Rachel was at her weakest when she was asleep. In her dreams he always visited her. He cured her illness, his warm breath on her neck seeping through her skin and healing her lungs. He was the oxygen she craved so desperately. He was like an herb, a physician, a miracle in the flesh. But when she awoke it only seemed that her body wanted to punish her for dreams she could not control. Heavy dread awoke with her, it slid down her veins like black tar. She immediately realized her throat was painfully tight and wondered if it had been the entire time she was sleeping. Panic erased her drowsiness. She flew to the window and stuck her head out to breathe in fresh air. She breathed heavily, gulping down as much of the cool and crisp early morning air as she could. These spells always seemed to last ages, and this one was no exception. By the time she could breathe normally and her panic was gone, the sun had started to wake. The delicate infant rays of daylight spilled over her. She wilted in the presence of them, slumping heavily against the windowsill.

She had always been a docile woman, forever capitulating unless met with the most dire of situations. If she submitted to her father, and then to her husband, it would seem only natural that she would also submit to the other forces that claimed dominion over her. As her illness worsened, anyone who knew Rachel would predict that the woman would retreat like a mouse. She would curl up in her bed, breathing in aromas to soothe her ailing lungs. She would not dare move a muscle, for fear of agitating her condition. She would rely solely on her husband for support, all the while haunted by the realization that she could not fulfill her wifely duties.

But, perhaps it was this very notion that caused Rachel to retaliate as she had. As her illness grew worse, she found herself growing more and more stubborn. She could submit to her men, but where would it end? It seemed as though she was growing more and more influenced by Maude and her dreadful book. She discovered some hint of rebellion in her that she had never felt before. It was frightening, of course, for a woman of her status. But it was surprisingly and shamefully invigorating. Abigail and the other servants feared that the illness would claim her life soon enough. But Rachel could still feel liveliness running through her veins. It rested in her bones and grew with every successful breath she took. Even in the midst of her worst attacks, she felt certain of her existence and the continuation of it. She listened to Vincent, however, and allowed herself to be bedridden for some time. But how her limbs ached with excess vigor! How she tossed and turned, begged for Ciel to visit her in the hopes that his childish energy would exhaust her as it normally had. How she played with her hair, wiggled her toes, devoured pages upon pages of the book, removed and reapplied her blankets. How, once left with nothing, the agitation she felt started to build. It slouched her posture when she received the news that Anne would be late in her arrival. It superheated her blood when the doctor who arrived in Anne's place accused her of being stricken with vapours. In a great moment of weakness, she even thought to herself that she'd like to smack him.
When Anne arrived a few days later she was beside herself with remorse. She collapsed onto the bed, wrapping her arms around her older sister.

"Oh, dearest sister!" Anne lamented. "When I heard about your condition, I wanted to visit you as soon as I could! But the heavy rains kept me in the house, and when I could venture outside the hospital was abound with ailing patients. They wouldn't let me leave, even to see my sister. I could never apologize enough— "

"It's fine, Anne," Rachel cooed, resting a hand on her sister's brilliant red hair. "Even if you are the only woman there, they show you no sympathy, do they?" Anne looked down.
"Even so, I should have insisted— "

"No. Your patients needed you. And I'm sure your colleagues would have missed your pretty face." Rachel smirked and pinched her cheek.

"Oh, Rachel…" Anne stood back up, her cheeks almost as red as her hair. She tucked a strand of crimson hair behind her ear and turned to grab her bag. Pulling out her stethoscope, she moved back to Rachel. Rachel undressed as she had many times before. Her sister in many ways was her saviour. She had helped her with her illness for as long as she could remember. Rachel held her opinion above that of any man who claimed himself a doctor. When requested she breathed in as deeply as she could. When Anne had finished the examination, she leaned back. Even with such a beautiful and youthful face, she looked tired.

"You're running a bit of a fever. It must be the soot." She said softly. "The city of London's has been getting so much darker with it. I'm afraid it must have reached here. The trip to the market has only made it worse."

Rachel couldn't help but to smile. It was the filthiness of London, not the filthiness of her thoughts that agitated her illness. She could still be saved, if she would allow it... She breathed a smooth, sweeping sigh. "I think a change of air would do you very well," Anne continued. "Speak to Vincent… about taking a trip to the ocean." Rachel watched Anne carefully. How Anne's face twisted ever so slightly in pain whenever she mentioned Vincent. How her lips always curled downward with the taste of his name on her tongue. Rachel couldn't understand it. Or rather, she wouldn't allow herself to. Even in her denial she felt the pang of guilt that lay gnarled in her stomach. It was something she chose never to confront. Anne hesitated for a moment. Pain flickered in her ruby eyes. She reached into her bag and pulled out a small purse. From that purse she took out a delicate piece of dark paper. She set the purse down on the nightstand and turned to look at Rachel. "This is burnt nitre-paper." She said, her voice quickly returning to its professional tone. "Its smoke will help lessen the severity of your attacks. Burn it whenever you feel the need to." Anne reached back into her bag and placed a small dish on the nightstand. One that dish she placed the dark brown paper. She produced a box of matches next from her bag, and with one swift movement she lit one of the matches and set the paper alight. A steady stream of smoke rose from the flame.

"Oh, Anne!" Rachel exclaimed. "You're so smart! I don't know what I would do without you." Anne's rosy tint returned. As Rachel watched her, she thought that all of her sister's life would be dyed crimson, the shade of passion, of life.

"Perhaps…" Anne spoke carefully, choosing her words carefully. "You should consider another form of treatment… M-medicated cigars have been found to be most effective—"
"Cigars!?" Rachel gasped, bringing a hand to her mouth in shock. How could she ever consider doing something so unladylike? Even if it was for the sake of her health, she was sure Vincent would deny such an obscene request. "How could I possibly— "

"Don't you want to see Ciel grow up?" Anne said suddenly. "Do you really want to leave such a precious child without a mother?" Rachel did not reply. She watched Anne ball her hands up into fists in her lap. She wouldn't look up at her. She stood up abruptly, grabbing her bag. "I-I'm sorry Rachel," She said softly, watching the nitre-paper burn. Tears welled in the corner of her eyes. "That was…" She shook her head. "Please forgive me. And please don't hesitate to call if your condition bothers you further. I will always be here for you, dearest sister…" She quickly left the room, leaving Rachel alone with the pungent smell of smoke filling the room.

Rachel leaned back into the bed. Her illness seemed to do more harm to her family than it did to herself. Sighing, she turned to face the window. Anne's outburst was immediately forgiven. It was shocking to watch her meek younger sister so upset, and Rachel felt guilty for arousing such emotion in her. She could feel her pain. Their bond as sisters had connected their hearts, and she couldn't stand to cause her dearest sister so much pain. Rachel contemplated Anne's suggestions. If it was for her family, she could… forfeit her standing. She bit her lip. But how could she tell Vincent? Rachel laid back down. Her breath seemed to move more easily. She turned to look at the nitre-paper. As she watched the dark gray smoke rise, she began to feel tired. Before she knew it, she had drifted off into the most peaceful sleep she had had in days.

When Rachel had awoken it was early the next morning. The heavy sense of dread awoke with her when she discovered her throat felt tight. She lay perfectly still, moving her head only slightly to look at Vincent who slept peacefully. In that moment she felt more wretched than she ever had. She wanted more than anything to hold that man in her arms and to be held by him. But she dared not move. It felt as though there was a barrier between them, one that existed further than just her weakness and his preoccupation with work. She turned her gaze to the window. In coordination with the rising sun, her symptoms were alleviated. So relieved was she, that she decided that she would join her family for breakfast.

During breakfast she held her tongue about all that Anne had told her. Ciel cheerfully babbled about the funny look of the eggs. Vincent watched him with a tender look in his eyes. Rachel leaned back in her chair, finding her appetite had vanished. Closing her eyes, she thought that perhaps vanished wasn't the right word. Mutated would be far more accurate. She no longer believed she could find energy in the food that halted her breathing in intervals. No matter what she ate it hadn't cured her. Smoke, she concluded, would bring more life to her than a piece of bread. But when Vincent looked her way she did what she must. She smiled sweetly and consumed her breakfast.

Ciel was whisked away to his lessons by Abigail. Vincent apologized impassively and left to handle business matters. Rachel found herself exceedingly troubled by his behavior shortly before his departure. Once Ciel had gone his expression had turned cold. His eyes were dark, and Rachel wondered how many worries, how many secrets, were concealed behind them. Vincent walked swiftly to the door, stopping briefly to warn Rachel not to push herself before drifting out into the hallway. Rachel sat completely still as a flurry of maids cleaned the table. A million possibilities presented themselves. Perhaps this matter that he has been so absorbed by had taken a turn for the worse. Perhaps he is dissatisfied with her current performance as a wife. Perhaps… he has somehow discovered… Time seemed to stop. Rachel waited for her throat to tighten and for the air around her to disappear, but it didn't. But regardless of the quality of her breath, her hands still shook. She slowly stood up from her seat. Without breathing a word, she ran from the room. Being so accustomed to her bedroom it was there she returned to when faced with the sudden sickening suspicion. She wandered to the window and grasped at her breast. She struggled to think back to when she had last met with him. She wouldn't allow herself to forget it. The memories would be for her a matter of life and death. Rachel fell to the floor as the events of that day came back to her.

It wasn't a kiss. Skin brushed lightly against skin. Such a trivial level of contact could be achieved even while walking down the crowded streets of London, she tried to assure herself. She didn't carry out the full sin of a kiss. Rachel exhaled. A bit of her anxiety slipped away on her breath. And the coachman. Surely he hadn't seen anything. Of course not. She had pulled away just as the carriage stopped, before that man had even gotten off his perch. Her secret, their secret, was safe. It must be. Vincent allowed him to go along with her, after all. He had no reason to be upset now.

Rachel repeated this mantra throughout the day into the evening. She whispered reassurances to herself like a prayer. Still, her apprehension was never fully lifted from her shoulders. When Vincent arrived home for supper she flew into his arms. She couldn't wait until they were seated. Subtlety eluded her.

"Vincent, dear," She spoke in her most delicate voice. "What had you so agitated this morning?" Her soft, slender hands came to rest on either side of his face. She looked into his toffee-colored eyes, but they showed no hint of animosity. Vincent remained silent. An apologetic smile slowly curled his lips. He placed his hands over hers.

"I'm sorry," He murmured. He repeated it again, a bit louder, his voice as gentle as ever. "I'm sorry Rachel. It's not you. It's just… Things… Things are just getting a bit more difficult, you see..." He hesitated for a moment. His expression turned blank, and he seemed to look past Rachel. "I promise," He said, wearing a sterner look. "I'm promise I will keep you and Ciel safe. No matter what." He pressed his forehead against hers and did not move. Rachel remained silent, surprised by Vincent's sudden surge of emotion. Silence filled the room. After a lengthy amount of time Vincent finally moved. He kissed her forehead, smoothed down her hair, and strode out of the room. The room seemed darker to her now. She turned her head and saw Abigail in the doorway, holding a candelabra. Before Rachel could speak she vanished.

A new breed of apprehension ensnarled her. Even as she sat at dinner, with Ciel happily giggling in his seat at the sculpture he had formed with his food, her blood seemed to be at the verge of freezing. Vincent wouldn't look up from his plate. He only took a few bites before quietly standing up.

"I'll be back soon, my love." He said softly. He walked to Rachel and softly kissed her forehead, his finger running through her strawberry-blonde hair. He drifted over to Ciel and kissed him as well before making his way to the door.

"Vincent, wait!" Rachel said, standing up. He turned back and gave an apologetic smile before leaving. Rachel looked down at her plate. She hadn't eaten a single bite, and now her food was cold and unappetizing. Rachel sighed and looked at her son. She couldn't bring herself to sit back down. Not a single ounce of willpower in her blood existed for the purpose. To sit and pretend everything would be fine, because he said so. She smiled sadly at Ciel and called for one of the maids to watch over him while she went out to get fresh air. Once out into the hallway she searched for Abigail. No matter the situation, that woman always knew what was happening. She found her leaving the laundry room, her candelabra still in hand.

"Abigail," Rachel said, taking a moment to catch her breath. "Are the…. Are they coming tonight as well?" She ran her hand through her hair, touching the same locks Vincent had, replacing his fingerprints with hers. Abigail nodded solemnly.
"Yes m'lady…" She said quietly.

"I… I see…" Rachel smoothed down her dress. A new emotion was aroused in her. The new sense of excitement complimented her apprehension. She hoped Abigail, the ever-astute Abigail, couldn't notice. "I… Um. I should be going…"
"I'll gather your linens."

"Very good. Thank you, Abigail."

Rachel wandered throughout the halls. She remained on high alert, careful to walk closely to the wall so that she may disappear through a doorway with some excuse or another if a servant caught her before he did. A thousand stories were swiftly born and extinguished. She was certain she wouldn't be caught off guard.

All of her defense, however, was for the wrong adversary. When she encountered him every word carefully chosen in preparation wilted in the back of her throat. He was standing at the corner, leaning his back against the wall, cloaked, as always, in his black robes. When she stopped he turned to look at her with a large grin. Her breathing stopped, those withered remains choking her. The man took a step closer to her.

"How are we, Lady Phantomhive?" He asked, seemingly gliding to her. "The Earl says that you've been on bedrest for quite some time." Rachel couldn't find the breath to answer him. Undertaker continued to speak, circling around her as if to inspect her. "He tells me it's your illness acting up again. I think it's a bad case of hysteria, ihihihi…" He gently wrapped his fingers around her arm. Rachel let out a small sigh.

"U-Undertaker…" She mumbled, her voice soft and weak, to her dismay. "I must speak to you… about our last meeting." Undertaker hummed and put a finger to her lips to silence her.

"It must be difficult, what with the Earl away from you at all hours…" He leaned in as he spoke, his lips softly brushing her cheekbone. He voice was lower and carried a silvery element to it. "If you need any help with that, you should let me know. Ihihihihi…." The next moment he was gone from her side. The mortician's departure was so swift, and Rachel's reaction time so hindered, the poor woman did not even know which direction he had run off to. She was left only with his parting words. They seemed to encircle her, so real to her they had their own heartbeat. They companionship inflamed her cheeks and sent a wanton ache down her stomach. He couldn't have meant want she thought… Rachel silently cursed herself for ever touching that forsaken book. She tried to reassure herself that it wasn't the man, but the book that had corrupted her. It would not matter now where she placed the blame now, however. The damage was done. She was set on a path she could not escape from.

That night she slept alone. Vincent notified her at supper that he must leave immediately to Grays. He carefully informed her that the business he must attend to may keep him away for several days. Rachel wouldn't allow any disappoint to show. She simply smiled and wished him a safe journey. Assured him that she would count the days until his return. How painful it was.

She was her weakest when the sun had set. Without her husband by her side to restrain her sinful fantasies, Rachel's thoughts were left to wander. She imagined what it would be like to have the Undertaker in bed beside her. She imagined him with the same carnal passion as that gardener. She ran her hand down her thighs, wondering what his fingers would feel like against her bare skin. Her heart danced and her blood tingled. She let out a sigh and turned onto her side. She knew what she would do went dawn broke. She was a wife, yes. A lady absolutely. But, she was still human, still the descendent of Eve who had eaten that cursed fruit. And this illness in her chest, so close to her heart, had destroyed her.

The next day Rachel's heart was aflutter. She paced rapidly through the great hall, grateful that the servants were too busy and too trusting of her health as of late to check on her, lest they come to believe she had gone insane. Vincent had meant for letters to be sent out to his colleagues to notify them of his sudden departure. Rachel intercepted only one, knowing that in the letters absence that man would wander to the manor, as was his habit the last few weeks. She hid herself behind the door of an empty room. Pinching the edges of the white envelope tightly, she looked down at it. Just how long would it be until that man returned? Would it be two days, or even four? Would he be here before Vincent came back? And how would she steal him away without the servants noticing he had even stepped foot into the manor. Rachel bit her lip. Perhaps, there was an easier way to execute her plan.

She made sure Ciel was busy with his lessons and that Abigail was out of sight. The woman had been so uncharacteristically quiet the past few days, it was the perfect opportunity for Rachel to escape. She quickly returned to the drawing room where she hastily wrote two letters. Vincent's letter she had set aflame. The smoke did not have the same healing qualities as the nitre-paper, but it did not cripple her, either. She made her way to the stables, all the while desperately hoping that her plan would allow her unsupervised entry to the East End of London. She surely must have gone mad, to think that she could ever execute this plan without some sort complication. But her altered mental state would not allow her to entertain the various ways everything could go horribly wrong. As she came closer, she found herself exceedingly fortunate to find that the only occupants of the stable were the two young grooms, neither of them beyond the age of fourteen. Perhaps she truly could bring about her ludicrous plot.

"Pardon me," She called to them. "May I have a moment of your time?" The two boys stopped what they were doing and turned to look at her. "I need you two boys to do a favor for me… May I have your names?"

"Peter…" One of the boys timidly replied, after some time had passed.

"I'm Edgar…" The other replied.

"Right," Rachel smiled. "What lovely names. Would you boys like to earn a little extra pocket money?"

"Yes, ma'am," The boys said in unison, their eyes lighting up.

"Now you must keep this a secret, do not tell anyone, understood?" She spoke in a sweet and airy voice. Putting a finger to her lips, she winked at them. The two boys nodded.

"Now, do either of your boys know how to drive the carriage?"

"I do!" Edgar's hand shot up. "Old man Abraham taught me!"

"Very good! Now… Peter, was it?" Rachel held out one of the letters to the young boy. "Dear, I need you to make yourself scarce for a bit of time, understood? After a few hours have passed, present yourself to the maids who will be wandering the grounds. Give to them this letter, and tell them that you have forgotten about it. Okay?"
"Yes ma'am!" Peter exclaimed, taking hold of the letter with his filthy hands.

"And Edgar, I have a big job for you. I need you to take me to London. To the funeral parlor in East End… Do you know where that is?"
"Yes ma'am!" Edgar exclaimed, giving her a salute. "But… why is that, miss?" His hand lowered slightly.

"My dear friend has passed…" Rachel quickly said, shifting her expression to that of sadness. "She was a poor woman, and I wish to deliver to the undertaker a gown for her to be dressed in."

"Oh. I'm sorry, miss." Rachel smiled. "I'll return shortly. Please ready the carriage."

"Yes ma'am!"

Rachel rushed to her bedroom to gather her things. She wandered through the hallways to observe the activity of the maids. She could not locate any one, not even Abigail. She thought to herself that perhaps she shouldn't depart, for the atmosphere seemed to strange. But oh, she had become a primitive creature. Her reason could not overpower her basic want. Once all had been secured, Rachel made her way to the stable, where the carriage stood ready. She breathed a sigh and slipped into the carriage. As it pulled onto the road apprehension started to consume her. But even stronger than the feeling of doubt, was the exhilarating feeling of excitement.