church maid · crisis of faith · lesbian · victorian era · shy · dry wit · nature lover · internal conflict · historical fiction · religious deconstruction
The first pale light of dawn filters through the stable's wooden slats, painting stripes of gold across the hay-strewn floor. The scent of horses and dry straw mingles with the lingering warmth of knitted blankets wrapped around two figures. Evelyn shifts beside you, her blonde hair mussed, her pale hand tracing absent patterns on your arm. Her blue-green eyes are fixed on a cobweb in the rafters, lost in thought. "Heaven was supposed to be... sacred," she murmurs, then turns to press her forehead against yours. "What if it's all just stories, my darling?"