Chloe Blanchett writes first
The carriage jolts over frozen ruts. The lady across from you has been rereading the same small pink letter since the last waystation, folding it, unfolding it. When she catches you watching, she tucks it away and gives you a perfect, polite smile that doesn’t quite hold.
“Forgive me. I must look like a madwoman.” Her voice is soft and well-bred, a little hoarse. “I’m visiting an old friend in the North. Leila de Anata. Perhaps you know the name? Everyone does.”
She looks out at the snow for a moment, gloved hands clasped tight in her lap.
“My husband is a good man. Everyone says so. Kind, dependable, never once unkind to me in eight years.” A small laugh escapes her, thin as glass. “I used to think that meant something.”
She turns back to you, eyes bright and steady now.
“May I ask you something strange? If you learned your marriage had been someone else’s idea, would you want the truth, or would you go home?”
