Chapter Text
The morning bells of St. Maria's Cathedral rang with their usual precision at six o'clock, their bronze voices calling the faithful to prayer. Sister Historia Reiss had been awake for thirty minutes already, as she was every morning, kneeling on the cold wooden floor of her small room with her rosary threaded through pale fingers. The beads were worn smooth from years of devotion, inherited from the nun who had occupied this room before her.
She whispered the familiar prayers, letting the Latin syllables roll off her tongue like water over river stones. But this morning, her mind wandered in ways it shouldn't.
Mother Superior had mentioned it yesterday during their evening meal—the new gardener would be starting today. Their previous groundskeeper, old Mr. Ackerman, had finally retired after many years of service. Historia had felt a pang of sadness at his departure; he'd been a fixture of St. Maria's for as long as she'd been there, always ready with a gruff word of encouragement or a very rare joke that made the younger sisters giggle behind their hands.
But a new gardener. That was good. The gardens needed tending, especially now in early spring when everything demanded attention—pruning, planting, weeding. The grounds of St. Maria's were extensive, nearly five acres of carefully maintained beds, ancient oaks, and winding stone paths. It was one of Historia's favorite places for contemplation.
She finished her prayers, kissed the cross of her rosary, and stood, smoothing down her habit. The mirror above her small dresser showed her the same face she saw every morning—fine-boned, pale, with eyes the color of a summer sky. She'd been told she was beautiful, though such compliments always felt uncomfortable, almost sinful. Beauty was vanity, and vanity had no place in service to God.
Historia arranged her veil carefully, tucking away every strand of blonde hair until none remained visible. Perfection in small things, Mother Superior always said, leads to perfection in larger matters.
The refectory was already half-full when Historia arrived for breakfast. The sisters ate in silence, as was their custom during morning meals, communicating only through subtle gestures and glances. Historia took her usual seat beside Sister Mina, who smiled at her warmly before bowing her head over her simple meal of porridge and fruit.
Through the tall windows, Historia could see the gardens, still gray in the early morning light. And there—her heart gave an unexpected flutter—there was someone moving among the rose beds near the east wall.
The new gardener.
Historia told herself it was simple curiosity that made her eyes drift back to the window. The figure was tall, that much was clear even from this distance, wearing practical work clothes—dark pants and a worn green jacket. As Historia watched, the gardener straightened, pushing back what appeared to be a mess of dark hair, and even from here, Historia could see the confident, almost cocky set of those shoulders.
She forced her attention back to her breakfast, cheeks warming slightly. Sister Mina was looking at her with raised eyebrows, and Historia quickly composed her expression into something more appropriate. Breakfast was for eating and prayer, not for staring out windows.
But her eyes betrayed her, drifting back to the gardens three more times before the meal ended.
Historia's duties that morning included teaching catechism to the local children who attended St. Maria's school. It was work she genuinely loved—the children were bright and curious, full of questions that ranged from the profound to the absurd. Today, someone wanted to know if angels had to eat ("No, Thomas, angels are spirits and don't require any sustenance"), while another asked if God loved her pet hamster as much as He loved people ("God loves all His creations, Emma, though perhaps in different ways").
The classroom had large windows that overlooked the south garden, and Historia found her concentration wavering more than once. She could see the gardener working now, clearing away the winter debris from the perennial beds. The morning sun had burned away the early fog, and she could make out more details—the gardener was a woman, perhaps around Historia's own age of twenty-one or twenty-two, with an athletic build and an economy of movement that spoke of experience.
"Sister Historia?"
She snapped her attention back to find all twelve children staring at her expectantly.
"I'm sorry, could you repeat the question?"
The boy, gap-toothed and earnest, said, "I asked what happened to the people who built the Tower of Babel."
Historia smiled, grateful to return to familiar territory. "Well, when God saw that humanity had become prideful, attempting to build a tower to reach Heaven itself..."
She managed to keep her focus on the lesson for the remaining hour, though it required more effort than usual. When the children were finally dismissed for their mid-morning break, Historia stood at the window, ostensibly tidying her desk but really watching the gardener below.
The woman had moved to the herb garden now, and as Historia watched, she pulled off her jacket, revealing strong, freckled arms. There was something magnetic about the way she moved, utterly unselfconscious and free. She worked with a kind of rough grace, and when she straightened to wipe sweat from her brow, Historia caught a glimpse of her face properly for the first time.
Her breath caught.
The gardener was striking. Sharp features, a pretty mouth, and even from this distance, an expression of fierce concentration. She moved like someone who had never questioned her right to take up space in the world, so different from the carefully contained movements Historia had trained herself into over the years.
"She's quite something, isn't she?"
Historia spun around, heart racing, to find Sister Yuliya standing in the doorway, a knowing smile on her weathered face. The older nun had been at St. Maria's for over thirty years and had a disconcerting habit of appearing silently.
"I... was just—the gardens look well-tended already," Historia stammered, feeling heat crawl up her neck.
"Mmm." Sister Yuliya's smile deepened. "Mother Superior hired her based on recommendations from St. Rose's, where she worked for two years. Apparently she's something of a miracle worker with plants. They were quite sad to lose her, but she wanted to move closer to the city." She paused, then added casually, "Her name is Ymir. No last name, or at least none she uses. One of those modern young people probably."
Historia nodded, not trusting herself to speak. She busied herself gathering her teaching materials, acutely aware of Sister Yuliya's amused gaze.
"It's natural to be curious about new people," the older nun said gently. "Nothing to be ashamed of."
But as Sister Yuliya left, Historia wondered if curiosity was really what she was feeling. Curiosity didn't make your heart race. Curiosity didn't make you hyper-aware of your own body, of the way the fabric of your habit felt against your skin. Curiosity didn't make you want to invent excuses to walk through the gardens.
She pressed her palms against the cool wood of her desk and took a steadying breath. This was nothing. A momentary distraction. She would pray about it during Vespers, and it would pass.
It had to pass.
---
But by lunchtime, Historia had walked past the gardens three separate times on errands that could have been accomplished by more direct routes. Each time, she told herself she was simply appreciating God's creation, the beauty of the flowering trees and the fresh growth pushing up through the dark soil.
Each time, her eyes found Ymir.
At one o'clock, Historia had a free hour before her next obligation—assisting Father Shadis with preparations for evening Mass. She told herself she would spend it in the chapel, in prayer and reflection. Instead, she found her feet carrying her outside, into the gardens she knew so well.
The spring air was mild, filled with the scent of narcissus and hyacinth. Historia walked the familiar paths, her hands folded inside her sleeves, her steps measured and quiet. She wasn't looking for anyone. She was simply taking a walk. If she happened to encounter the new gardener, well, it would only be polite to introduce herself and welcome her to St. Maria's.
She found Ymir in the rose garden, kneeling beside one of the older bushes with a pair of pruning shears. The woman didn't look up as Historia approached, too focused on her work. Up close, she was even more arresting—her dark hair was pulled back in a messy knot, and her face had a lean, almost wolfish quality. Freckles scattered across her nose and cheeks like someone had flicked a paintbrush at her.
"Hello," Historia said softly, then immediately felt foolish. Such a mundane greeting.
Ymir's head whipped up, and Historia found herself pinned by the most extraordinary eyes—brown, flecked with amber, sharp and assessing. For a moment, Ymir just stared at her, and Historia felt weirdly exposed, as if those eyes could see through her habit, through her carefully constructed walls, straight down to something true and terrifying underneath.
Then Ymir's mouth curved into a smirk. "Well, hello yourself, Sister." Her voice was lower than Historia had expected, slightly raspy, with an edge of amusement. "Come to check if I'm doing it right?"
"No! I mean—I'm sure you're very competent. I just—" Historia forced herself to breathe. "I wanted to welcome you to St. Maria's. I'm Sister Historia."
"Ymir." The gardener sat back on her heels, wiping her hands on her pants. "No 'Sister' for me, thanks. Just Ymir."
"It's nice to meet you, Ymir."
"Is it?" Ymir tilted her head, studying Historia with that same intense focus she'd given the rose bush. "You religious types usually look at people like me like we're gonna corrupt you just by existing."
Historia blinked. "I don't—I wouldn't—"
"Relax, Sister Historia." Ymir's grin widened. "I'm just messing with you. Mostly." She turned back to the rose bush, making a careful cut. "These are beautiful, by the way. Someone's been taking good care of them. Old Mr. Ackerman, I'm guessing?"
"Yes," Historia said, grateful for the change of subject. "He loved the roses especially. He said they were temperamental but worth the effort."
"Smart man." Ymir made another precise cut, then glanced up at Historia again. "You know much about roses, Sister?"
"A little. I help in the gardens sometimes, when my other duties allow."
"Yeah?" Ymir's eyebrows rose. "Wouldn't have pegged you for the gardening type. You look more like the..." she waved a hand vaguely, "prayer and contemplation type."
Historia felt a flicker of annoyance, which was unusual enough to be notable. She rarely felt annoyed. "I can do both."
"I'm sure you can." Ymir's tone was entirely too knowing, and Historia had the distinct impression she was being teased. "Well, if you ever want to get your hands dirty, I could use help. These grounds are huge, and I'm just one person."
The thought of working alongside Ymir, close enough to see the flex of her hands, the concentration in her face, the way sweat made her shirt cling to her shoulders—Historia's mouth went dry.
"Perhaps," she managed. "If I have time."
"Open invitation." Ymir stood in one fluid movement, and Historia had to tilt her head back to maintain eye contact. The gardener was several inches taller, and there was something oddly attractive about how confident she'd been the entire time. "Though I gotta say, Sister, you might want to lose the full habit if you're gonna do real work. That thing looks hot as hell."
The casual profanity made Historia's eyes widen slightly, but Ymir just laughed, a rough, genuine sound that did strange things to Historia's stomach.
"Sorry, sorry. No blaspheming. I'll try to watch my mouth around you.. proper types." She picked up her tools. "I should get back to it. Nice meeting you, Sister Historia. I'm sure I'll see you around."
She walked away before Historia could formulate a response, leaving her standing alone among the roses, heart pounding in a way that had nothing to do with exertion.
---
Evening Vespers found Historia kneeling in her usual spot in the chapel, rosary in hand, trying desperately to focus on prayer. But her mind kept returning to the gardens, to sharp amber eyes and a knowing smirk, to freckles scattered like constellations.
This is a test, she told herself firmly. A test of your devotion and discipline.
She had chosen this life deliberately, carefully. After a childhood marked by her father's cold disapproval and her mother's absence, the convent had offered structure, purpose, belonging. She had found genuine peace here, genuine joy in service and study and prayer.
She would not let that be disrupted by a gardener with rough hands and a rougher tongue.
Except even as she thought it, she knew she was lying to herself. Because when she closed her eyes to pray, she didn't see the face of the Virgin Mary or the peaceful countenance of Christ. She saw Ymir, kneeling in the dirt, looking up at her with those impossible eyes, saying her name like it was something precious and fragile and worth breaking.
"Sister Historia?"
She opened her eyes to find Mother Superior standing beside her pew. The older woman's face was kind but concerned.
"Are you well, child? You seem... distracted."
Historia rose quickly, smoothing her habit. "I'm fine, Mother. Just tired, I think."
Mother Superior's gaze was searching, but she nodded. "See that you get proper rest. We need you at your best." She paused, then added, "I saw you speaking with our new gardener today. What did you think of her?"
Historia's throat felt tight. "She seems... competent. Knowledgeable."
"Mmm. She's quite different from Mr. Ackerman, isn't she? But Father Shadis and I felt it was important to give her a chance. Everyone deserves a chance at redemption, at finding their place in God's plan." Mother Superior's eyes were sharp now, watching Historia's reaction carefully. "Even those who have lived... unconventional lives."
There was a warning there, subtle but clear. Historia heard it and understood. Whatever Ymir's past, whatever she was, Historia was expected to maintain appropriate distance. Professional courtesy, nothing more.
"Of course, Mother."
"Good." Mother Superior patted her shoulder. "You're a good girl, Historia. One of our brightest lights. I know you'll set a proper example."
After Mother Superior left, Historia remained in the chapel long after the other sisters had retired. She knelt until her knees ached, prayed until the words lost all meaning, and tried very hard not to think about the fact that she was already counting the hours until she might see Ymir again.
Outside, in the gardens, the night bloomed dark and secret. And in her small room above the sacristy, Historia lay awake for hours, staring at the ceiling, feeling something long-dormant stirring in her chest.
Something that felt dangerous.
Something that felt like want.