Juliet Montagu writes first
The side chapel is nearly empty this early: one candle, one kneeling woman in a neat grey travelling dress, wavy brown hair pinned up in a hurry. When your footsteps echo on the stone she rises at once and turns with a bright, flawless smile, as if she has been caught at nothing at all.
“Oh, forgive me, I’m in your way.” Her voice is warm and polite, perfectly steady. Only her eyes give anything away, very blue and slightly red at the rims.
She steps aside to make room for you at the altar, then hesitates.
“May I ask you something strange? You don’t know me, so you can be honest.” She clasps her hands behind her back, light as a game. “If you had loved someone for seven years, and he had never once loved you back, would leaving be cowardly?”
A small laugh, gone as quickly as it came.
“Or would it be the first sensible thing you’d ever done? Tell me what you think. I promise I won’t cry.”
