The last eight days weighed on her like lead, each hour feeling like a dumbbell strapped to her arms, her legs, and especially her eyelids. She was going to bludgeon him with a leg of lamb the next time he suggested that they celebrate both Easters when they came this close together, even if they weren't hosting either of them. (If, of course, he suggested that they host one or both Easters, especially both, when they were close together, she was going to bludgeon him with a leg of lamb and then roast him on a spit, preferably with herbs stuffed somewhere unpleasant.) She was fortunate not to need a blanket, because she didn't have the energy to pick one up and slide under it. She fell straight onto the bed, eyes closed before her head hit the pillow, out so cold that she didn't notice him shove her into proper alignment. One leg hanging off the bed and one arm trapped in an awkwardly bent position did not make for restful sleeping, or a happy woman when she woke up the next morning.

Half-consciously, she rolled over onto her side, facing away from him. She always did that. It bothered him. He had no idea that in another place and time, she slept on the other side of the bed, facing a woman whose blue eyes were the same as hers and the soft curve of whose smile echoed hers. All he could do was put an arm around her waist and pull her close to him; at least they could be together physically if he could not reach her emotionally.

She dreams, and when she dreams, she dreams of pale blue skies and a gentle yellow sun darting through fluffy white clouds. The colors are everywhere: daffodils, bluebells, and baby's breath carpet the valley, she wears a sky blue bikini…

And then there is Brooke, glorious, golden hair like spilled ambrosia falling loose, blue eyes fixed on her and only her, wearing nothing but a blinding smile of brilliant white teeth and what looks like a Playboy bunny's outfit. Brooke's mouth is honey-sweet against hers, and she cannot restrain her moans as Brooke's lips and tongue move down her jawline to her neck and throat, nibbling at her soft skin. Brooke's hands run over her back, rubbing firmly but gently to ease her tense muscles into smooth planes, and go further and further down until they are against the backs of her thighs, and then they move further in, Brooke's fingers in her hair.

She pulls Brooke down into the soft bed of flowers, crushing the daffodils and bluebells beneath them, leaving stains against their pale skins and filling the air with a sweet, earthy smell. Brooke pulls the bikini bottom over her hips, the fabric gently caressing her skin until it falls to the ground, and unfastens the scrap of fabric over her breasts. The sun's warmth on her skin feels good, so good that she reaches with shaking hands to undress Brooke in turn, to feel Brooke's skin hot and vibrant against hers with nothing between. Soon Brooke's clothes disappear with hers, and neither of them cares that they have. There is nothing in the world but Brooke with her, against her, inside her, around her, kissing her, feeling her, touching her, tasting her, loving her. There is no sight but that of Brooke over her, two streams of brilliant hair framing her beautiful face. There is no sound but Brooke's pants and her moans as Brooke finds her spot with delicate fingers. There is no taste but Brooke in her mouth, salt and honey. There is no smell but the daffodils and bluebells smeared on Brooke's skin, and the familiar scent of her own sex.

Her world pulses and flashes white, and when her vision clears, when her hands have steadied and her mind has calmed, she knows that the only thing that can bring her to greater heights is giving Brooke the same pleasure that Brooke gave her. She reaches out…

She will wake from the dream one of these hours, wake to an arm slung around her waist and a hand spread across her abdomen. She will come back to the knowledge that she did not choose the hedonistic pleasure of the dream. She will stiffen for a moment, just a moment, and he will not notice before she softens in his embrace. She will curse herself and her assurances that she knows her heart. She will close her sky blue eyes to reality. She will recall the bright blazing fire that is her love for Brooke, and she will remind herself that passion burns itself out, that she and Brooke would never have lasted forever. She will reassure herself that she did right in choosing the steady warmth of a hearth fire, the warmth she can feel in his breath behind her ear. She will feel the love for him that she bears, the love that was enough for her to bind herself to him in the eyes of their families and God.

And she will grieve that she did not take the chance on Brooke's passion lasting forever, a love for the ages.