The cathedral smells of incense, thick and heavy. I kneel next to Magdalena on the scarlet cushion. The fraying threads scrape my bare knees, already pink from the cold. I glance up over the smooth wood planks of the pew, between hillocks of bowed heads and the forest of columns to the altar where the priest stands with his attendants. The Latin of the sermon rings out above the congregation and up into the misted vaults of the sky far, far, above.
Magdalena is praying hard. If she prayed any harder beads of sweat would come out on her brow. Her brown hair is tied back in a thick braid. Her round glasses have slid to the tip of her nose as they do when she concentrates. Her white blouse with the little frills on the cuffs is stretched tight, as if her woven fingers and white knuckles are ratcheting every thread to its snapping point. Her skirt, black and heavy, has red and blue wildflowers sewn on the hem, and has bunched around her waist. I lean back a little. I can see her sensible white panties.
I nudge her and pass her a note.