wondered why he'd been so rude. He could see Macarena Bruner, the ivory necklace against her brown skin and those eyes of hers.

"You don't know her as well as I do," said Sister Marsala sadly. "That's true."

Quart took a few steps up the nave and again looked at the scaffolding along the walls, the pews pushed into a corner, the blackened ceiling. At the far end, in front of the altarpiece in gloom, burned the candle of the Holy Sacrament. "What have you got to do with all of this?" he asked.

"I told you. I work here as an architect and restorer. Fully qualified. I have degrees from UCLA and Seville."

Quart's footsteps echoed in the nave. The nun walked beside him noiselessly in her trainers. The remains of pictures were visible between the damp and soot stains on the vault: the wings of an angel, the beard of a prophet.

"They're lost for ever," she said. "It's too late to restore them."

Quart looked up at a cherub that had a crack across its forehead as if it had been struck with an axe. "Is the church really falling down?" he asked.

Gris Marsala looked weary. She'd heard that question too many times. "The council, the bank and the archbishop all claim it is, to justify demolishing it." She waved her hand, taking in the nave. "The building is in a bad state. It's been neglected for the last hundred and fifty years. But the basic structure is still sound. There aren't any irreparable cracks in the walls or the vault."

"But part of the ceiling came down on Father Urbizu's head," said Quart.

"Yes. There. Do you see?" The woman pointed at a gap almost a metre long in the cornice all round the nave ten metres up. "That chunk of gilded plaster missing above the pulpit. An unfortunate accident."

"The second unfortunate accident."

"If the municipal architect fell from the ceiling, it was his own fault. Nobody said he could go up there."

For a nun, Gris Marsala didn't sound that sympathetic towards the dead. She seemed to be implying that they'd deserved it. He wondered if she too, like Macarena Bruner, sought absolution from Father Ferro. It was rare to find a flock so faithful to its pastor.

"Imagine," said Quart, eyeing the scaffolding, "that you had nothing to do with this church and I asked you to give me a technical assessment of it."

She answered immediately, without hesitation. "It's old and neglected, but not in ruins. The damage is mostly to the internal walls, because of the leaking roof. But we've repaired that now. I carried nearly ten tons of lime, cement, and sand fifteen metres up with my own hands." She held them up. They were strong, calloused, with short, broken nails encrusted with plaster and paint. "And Father Oscar helped. Father Ferro's too old to go clambering about on the roof."

"And the rest of the building?"

The nun shrugged. "It won't fall down if we get the essential repairs finished. Once we've got rid of all the leaks, it would be a good idea to reinforce the wooden beams, which have rotted in places. Ideally they should be replaced, but we don't have the funds." She sighed. "That's for the actual structure of the building. As far as the ornamentation goes, we just have to restore, gradually, the most damaged parts. I've found a way of doing the windows. A friend of mine works in a stained-glass workshop, and he's promised to make me some pieces to replace the damaged ones, for free. It'll be a slow process, because the leadwork also needs to be restored. But there's no hurry."

"Isn't there?"

"Not if we win this battle."

Quart looked at her with interest. "It sounds as if you take it very personally."

"I do," she said simply. "I stayed in Seville because of this. I came here to try to solve a certain problem, and this is where I found the solution."

"A personal problem?"

"Yes. You could call it a crisis, I suppose. They happen from time to time. Have you had yours?"

Quart nodded politely, his thoughts elsewhere. I must ask Rome for her file. As soon as possible.

"We're talking about you, Sister Marsala."

She screwed up her eyes. "Are you always so detached, or is it a pose? By the way, call me Gris. 'Sister Marsala' sounds ridiculous. I mean, look at me. Anyway, as I was saying, I came here to put my heart and mind in order, and I found the answer in this church." "What answer?"

"The one we're all searching for. A cause, I suppose. Something to believe in and to fight for." She said nothing for a moment, then added, more quietly, "Faith."

"Father Ferro's."

She looked at him without saying anything. Her plait was coming undone. She re-plaited it without taking her eyes off Quart.

"We all have a kind of faith," she said at last. "And it's something we all very much need, with this century ending so disreputably, don't you think? All those revolutions made and lost. The barricades deserted. The heroes who fought as one are now simply loners clinging to whatever they can find." Her blue eyes rested on him curiously. "Have you never felt like one of the those pawns forgotten in a corner of the board, with the sounds of battle fading behind them? They try to stand straight but wonder if they still have a king to serve."

As they walked round the church, Gris Marsala showed Quart the only picture of any worth: a painting of the Virgin, attributed without too much conviction to Murillo, hanging over the entrance to the vestry from the nave, next to the confessional. Then they went to the crypt. It was closed off by a wrought-iron gate at the top of marble steps descending into darkness. The woman explained that small churches such as this didn't usually have a crypt. Our Lady of the Tears, however, was specially privileged. Fourteen dukes of El Nuevo Extremo lay there, among their number some who died before the church was built. After 1865 the crypt fell into disuse, and members of the family were buried in the family vault in San Fernando. The only exception was Carlota Bruner. "Who?"

Quart was resting a hand on the arch at the entrance to the crypt, decorated with a skull and crossbones. The stone was like ice.

"Carlota Bruner," Gris Marsala said, surprised by his surprise. "Macarena's, great-aunt. She died at the turn of the century and was buried here in the crypt."

"Could we see her tomb?"

The anxiety in Quart's voice, though concealed, was evident. The woman stared at him, unsure.

"Of course," she said and went to fetch a bunch of keys from the vestry. She unlocked the gate and flicked a very antiquated light switch. A dusty bulb cast a dim light over the steps. Quart had to bow his head as he went down. At the bottom he came to a small square area with walls covered with flat stones laid out in three rows. There were large patches of damp on the brick walls, and the air smelled musty. One of the walls bore an escutcheon, carved in marble, with the motto ODERINT DUM PROBENT. Let them hate me, so long as they respect me, he translated to himself. Above it was a black cross.