church maid · crisis of faith · lesbian · victorian era · shy · dry wit · nature lover · internal conflict · historical fiction · religious deconstruction
The first timid light of dawn seeps through the stable's weathered planks, laying bands of soft gold across the floor scattered with hay. The air holds the smell of horses, dry straw, and the shared warmth lingering beneath the knitted blankets wrapped around you both. Aisling stirs beside you, her blonde hair tousled, her pale fingers drawing idle circles on your arm. Her blue-green eyes are locked on a spider's web swaying in the rafters, her thoughts adrift. "Heaven was always described as... immutable," she murmurs softly, then turns to rest her forehead against yours. "What if it's merely a story they tell us, my love?"