Days passed without mention of the mortician. With his absence Rachel was able to focus more on running the household. The dill flowers which had grown at an alarming rate in the garden were disposed of finally. No webs adorned the walls of any of the hallways. Ciel squealed with delight when he received his new blanket. Today the air was warm and clear. All of the windows were open wide in the bedroom, and the refreshing breeze that blew in was life-saving for Rachel. Abigail tugged at the strings of her corset with far too much passion. Her slender leg was raised, her foot pressed against one of the pillars of the bed. Rachel could feel her chest hurt with every breath she inhaled.

"Abigail, please," She gasped. "This is fine." Abigail relaxed her tug on the strings and Rachel exhaled loudly.

"I'm sorry m'lady," Abigail quickly said, her pale face flushed again. "It's just-"

"It's fine, Abigail. Don't worry." Rachel smiled warmly. No matter how overbearing the girl could be at times, she never could seem to be angry with her.

Breakfast had ended and Rachel was changing into her second dress of the day. It was her least favourite wardrobe change, for it required her to don a gown with a high collar. Rachel despised high collars, the way they wrapped around her neck and threatened to strangle her. The style of the time was of course constricting, but this fact never bothered Rachel or even crossed her mind until she slipped into a dress with that dreadful collar… Often, she could get away with wearing a lower cut dress during the day. However, today Sir Autteberry and his wife would be arriving for tea. She couldn't escape custom this time. Another maid whose name escaped Rachel was already putting the upper layers of clothing on by the time Abigail finished tying the strings together. Rachel stood still, looking out of the window, her arms extended as the women hurriedly dressed her. She felt like a Christmas tree, standing deathly still while other decorated her as they saw fit. Another maid came to stand in front of her and block her view of the outside world. She was very young, barely out of the stage of childhood. She dipped her tiny fingers into a round container and smeared a thick paste onto Rachel's cheek.

"Gertrude!" Abigail snapped upon realizing what the young girl was doing. The girl jumped and the container rolled to the floor. "Lady Phantomhive doesn't need to wear makeup in the presence of visitors!"

"How gaudy," Another maid sneered. The young girl looked back at Abigail, her eyes wide with shock. Her small mouth opened and closed like a fish, unable to find the right words to address her mistake.

"It's quite all right," Rachel said softly, smiling at the girl. "Your intentions were good. That's all that matters." The fish-girl looked back at Rachel, her expression not changing. After a moment she quickly nodded and picked up the container of makeup. She hurriedly grabbed a handkerchief and began to wipe the paste off of Rachel's face.

After an eternity, the maids finally retreated and Rachel was left alone in her room. As soon as she was sure they were a good distance away, she unbuttoned the collar of her dress and breathed in deeply. She still had a good deal of time before Sir Autteberry and his wife arrived. She sat on the foot of her bed and looked longingly at the sheets. Vincent was a busy man. Even under the guise of sleep it seemed as though he was always working. Rachel slowly lowered herself onto the bed. She ran a hand over the place Vincent's sleeping body would occupy at night. She had read a good deal of her stolen novel since her second encounter with Undertaker in the hallway. She couldn't help but to wonder which reality was more unreasonable.

The novel Maude had held in such high regard tells the story of a wealthy woman who to tries to fill a void in her heart left by her unavailable husband. She is a regular at every ball held in her society and she enjoys frequent tea parties with acquaintances. One day the woman realizes that her loneliness cannot be satisfied by the company of other women. After ending one of her grand tea parties early, she wanders alone through her garden. She is then greeted by her gardener, a man she has never met before, but one that has been a member of the household staff for many years. The two begin an illicit romance, one that is able to thrive as a result of the husband's persistent absence from the manor.

The husband's absence was a theme present both in the novel's world and Rachel's. The loneliness was a bitter staple in the Phantomhive household as well. Rachel could accept these circumstances as a universal truth. However, as she read farther, she began to question her own reality.

Rachel grabbed a fistful of the comforter. Against her better judgment she rose and retrieved the book. With great hesitation she lowered herself onto the bed again. She tried to put off the inevitable by reading a few tame passages of the book, as if to prove to some omniscient entity that she was merely perusing the entire book, looking for no scene in particular. Eventually she was able to gather the courage to return to that bawdy passage that forced her to close the book during her last reading. Biting her lip, she started to read. Though her cheeks returned to their rosy tint and her eyes still flew to the door at intervals, she found the passage easier to read than during her previous attempt. Again she felt transported to that world. She was no longer lying in her bed, but was draped over the chesterfield, eyeing her gardener seductively. Soon her eyes abandoned the door and remained on the pages. No sudden disturbance could tear then away from the story.

Her eyes greedily devoured every page. Her body grew hot and she squeezed her legs together. There was an emptiness in the pit of her stomach that begged to be filled. Setting the book down, she turned into the pillow and sighed. When was the last time Vincent had touched her? As a work-oriented man, he possessed a weak libido. He was fond of small kisses here and there and perhaps even the occasional embrace. However, like a proper gentleman, he saw any intimacy beyond that reserved especially for procreation. He had received his son. By some miracle, his sickly, feeble wife had birthed him a son. Her duty was done and there was no reason to carry on with the deed except in the rare moments of extreme weakness. But even when those sensuous nights did occur, they did not happen as described in the book. Does a woman truly quiver with pleasure? Do her lips really part for the escape of gasps and moans? And what was this release, this sudden loss of control of the body and animalistic intensity?

The descriptions captivated Rachel. She had never experienced them before. When she lie with Vincent, her pleasure came from having him close to her, his satisfied grunt indicating to her that she had served her husband well. Were men from the lower class truly more attentive to the woman's pleasure? Did they really make their woman's toes curl in ecstasy? Rachel quickly sat up. She closed the book, a few of its leaves becoming dog-eared in her hurry to put it away. A lady of her standing had no need for something so primitive. Still, the wanton ache between her legs would not cease. Squeezing her legs together only increased her need. She walked to the window and inhaled deeply the warm scents of the garden. Despite her attempts at distraction her mind was still focused on the definition of pleasure. Eventually her thoughts started to wander back to that man.

Being a mortician, it was only natural that he belonged to the working class despite his connections with Vincent and the other noblemen. The breath Rachel exhaled was shaky, becoming caught in her throat and forced out abruptly. Her breathing become more and more erratic as she started to wonder if that silver-haired man shared the same qualities as that gardener. She thought back to those moments, how casual he was with her. Was it because he was used to being in the company of women? Rachel shut her eyes and moved away from the window. She buttoned up the collar of her gown and decided that she would fancy a walk. Staying in that room, the sinful thoughts would only continue to circle through the air and assault her.

Rachel's attention had been all but consumed by the violets. The little fragments of sky, complete with their own sun blossomed throughout the flowerbed. To Rachel's distaste the flowers hid themselves underneath the larger blooms. She narrowed her eyes and bit her lip. She'd certainly have a talk with—No. No. Vincent will have a talk with the gardener about his poor craftsmanship. She turned away from the shy beauties and continued her walk. As her eyes scanned the numerous flowers horror suddenly struck her. Those dill weeds were back. Feeling a sudden surge of fury Rachel decided not to wait to have the gardener remove them again. She reached down and tore the flowers out of the dirt, flinging them away from her without a second thought. An explosion of dirt followed their ejection. It splattered in clumps onto her carnation pink dress. Rachel quickly attempted to dust the debris off. However, a few smudges remained. Sighing, she examined her hands, which were delicately wrapped in white silk gloves. They, too were stained. Sullied with the yellow of those heinous dill flowers….

Rachel couldn't help but to giggle at Abigail's attempt to conceal her frustration. The young woman asked Rachel what she was thinking, sullying the dress she had just put on. She chose her words carefully, trying her hardest despite her irritation not to offend the noblewoman. However, to Rachel she seemed just like a mother. Rachel giggled her apology, teasing the woman lightly on her ever-present rosy hue. Once her new outfit was picked out and she was clothed, she was informed that Sir Auteberry had arrived. Rachel thanked Abigail for all of her hard work and turned to leave the room. A gasp escaped from her and a hand flung to her chest when a male figure suddenly darkened the doorway.

"I'm sorry, did I startle you?" Vincent wore an apologetic smile. The corners of his eyebrows rose, giving him the innocent look of a puppy.

"No, no" Rachel exhaled. "I just wasn't expecting you. I thought you already left to greet Sir Auteberry."

"I thought we'd head down together."

"Yes, of course."

Vincent held out his hand and Rachel gingerly took it. It seemed colder than a man's hand should be, she thought as they walked down the hallway. Even though their skin touched, she felt a distance between them. She squeezed his hand a little tighter to convince herself that there was none.

"What's wrong?" Vincent asked. Rachel shook her head.

Dinner with Sir Auteberry and his wife was very pleasant. Rachel found herself grateful to have the company of a woman other than one of the servants or that abnormal Maude. Rachel and Madame Auteberry left the men to discuss business matters and retreated to the parlor. Madame Auteberry, a proud woman, was never one for conversation. Rachel found herself a little frightened of her, for the woman was known to be quite caustic in conversation. Rachel knew better than to attempt to confide in her. She was surprised when it was Madame Auteberry who spoke to her first.

"Ladies these days…" She muttered in her deep voice. "They have no sense of shame."

"I bed your pardon?"

"I'm sure you've heard of Lady Crawford and her degenerate of a husband."

"No, I don't believe I have."

"Well," Madame Auteberry spoke quieter, but more clearly, leaning in closer. "The word is Lady Crawford's been crying over her husband's infidelity. She latches onto any attention she can get a hold of, like a shameless whore."

"Oh," Rachel found herself unsure of how to respond. "Oh my…"

"She is an embarrassment as a wife." Madame Auteberry continued. "Perhaps instead of weeping she should be taking better care of her husband. Yet there she is, flaunting her failures to the public." She shook her head in disapproval. "Men are creatures driven by instinct, Lady Phantomhive. It is the duty of the woman to assure that these instincts remain in check. Provide for them a comfortable home, feed them, allow them to rest in peace, and satisfy their carnal needs. This is the woman's sole purpose." Rachel nodded, feeling uneasy. "But don't believe I place the blame solely on Lady Crawford. Those other whores, fornicating with a married man… It makes me sick. Women no longer know their place…" Rachel's grip on her teacup tightened, she looked over at the door, desperately hoping someone would come and cut Madame Auteberry's tirade short. "It is an unmarried woman's responsibility to extinguish man's desire and prevent them from falling into sin. The Almighty Lord had placed us on this earth to serve man, not push him farther into the bowels of Hell." Rachel chuckled nervously, now silently praying to the Lord to free her from the bowels of this conversation. A long silence followed. Rachel took a long sip from her teacup, avoiding any eye contact. It seemed the silence was only due to the fact that Madame Auteberry, too, was taking a sip from her cup. "And another thing…" Madame Auteberry continued.

The evening had left Rachel exhausted. She crawled into bed and would have fallen asleep instantly if a thought had not crossed her mind. She looked over to where Vincent was laying. His breathing was steady. His broad chest rose slightly with every breath. She worried that he had already fallen asleep, but decided that she would take a chance anyway. She closed the distance between them, a distance that seemed to stretch on into eternity. She placed a hand on his chest and sat up a little. Vincent opened one eye and looked at her, smiling faintly. Rachel took a moment to contemplate the consequences of her actions. Finding no possible result detrimental, she leaned in and passionately kiss him. Vincent chuckled against her lips. He reached out and took hold of her arm.

"What has gotten into you?" He asked, pushing her gently away.

"Vincent…" Rachel trailed off. How could she approach this? Finding no other argument, she uttered, "I want another child." Vincent chuckled.

"One child's enough, don't you think?" He said in an amused voice. "I'm forever thankful that the birth went as smoothly as it did. But why tempt fate, Rachel?" She didn't answer. After a moment she nodded. Vincent ran his fingers lightly over her cheek, turned away, and fell asleep. Rachel didn't move. She watched Vincent. His breath soon became steady again. He drifted quickly into sleep, oblivious of her want. When she found herself unable to bear it any longer she rolled over and stared at the wall. Tears welled up in her eyes and she angrily rubbed them away. Eventually, once it seemed as though the night was almost over, she finally fell asleep.

More…

More…

It was her own voice echoing through the room, but her lips didn't move. Her arms were wrapped around his neck, her fingers tangled in his hair. His silver hair fell over her like a curtain. It felt as though she were melting. "More…" She pleaded with him, the word ending with a soft moan. The man smiled, his eyes hidden, as always. He pulled her closer to him and she felt an unfamiliar sensation run blossom in her stomach. The feeling branched out like roots up her spine and down her arms. She desperately clung to him, her breath coming out in gasps. If only there was a way to get closer… If only…

Rachel Phantomhive awoke with a start. The sun had just begun to rise and the room was drenched in a soft morning blue. The windows had been left open, and the room was chilly, but Rachel flung the blankets off of her as if they were burning her. She paced the room, her hands shaking. It couldn't be… She repeated the phrase over and over. It couldn't be… It couldn't be… She walked over to the window and leaned out. The cold air helped to wake her up, but still it could not release her from that dream. Carnal pleasure. It was in every nerve of her body, so intense it felt real. Even now her thighs felt damp. How ashamed she was… She bit her lip until it bled. Her nails dug into the smooth wood of the windowpane. It was shameful, truly shameful. However, it wasn't the physical feeling that caused the majority of the tumult in her heart. In that man's arms… She felt safe. She felt that warm, comfortable feeling of love and adoration as he pressed his lips against her tender neck. It shouldn't be possible. Tears ran down Rachel's cheeks but she couldn't summon any true sadness. How could it be possible, for her to love another man?