forum Of Quills and Hearts (OxO) {Closed}

Started September 26, 2022 by @ScotchTapeWorm group

tune

Did I already make one rp today? Yes. Is that going to stop me from making another? Absolutely not! So, some preliminary information: I need practice writing letters in a vaguely antiquated style(long story), but I find actually writing fake letters to be really boring. So, obviously, the next best thing to do is make a rp. I thought it would make for a fun back and forth and shake up my usual style a little bit!

The premise is this: Delilah Carmine is the only daughter of an extremely wealthy and affluent duke. She's delayed being married off for her fathers political machinations through luck, wit, and sheer desperation. She's essentially locked in her own house, not being able to leave the grounds until she agrees to start seeing suitors, which she has, up to this point, staunchly refused to do. So Delilah is bored, and lonely, but mostly bored. So she starts sending out random letters, a couple dozen randomly sent out through various means, where she essentially asks for a pen pal, someone to write to her and keep her company through ink. She receives only one positive response from someone. Whoever joins essentially.

I wanted to mix roleplaying with letter writing, because why not? It will involve some traditional rp, as I love to describe reactions and side plots, but mostly letters. It might be a high bar, but I want to push myself, really write lengthy letters that would at least partially mimic a real one. If no one decides to join, I'll probably just continue this by myself, because I really do need the practice. I would like this to eventually become a romance, but I am so bad at writing anything that is not an incredibly slow burn. I understand its not an orthodox prompt, but I think it could be fun. I won't veto magic or more out there settings if it so desired, but please let me know if that's what you want before we start!

Of course:
-andrew (Our Supreme Lord and Overseer)'s rules apply.
-Anything too intimate is a fade to black.
-Writing samples would be highly welcome!
-I'm going to need long form responses, and I'll try to give you the same in return!
-Ask me ALL the questions, I love questions and will be willing to answer them!

My dearest reader,

I hope that this letter finds you well and in adequately moderate condition! This has most likely reached you through the oddest of circumstances and I do hope that I will be forgiven for such a breach in etiquette. For, one must understand the direness of my situation. I have no knowledge of you, whoever you may be, but I would wager my life that you have at the very least heard of me. Be not alarmed, sir or madam, on receiving this letter, for you were likely chosen by the whims of fate or the twisting and ever changing hands of a god. It is entirely possible that you may have surmised my identity through the name on the envelope, and I assure you that it is accurate. And if you can not read the name on the envelope, I gather that this letter will be quite worthless to you and you of even less value to me. My name is Delilah Carmine, and after much rumination and dwelling on my wishes, I have come to the conclusion that my circle in society has been narrowed down quite unfairly.

My father, his lordship the Duke, in his infinite wisdom and impatience, has decided that my not being wed, with the ever approaching eve of my nineteenth birthday has been an act of willful and liberal disobedience on my part. I assure you that these rumors are only.. Perhaps partially true. So until I agree to entertain suitors once more, I have been apprehensive in doing so I’m afraid, I have been confined to only the eastern wing of my fathers estate, and have been forbidden from leaving under any circumstances. Further apology to my father the Duke would be absurd on my part, and seeing how I have been shunned from welcoming guests of any sort other than eligible men, I have taken the initiative to reach out through unconventional means.

Reduced to spending my evenings and mornings spent in idleness, cut off from friends and society that befits a young woman such as myself, the next option was to find correspondence with people that my father could not possibly object to, seeing how he has no earthly notion that I am doing this. I have taken the liberty of making 4 and 20 copies of this exact letter that you now hold in your hand. Painstakingly made to be uniform and neat, with only the most minor of variations between. Much time was spent making certain each stroke of the pen was precise and that these letters were sent out to different potential correspondence by varying means. I think it only fair that in return, I would be sent a letter back, using the appropriate labeling as shown on the back of the envelope.

I am more than starved for entertainment, so making a mutual exchange of letters would be beneficial for you and myself. If need be, I will provide you with payment or pleasantries as required to continue conversation. If someone is reading this letter aloud to you, please do not trifle yourself with responding, let the one doing the reading do so, or at the very least to dictate what you speak back to me. I sincerely hope that I receive a reply and I am shortly resolved to send out more letters should I be greeted with silence. In a responding letter, perhaps include a name, status, and preferably some amiable subject for conversation. Just as a few minor suggestions.

Yours truly,
Delilah Carmine, daughter of his lordship the Duke and late Duchess.

P.S. Do reply soon, I have been quite put out with the unfortunate turnout. I cannot fathom why persons have not responded.

Franklyn was waiting patiently at his desk. He could see the street winding up to the front gate of the estate, and the mail carrier had not come today.
Franklyn waited every day for the mailman, knowing it was a chance to get outside in the sunlight without scrutiny. His parents were always asking questions otherwise, and it was nice to have a chance to walk outside without someone looking over his shoulder.
The desk he sat at was a gorgeous mahogany piece, inlaid with bright brass and gleaming copper bars and slides. It had been a birthday present from his father on his tenth birthday, when his parents had decided he would need to begin learning how to run the estate's bookkeeping side. It had been huge then, but he'd grown a bit, and now, it was comfortable.
He was looking down at the top of it, thinking how many things he'd done there, when a motion caught his attention out on the street. He looked up excitedly, and was rewarded with the sight of Jameson the mail carrier walking up towards their gates. Franklyn scrambled out of his seat and room, down the stairs, and out of the front door of the house. "Getting the mail!" he called over his shoulder.
He stepped out into the sunlight, felt it warm his fae and ease his soul. He walked slowly down to the gate, enjoying his moment.
Jameson smiled and handed him a stack of letters through the gate when he arrived. "Good afternoon, Franklyn."
Franklyn smiled warmly at him. "Hello, Jameson. Anything special today?" The mail carrier was one of his only friends, and made sure to stop by whether or not the Bergs got any mail, just to give Franklyn the chance to come say hello.
The mail carrier quirked an eyebrow. "Yes, actually. It's mixed in there with the bills and stuff. I had several that were similar today."
Franklyn dug through the small pile till he found the obvious letter. It was in a different envelope from the average, handwritten and addressed to 'Every 5th house.'
"Who is it for?" asked, confused by the odd address.
Jameson shrugged. "I've been delivering them to every fifth house, and this is my last one. It doesn't say it's to your father, so maybe your mother? It's from a Lady Carmine."
Frankyln turned it over, and saw the return address was indeed a Lady Carmine. His mother didn't know anyone like that… "I'll ask."
Jameson smiled at him. "I'm sure you'll figure it out. I gotta get going." He waved as he walked off. "I'll see you tomorrow!"
Franklyn waved at him, before looking back down at the odd letter. He thought quickly, before folding the mysterious envelope and putting it in his pocket. He walked back up the lane slowly and into the house, leaving the rest of the mail where his family would expect it, and headed up to his room.

He sat back down at his desk and pulled out the letter, contemplating it. Lovely handwriting, odd address, multiple of the same, sent from a noble- his interest was too much.
He tore open the envelope and unfolded the nice stationery. He was a quick reader and had read through the odd plea for help in under a minute.
The postscript made him laugh, and he found himself thinking Perhaps if you spoke less like a noble, and more like a normal person, normal people would respond.
However, he read the section describing the lady's isolation again, and his heart went out to her. He identified with that struggle, and as he read her name again, he made a decision that would change everything.

He pulled out a shet of clean paper, dipped a fresh quill in ink, and began to write back.

Franklyn, 1500 Berg Lane

My dearest writer,

Your letter did indeed find me in moderate condition. You are forgiven for your breach in etiquette, as your letter and its means of delivery has provided an entertaining afternoon. My dear mail carrier was most amused by your persistence in sending out the multiple copies. He saved the last for me, knowing I would enjoy the mystery and intrigue that came with it.

I must ask your forgiveness in return, for I have no knowledge of who you are. Your name, though it rolls off the tongue quite nicely, is not familiar to me. I am indeed able to read, and as you will shortly see, I am able to write as well, a marvelous combination, I assure you. Though my ability may soon be in question, if I am unable to complete this and sent it out by the evening post. I shall endeavor to have a response to you shortly, if you should ever write to me again.

I am unfamiliar with a Lord Carmine; perhaps you could give his full title, Duke of __. My family is familiar with most of the other nobles around us, but my position does not allow for me to know the names as well as I should like.

The treatment of you does sound very unfair, and unlike the sort of discipline one would employ against an adult child. However, I am not incredulous in reading it, because my parents are of much the same mind. I am 17 years of age, going on 18 in less than a month, set to inherit much of my father's lands. I have not been confined to my house, but my every move is tracked and questioned, such that I have no privacy in any aspect of my life. In fact, it will be only through great pains that I am able to send this letter at all, without having it questioned and confiscated. I will endeavor to do so, largely because your quest for entertainment and connection much mirrors my own. Perhaps we can find some solace in our mutual isolation. Or perhaps I may simply provide a source of humor to you in my fumblings.

My name is Franklyn. Amiable topics of conversation often fail me in the moment, so I shall do my best to keep a running list of them through my day. Currently, I am possessed of one question which I hope will spark some interest: What are you writing on? I am writing this letter from the mahogany desk my parents gifted me for my tenth birthday. It is massive, and I often wish I had more use for it. Thank you for giving me a chance to use it for its intended purpose.

I do hope you find my handwriting legible. It has been a plague my entire life, and I fear I may put you off responding by sending an illegible letter. Although, if you have gotten this far, perhaps you will send something back just to tell me to write it all again. I shall dictate if that is the case, because I would indeed enjoy a correspondence with you.

Sincerely,

Franklyn.

P.S. Persons may not have responded due to intimidation by your writing style. Perhaps try more colloquialisms? You write like some of my father's friends, stuffy men with no life. I trust you are not one of those in disguise.

Delilah sat at her window, as was her want to do.
She liked to imagine it made her look like one of those princesses trapped in a tower, from the fairy tales she'd read as a child. Hair that came down to her waist, tied up in intricate braids, staring wistfully out of a window with no glass. She still read a few of those books actually, some of them were still stuffed carefully underneath one of her spare mattresses that the maids never bothered to move or clean, having sat there for as long as anyone could remember.
Delilah wasn't really trapped in a tower however, nothing so romantic, her fathers estate liked to spread outwards, rather than upwards, like in some of the cities. Land was valuable, so showing off how much one could fill the land with architecture and carefully manicured gardens was his way of showing off. Still, she could dream. Sighing melodramatically, the young girl placed her hand against the glass, mimicking a picture she'd once seen on the cover of a romance book.

Her keen ears picked up quickly on the giggling behind her. Delilah turned her head slowly, a lady must never rush in anything, she shot an arch look at her two handmaidens. Kit and Alya were both young girls, scarcely a year younger than the mistress that they served. All three of the girls had practically grown up together, daughters of some other servants that had served the Carmines for generations. Currently the two of them were peeking around a pillar, dissolving further into giggles once they had realized they'd been spotted.

Delilah huffed, waving her friends over, her cross face undercut by the playfulness in her eyes. "You two are horrible. What are you playing at, making fun of me?" She even crossed her arms to prove her point, but her smile could not be contained, she was struggling enough as is not to join her friends in their laughing. Perhaps she hadn't looked quite so sensible as she'd been imagining.

Kit tried to take a breath, but couldn't bring herself to quiet her giggles, the girl frequently got into fits like these and wouldn't stop until she had hiccups, and would need a glass of water to calm herself again. Alya was a bit more in control of herself, the most mature of their little trinity, she even looked the oldest, with her jet black hair held away from her face with a cloth, framing her delicate face quite handsomely.
"Terribly sorry my lady, it's just that-" Alya began, quickly to be cut off by Kit, who had recovered briefly enough to interject into the conversation. "Y-You looked so serious!"

The girl flushed slightly, looking mildly embarrassed. She was lucky enough that she was practicing poses in a hallway that few maids ever came down, otherwise Delilah really would never hear the end of it. Alya smiled fondly at both of them, as Kit began imitating the pose that Delilah had made, dramatically serenading some distant figure none of them could see.

"Kit! Now you're just being rude! We all know our dear Delilah wants nothing less than to be swept away by her fairytale prince." Alya always spoke sternly, but her eyes had a delightful sparkle to them that always gave the young handmaiden an air of teasing, even when her words were serious.

"I do not! And after all this trouble I've gone through not to get married, honestly Alya!" Delilah said hotly, she may enjoy the fables, but she certainly did not need another random man coming to her window and asking for her hand, like in the stories. Despite the punishment, the young lady still found herself lucky, not many girls her age had the luxury of being afforded rebellion. Her father thought the idea of her not being available would only 'increase her price' among any potential suitors, as all men want what they can't have. Or so her father said.
Kit suddenly perked up, finally gathering her breath long enough to string more than a few words together. She carefully removed an envelope from her apron, holding it between two fingers with a massive grin on her face.
"Oh! Oh, dearest, you will be so excited to hear- You've received a response!" Kit handed the letter to her mistress, who took it with both hands almost reverently. She turned it over a few times in her hands, then grinned, rushing with her friends to her bedroom. The situation called for more appropriate seating than the middle of a dusty hallway! Her first letter! A response to something she'd sent out of her own initiative!

All three girls sat on the very end of Delilah's bed, practically piled on top of each other to all get a good look at the fabled letter. All three squealed, shaking each other, more for Delilah's benefit than for theirs, the two girls knew how anxiously their mistress had been awaiting a response. She'd been pestering both of them about it nonstop for the past week.
Opening it swiftly, silence quickly swallowed the room as three pairs of eyes tried to devour every word on the page as quickly as possible.

Delilah was at first struck by the handwriting, it certainly was not the best she'd seen, but not the worst, and if one squinted a bit it almost looked like cursive. The wording was far more elegant than the penmanship however, and her new friend seemed to be in possession of a sharp wit, making all the girls pause for a moment to re read a few of the passages, grinning at each other. Delilah was partially baffled by the confusion with her fathers name. There was only one Duke with the name Carmine and the Duke of Eastershire was well known, but then again, perhaps the stranger was unfamiliar with the area or foreign, though unlikely with their assertions of inheriting land, so at the very least well bred. She found the letter quite delightful, perhaps a kindred spirit in writing form.
Franklyns manners were perfectly affable, though a bit teasing, but that could be forgiven in a young man of good breeding.

Delilah surrendered the letter to her handmaidens, letting them pick apart each line as she herself flopped onto her bed. Thinking to herself. This was surely too good to be true! Perhaps her father was playing some cruel joke on her? But that seemed too outlandish for a man as boorish as the Duke… She sat up suddenly, a delightfully absurd idea sprung into her mind.

"Kit! If I sign my next letter on your back, do you think I would be allowed to say I write my letters on the backs of my maids? Would that be a wicked thing to say to a man I've just met?" Delilah grinned, Alya already thinking ahead and getting a fresh sheet of parchment and her favorite quill ready. The girl did have a favorite writing spot, there was a truly lovely desk in one of the drawing rooms that was positioned next to a large window that let in the light from just the right angle.

"No, do it, oh do it dearest. Imagine what his face would be like when he reads that, oh you must write that now!" Kit was delighted with the idea, clapping her hands, and trying to shoo her lady out of the room, the hastier she left the room, the sooner she could start on her letter! Delilah laughed lightly, letting herself be hurried, she herself wanted a quick response, she wouldn't want to keep her new friend waiting after all.

My dearest reader,

I̶ ̶a̶m̶ ̶a̶b̶s̶o̶l̶u̶t̶e̶l̶y̶ ̶e̶c̶s̶t̶a̶t̶i̶c̶- The words here were hastily scribbled out, the hand writing, while still elegant, has lost most of the careful control the previous letter, the loops are larger, the letters more slanted, and there are little spots of ink that the writer forgot to wipe away, it seems as if whoever wrote was in a hurry I am more than relieved that your letter was given to you unharmed! I have never before posted anything, giving it to another to deliver was all quite novel for me! I wasn't certain every envelope would make it to their destinations, seeing from.. The silence I have received thus far. But I am greatly heartened that my letter would bring amusement to both the deliverer and the recipient, and I am even more glad that he took the initiative to give my letter to someone who would receive it well. Give your carrier my sincerest thanks, and my apologies for the odd task, I know it was unorthodox.

Your flattery, dear sir, for my name, while of course any such one would take kind words to heart, I am afraid I see right through your thin ploy. The compliments were simply meant to soften the blow that you haven't the faintest idea who I am, which, I must admit is quite refreshing, so no offense is taken on my end! I do hope you will extend the same geniality to me. My father is the Duke of Eastershire, though the title is mostly empty. He was a merchant first and a lord second, I assure you. He managed to weasel his way to peerage through several large favors promised to the crown, and as much as I admire you from our short correspondence, I think we'd both find it wise to leave that topic at that!

My father finds it most infuriating that I am his only child, though the rest of us can not fathom why he has not bothered to remarry and try to sire a male. Fortunately for me, he has not done so, but I still am unable to inherit the family fortune should my father most unexpectedly pass away, but my mothers fortune was more modest, but would allow me to live quite comfortably I believe. It is part of the reason I have had so many suitors over the year, my fathers money is the a very tempting prospect for those who hear of it. I think that may be part of the reason my father has so allowed me to delay my marriage, once it has passed and all the accounts settled, he would be vulnerable to assassination, his blood would be in the water so to speak.

Still, it pains me to hear of you so stifled! I would have imagined you would be afforded more freedom than I, at the very least being free to send letters to whom you please. (I am aware that us sending letters freely would be considered by some to be scandalous, as we are not engaged, but I beg you to pay no mind to that. Please.) I was fortunate enough to have two loyal handmaidens who were more than willing to post my letters, you must tell me how you managed to smuggle your written contraband out! I appreciate your words more than you know, and it warms my heart greatly to know that there is a kindred soul out there, even distantly. Perhaps I should be a proper lady and do the right thing of assuring you that your words and anecdotes are most charming and gallant, rather than fumbling as you have described. However, I have a reputation to uphold, so I'm afraid I will have to laugh at any mistakes you make, otherwise who will believe that I am truly as wild as rumored?

I thought long and hard about your offered question, and I have come to two conclusions. One sensible and the other delightfully absurd. For most of my letters, I write on the beautiful little table that I am quite in raptures with, it is perfectly sized for me and was a gift from the late Duchess when I was young. It's placed in my favorite drawing room just so to let the light in perfectly, and is so covered by stains from ink over the years that I'm afraid it looks like it had contracted pox and never fully recovered! Yet, I love it, and it is mine, so that is quite enough for me. Perhaps you feel similarly with your own mahogany beast? The way you describe it does make it sound rather grand. It is probably much better to write on than a rickety desk of many years, but you are fully entitled to what you believe, and I stand firmly in the corner of my own.

For the other answer, I have taken in the habit of signing my letters on the back of my maids. My dear friend Kit, insists that it brings good luck. Perhaps its an old wives tale, but she still demands that I do it occasionally, and she was in an absolute fit for me to mention it to you. I hope you don't mind that your letter was shared, I dare say my two attendants enjoyed it more than I from the way they reacted! You've most assuredly succeeded in amusing us, if that was your intention, I only hope that, while I do not possess your same wit, that you will accept my letter in return and that it brings you a measure of solace that only two lonely souls can bring one another.

Your handwriting, while atrocious, was legible after a bit of deliberation. You are beyond reproach in this matter though, as I daresay it was the mahogany desks fault, unused as it is to being written on often. Now that I have given you an excuse that you and I both will no doubt find ridiculous. I will not press you on the matter, you are free from any mocking I could put together, but don't tell anyone. Like I said, I have a reputation to uphold!. Do not bother yourself with dictating to some other person, perhaps like my desk your writing is perfect not in spite of its imperfections, but because of them. Do write back soon, your current letter will only keep my handmaids entertained for so long, and the bloodhounds are very persistent about getting a response. In your next letter I'm sure we can think of things to talk about, even if it only ends up being commiserating!

Your grateful new friend,

Delilah

P.S. I'm afraid you've found me out. My secret identity, I fear! I can assure you while I am not an old man, and likely not a friend of your fathers, I am quite stuffy. I've spoken like this from the womb, and will till I am dead. Maybe I'll grow on you!

P.P.S. My maids, Kit and Alya send their regards, you'll have to be careful with how charming you make yourself appear in print, Kit has a weak heart, and I'm no sure she could take much more! She's been swooning all afternoon. For the furniture's sake, try not to make her fall in love with you?

The paper itself is scented lightly with perfume, and the envelope is lightly embossed. It was either arrogantly over the top, or whoever made it had far too much time on their hands. The wax seal is the only simple thing, not even colored, and seemingly pressed down with a book, rather than a stamp. Giving it an odd shape.

Franklyn was bored out of his mind this morning. He was sitting in a meeting with his father and a potential client. Franklyn had shown a flair for numbers in his youth, and his father had immediately farmed him out to do accounting and bookkeeping for people, hoping to monopolize on the boy's skill.
Mr. Berg was a merchant, a businessman, and terrible at his job. On his own, he would likely have been a pauper. However, his wife was brilliant and wealthy before he married her, and so he married into money and brains. It was the only reason the Bergs were well off.
Franklyn had been born with his mother's business acumen, but his father's frail health. The man was sick 2 weeks out of every month, at a minimum, and Franklyn had struggled very hard not to follow that pattern. He was still sick often, and had the soft look of a boy who couldn't handle much exertion.
He had also inherited his father's magic.
But in a meeting with a client, none of that particularly mattered. Nothing mattered, in fact, because he was so incredibly bored.
His father signed off on the deal, agreeing for Franklyn to run the books for this noble's young son. Franklyn shook the man's hand, and trudged up to his room, where he slumped at the desk.

Just in time to see Jameson waving at him with an envelope.

~~~~
He read the letter with a tad bit of awe. He knew of the Duke of Eastershire, his father greatly admired the man for doing exactly what Mr. Berg had been trying to do for years. Franklyn hadn't realized his name was Carmine, or that he had a daughter.
The letter smelled lovely, the wax seal made him smile, and the antics of the three ladies involved had him chuckling to himself.
He started to write back, before scrapping the first draft. He began to write a second, before scrapping that as well.
He was frustrated that he didn't have more to offer her for entertainment. His life was so… so meh that he didn't feel he could match her energy.
A knock on his door interrupted his thoughts. His mother was there, checking on him, and delivering a small black book.
"Your father says to tell you this is the journal and spending account of your new client. He's young, so he tracks his money by journaling it, which is why his father needs a bookkeeper, to make sense of the spending."
Franklyn had gathered that. "Thanks, Mother."
She smiled and left him to it.

He sat down at his desk and set the journal on it, sighing as he went back to thinking about the problem of his life. If only his life were as interesting as some of his clients' lives, he'd have more to share-
Franklyn's eyes widened as he glanced at the letter, open on his desk, and then back at the journal, also open on his desk, and an idea entered his mind.

He pulled out a new sheet of paper, started reading, and began taking notes.

My dearest writer (and esteemed friends),

I am glad that my letter has so relieved your boredom. May future letters continue to be a source of laughter to you all!

I can assure you that our postal service is quite efficient in my area. I do, of course, have a personal courier that managed to procure your letters and get one to me. It seems we are both indebted to him. His name is Jameson, and he is a dear friend and advisor. He requires no apology, but I shall convey your thanks. I am also sorry to hear that you have received only this answer to your letters. I can only hope that my responses shall make up for the entertainment you have missed from others.

I shall take your advice and leave the topic of your father and his title where you have placed it, but thank you for clarifying. Your sight must be incredible to have seen through the smoke and mirrors I placed in my last letter to conceal my confusion, and I applaud you on your astute assertation. I indeed had no clue who you were.

But, my Lady, I am most pleased to have made your acquaintance at last.

I should clarify my own personage to you. My name is Franklyn Ottoman, and I am the son of Thibodeaux Ottoman, Earl of Leicesterton. I am his eldest son, and in line to inherit the Earldom when my father passes, may he live long. I also am an only child, alone in my father's affections. I do not share the unenviable malady of being female, and so cannot hope to comment on your situation. I can only offer my condolences that your existence seems to not be enough to satisfy the Duke.
It sounds as if you are in quite the conundrum, in reference to your suitor situation. If you do not marry, you are confined to a life of solitude, although I am gladdened by the presence of two such delightful maids in your vicinity (Hello to Kit and Alya, by the way.), but that is not a life I would wish on anyone. However, your option to free yourself is to immediately tie yourself down to another man, for whom you may have no love or affection, and who may ostensibly care for you, but only the part of you that is rich! Furthermore, the irony of your father pushing you to marry by jailing you in your house, and simultaneously seeking o preserve his own life by keeping you single… Madame, my heart is with you, to offer whatever comfort I can in such a trial. May you find whatever solace you can in that thought.
As for my own stifling life, it is not so terribly in the particularities, just in the lack of privacy. There is nothing I can do without being forced to give a full acount of every detail, a moment by moment run through of my activities, to enure I have not besmirched the family reputation. I have indeed been cognizant of the fact that we are engaging in scandalous behavior of such a degree as to make the maids giggle, and have thus endeavored to keep my last letter a secret. My maids, not as collected as your two lovely ladies, would not have been able to handle the strain of keeping such a secret, and so I was forced to smuggle my letter out personally. A word to my courier was enough, as Jameson is a most trustworthy man. I am afraid that may not be the tale of smuggler's derring-do that you were looking for, but your own escapades are appreciated.
Your reassurances about my fumbling would be very kind, and also unbelievable. I know who is writing this letter, and I know that his fumbling is just what it claims to be: fumbling. So please, grow your 'wild' reputation at my expense, as I will be laughing along with you.
I could not have hoped for a more interesting answer to my simple question. My desk and your table seem to have much in common; my desk and your maid, less so. My mahogany beast is a signal of my father's desire for opulence, and is much more grand than I shall ever need. Indeed, the grandest thing I have written upon it up to this point, is this series of letters we are engaged in.
Your maid is quite right about her superstitions; I could feel the luck rolling off the envelope as soon as I received it.
And to clarify, I am not in the least bit bothered by you sharing. In fact, it delights me to know that my awful handwriting can be read by three people. I have tripled my hoped-for outcome. I do appreciate your restraint in mocking my handwriting. Too much abuse and my hand will begin to shake, which will only serve to make things worse. That could be a vicious cycle we find ourselves in, and you have taken the first step to avoid it. Well Done!
I will give you a tale to keep the bloodhounds entertained. Today, I was able to take a long ride on a horse I recently purchased. He is a fiery sort, from the southwest deserts, and has only recently been tamed. When I say fiery, I do mean exactly what I say. The desert horses are known to burst into flames at high speeds, their manes and hooves in particular being susceptible to such a reaction. It makes for a very interesting excursion, when the worry of being burned is thrown in with the exhilaration that comes from high speed.
I rode along the Blue Marches, the rolling hills of tandygrass crunching beneath us. It has been a beautiful day, with the sun hidden behind fluffy clouds at regular intervals, and I most enjoyed the chance for some wind in my hair.
I have named the horse Tabor, and have hopes of acquiring a whole herd of such horses, so that he will not feel the loneliness you and I suffer from. I have never visited the southwest deserts. The trip is on my list for later in life, when I have my fullest measure of freedom.
Where would you go, given the chance? And have you any pets, or animal friends, as I prefer to call them?
I await your response with bated breath.

Sincerely,
Franklyn

P.S. Your personality may grow on me, but I will keep my manner of speaking till the last. I shall likely become one of those stuffy old men if I'm not careful.

P.P.S. My regards to Kit and Alya, once again, and my sincerest apologies that my charm has caused such duress! I shall endeavor to be more of a brute in the future.

The letter was written much clearer, and by the way the ink appeared to have dried, he'd taken his time in order to write clearly. It carried no wax seal, merely a drop of resin on the envelope's edge, and was adorned only with a simple drawing of a rose under the address.

Delilah had always been considered by most to be uncommonly pretty.
Her face was symmetrical as far as a human face could be, with almond shaped blue eyes and golden hair. She looked quite a lot like a porcelain doll, almost scarily thin, like the slightest nudge would shatter her into a million pieces, and pale as milk. A face more in the Grecian style, with a strong nose, but soft jawline. Her long hair was always put up in ringlets each morning, and then allowed to relax into soft waves afterwards, unless some new style was devised by her attendants, in which case she was dressed up, really with no say in the matter.

Her dresses were chosen ahead of time for her, a closet she never got to see was filled with her clothes and Delilah was dressed each morning with something flattering. Colors varied by the day, and the girl couldn’t quite put a finger on whether she’d seen what she wore before, or if she was given a new dress. And yet, could she really complain? She was dressed, fed, and taken care of. A bit of freedom wasn’t really that much of a price for luxury was it?

The late Duchess of Eastershire had passed when Delilah was eight years old. Taken by some unknown disease that lasted two years. No one had seen her in that time, only her husband and one doctor well trusted by the family and sworn to secrecy. It was simply ruled ‘death by disease’ by the coroner, though rumor was he’d never been allowed near the body.

Of her father, his lordship the Duke of Eastershire, he’d only married once, and by all accounts was a man of money. His sharp business sense and cunning had advanced him far in the world. Yet, that was where praise of the man usually ended. He was completely devoid of manners and was rarely seen outside of his estate, and any guests that stayed usually left with haste. The family was not known to have magic in them, the trait assumed to have been bred out of the Carmine line some five generations back, with the spell purge.

Delilah knew little of both her parents, not having the time to know her mother well enough and her father taking little interest in his daughter except for shallow visits and appearances. The young lady looked remarkably similar to her father, with softened features and her mothers eyes. Yet, when it came down to it, both had dangerous gazes, sharp and cutting. It was just that one had a much friendlier disposition and years of stifling emotions, shoving them into the farthest corners of her heart. Wrath was not an emotion a lady should feel, anger was frowned upon, and rage unthinkable.

~~~

At current, Delilah sat in one of the dining rooms, taking an early lunch. Today her father had guests, so all in the house of consequence were obliged to eat together. Her plate held a bird's portion of food, so the girl ate slowly, taking tiny bites to make what she had last longer. And while she ate, she could not be politely engaged in conversation. Delilah had always struggled to have a healthy appetite, food on most days seemed unappealing and bland, not having the same vibrant tastes so many raved about. Eating gave her little pleasure, but she ate what she could to keep Alya from worrying, though a year younger, the maid liked to mother her mistress, the three girls were close after all.
Their current guests were uncomfortable with the silence, the only sound in the great dining hall was the sound of chewing and silverware scraping against plates and teeth. Delilah knew she, as a gracious host, should have stirred up some semblance of conversation, but she quite liked watching the three men squirm under her fathers imperious gaze, none of them quite brave enough to speak before they were engaged first. It gave her a tiny sliver of satisfaction, wicked though it was.
Finishing the last bite on her plate, for once in her life the girl looked about wistfully for more. Anything to keep her busy. In fact, the moment her fork went down, one of the men pounced on the opportunity to speak, urgent to break the silence.

"Lady Carmine! You must give my compliments to whoever cooked this fine meal, it was quite extraordinary!" The man spoke with such a suave tone that was clearly forced, his words didn't come to him naturally and the only part of the meal he'd received with great satisfaction was his cup of wine. She offered him a tight lipped smile, raising a hand in mild assent. Out of the corner of her eye, Delilah could see Alya slip into the dining room holding a jug of water. She approached the table slowly, refilling cups until she came to her mistress, who as she leaned forwards, her breath ruffling her hair, whispered to her:

"My lady, we've received another letter." Alya straightened and hurried out of the room, making eye contact with Delilah once more before she left, the girls eyes seemed to smile at her.

"You know. I will tell the cooks what you thought of the meal. I'm sure they are simply dying to know. I'll attend to it at once." Delilah stood up as abruptly as she could, which was gently pushing back her chair and standing. Her father finally looked up, frowning slightly, but made no motion to stop her. Scarcely, before someone could breath another word to her, the young lady hurried out of the room, her face flushed with excitement and her swift pace. The images of the men's shocked faces made her smile widely, and she mentally thanked the dullard for giving her the slimmest chance to wiggle free.

Delilah practically ran down the hall, her skirts rippling around her in a flurry of cloth, her carefully prepared hair falling free from its braids and pins. She practically left a trail of hair equipment behind her, the tiny pings as they hit the floor urging Delilah to move faster. She arrived at her room, spinning around the door frame with a beaming grin on her face, and breathing heavily. She didn't get much opportunity to run, and the dress wasn't exactly accommodating, so she tried to calm herself, taking tiny swallows of air. Kit looked up at her mistress in shock, Alya not yet returning from delivering her message. The young handmaiden made a squeaking noise, rushing forwards to fuss over her ladies lack of decorum.

"What are you doing? You look frightful my dear! Did you run all the way?" Delilah brushed Kit off of her, a breathy laugh bubbling to her chest, the girl felt more alive than she had in weeks, the feeling suited her.

"Kit, dearest one, I'm fine! More than fine really. Alya said we received another letter and I could not wait another moment in that dreadful room! Quickly, where is it?" Kit hesitated, but her mistresses excitement was infectious, the girl bounced over to one of the wardrobes in the room, looking underneath piles of clothes for a concealed box.

"It is good to see you smile so, my lady. From the envelope it's from the same address that responded before. Oh! Do you think he'll mention me? You did say that Alya and I sent our regards? I'll never forgive you if you haven't!" Kit had short brown hair and a very round face, she handed her lady the letter carefully. Then positioned herself behind Delilah to begin fixing her hair, grabbing a handful of pins, holding a few in her mouth, her speech became mumbled and harder to understand, but was telling her some new gossip, about who did what in court, some maid in love with one of the stable boys, the like.

Delilah looked at the letter, smiling at its simplicity. She ran a finger along the drawing of the rose, her smile deepening. She finally opened the letter, her eyes quickly scanning the lines. Her first reaction was a bit of indignation that he was mocking her, in the third paragraph, but the tone of it sounded teasing. Oh how awful it was that one had to assume tone and mood from words and ink alone, rather than the sound of a voice. Reading on, Delilah paused. Ottoman? Leicesterton? The young lady wracked her brain, the names sounded familiar, just on the tip of her tongue. The land was easy enough to identify, but the name was jut eluding her. The frustrating feeling soon passed when she finally remembered. An old suitor of hers, Jeremiah, he had been one of the more tolerable ones. More interested in horses and hunting than actually courting her. The young noble had been far too much of a firebrand to deal with his own accounts, so he'd had some other person do it. He'd mentioned it once or twice what a relief it was that he could hire someone.. Named Franklyn to do it, the evidence seemed to suggest her Franklyn and this one were one and the same. The girl smiled faintly at the memory, vaguely wondering how the boy was doing. Probably still off hunting and racing horses, he never had changed much over the years.

The rest of the letter was similarly delightful, Kit who had long since abandoned fixing her ladies hair, had taken to leaning over her shoulder to read, pointing out every time she was mentioned on the paper so loudly that Delilah winced once or twice. Kit had more energy in a day than the blonde lady had in a year, sometimes she envied her maid, and other times she just noticed she was loud. Kit breathed out in awe, re-reading the bits about the desert horses with wide eyes, hand raised to her lips in shock.

"Oh.. My Lady.. He's perfect. A proper gentleman, smart, kind, I'll withhold judgement for now on handsomeness, but- I can just feel that he is. And he's brave? Horses that alight with fire! I dare say I'd faint at the very sight!" Kit's eyes sparkled with stars, the young maid off in her own world, imagining whatever it was that ran through her head. Delilah for her part, didn't quite know what to think. She was caught the tiniest bit off guard, everything in the letters had made her assume she was writing to a mild-mannered gentleman, perhaps one who enjoyed a book and a game of cards more than dangerous sports. She didn't know how to feel now that she was wrong. It was definitely exciting, and the thrill Delilah got from reading it was undeniable, but.. She shook off the feeling, allowing herself to smile again. She rolled over onto her stomach, looking at Kit with her face in her hands just like when they were children. The two girls began to pour over the letter again, giggling to each other and trying to imagine what the writer looked like.

When Alya came in, the two were still engrossed in their most amusing game, but as soon as she was spotted she was practically dragged forwards to read the letter. Having been so pounced on, she obliged, smiling fondly. Once she was done, her more sensible opinion was requested on the matter. The whole evening passed this way, until the girls convinced Delilah to write a response, peppering her with things to add and say.

"Girls! At this point write him your own letters! I would scarcely have any space left for my own words at this rate!" Delilah laughed, tapping her quill gently against it glass container. She was resolved to have better penmanship this time, since her friend had been kind enough to take care. Now.. What to write?

My dearest reader,

You'll be heartened to know that your letter arrived at the most opportune time for me, good sir. I was unfortunately engaged in a dinner with some of my fathers business partners and they were dull beyond all imagination. My maid was lovely enough to alert me of the new mail and that gave me the motivation to find a way to slip away from dinner, it was most welcome. You can now add saving a young lady to your, doubtless, long list of achievements, if it wasn't already there. From your stories one can easily imagine you climbing up Rapunzel's tower, or vanquishing some great beast, I'm sure. Your letters more than make up for any other lack of responses, I dare say that if I received a reply for every single one of those sent out, they would hardly compare, or bring me greater joy, than yours.

I can only hope that, as I previously said, you can extend forgiveness to me, while I am familiar with the territory that your father the earl is in possession of but, I am not intimately familiar with your family name! I remember just faintly it being mentioned once or twice by a friend and perhaps glimpsed it on a paper belonging to my father. My heart breaks for you! To be the only child, set to inherit, must be a great weight upon your shoulders, and one that must make your father look with both fondness and harshness upon you. Both of us may have benefited from having a sibling to bear part of the load, but we are unenviablely alone together. Though in our misery contest, I contend that I do have a slight edge. Being born female would not have been my intention had I known, it comes with far more down sides than I signed up for. If it were a 'malady' as you so succinctly described, perhaps there would be a cure, but alas. One is stuck, hm? They really should give us a contract when we are born, weighing all the positives and negatives. I wonder at how the world would look then. Would anyone be here? A philosophical debate for another time perhaps.

Kit and Alya say hello once again, and are both relieved to hear that they are not intruding on a private conversation. They wanted me to convey so many things to you that I could never hope to put them all on parchment, so I will leave it up to your boundless imagination to fill in the blanks. I have sworn them quite firmly to secrecy, and I am fortunate that I have two lovely creatures that think so highly of me, I value their opinion greatly and it is only because they have given me their hearty consent that I may speak with you so freely! (They think the world of you already.) I would be glad if your Jameson has even a fraction of their loyalty, he seems a good sort. Your own situation is both familiar and strange to me. One must be under constant scrutiny, inspected for every flaw, lest one be a stain upon the family tree. Yet, our parents have two very different approaches to avoiding that catastrophe. You are interrogated over the smallest things I imagine, while it is much easier to lock the lark in the birdcage, so to speak, in my case. Though we all know that no wise bird sings when caged.

I must admit, I have not been myself lately. I do not often take ill, as my environment discourages it, but I have found myself afflicted by a much different ailment. Just a year ago I would have blushed at such behavior as this, propriety is of the upmost importance I am sure we can both agree. It is rather exciting, and rebellion is a breath of fresh air when considering the alternatives. It is such a pain to be meek and mild all of the time. Everything in moderation you know? To torture an old metaphor, even a rose has thorns. For your sake, my friend, I hope you only ever meet roses, the sting can be quite unpleasant. I'll endeavor to remain undiscovered, every persons has heard too many stories of scandal as of late. Even if our particular breach of decorum is minor, and would be but a footnote to the world today. (I'm sure Jameson was very brave in how he valiantly carried a single letter to an address, perhaps I should be asking him to write to me instead. It would cut out in the middle man wouldn't it?)

Give my apologies to your poor hand! As well as my appreciation of its growth in character. Your last letter I barely had to squint! It was very legible, and I greatly appreciate the effort. You have nothing to fear from me, and if I ever caused your hand to tremble I know not what I would do. Likely I would never forgive myself, and then we would both be caught in a cycle with no return. We really have side stepped such a fate, perhaps it was the luck that Kit spoke of that we do so.

Your offering was greatly appreciated by the hounds, I was in fear of them tearing me to shreds every moment we say even a hint of sealed paper. I would never have taken you to be an equestrian! Especially not something so dreadful as those desert horses, I have only heard whispers of their fierceness and you must be an incredible handler to deal with those! It must have been an awe inspiring sight to see, a horse with a mane of fire and hooves that spark. Beautiful even! How ever did you avoid getting burned, the heat must have been blistering at such a close range! Give Tabor my love for not trampling you too thoroughly, otherwise I would have been quite put out. Perhaps I could have demanded the horse make reparations and write to me instead, what a pair him and Jameson would be, I'd have the most interesting collection! You must tell me of the other lands you have traveled to, I've only ever been to the great forests of Valindra, and no farther. Have you ever been? The tree's are the most magnificent things I have ever beheld, reaching up towards the sky with their leafy arms, as if trying to embrace the sun itself. You almost forget you are in a forest if it were not for the shade along the ground and the occasional behemoth of a trunk. Even the animals are of gargantuan size, though I was not fortunate enough to glimpse anything interesting, I was obliged to return home quickly.

If given the chance I think I would see the sea. I have heard reports of its power and beauty, and the poets seem enraptured with its every motion. Water that stretches as far as the eye can see, the ocean's song filling your ears and weathering away the land with unending determination. Yes, I would see the ocean. If not I, then at the very least my ashes. You've given me the idea of putting it in my will, my thanks!
As far as animal friends, I have a pony named Glory, but I never do get the chance to see her. I am no longer a young girl and my father frowns upon physical sports for young ladies. The stable boys take good care of her, but I fear she is lonely, I have not been able to attend to her as I should. Perhaps the carriage horses keep her company. I also own a bird, though it has no name. We only call it 'The Bird' and she likes to scream. Much. I'll enclose one of her feathers for you to admire, as she recently molted, which has made the bird quite cranky. The house has been rather noisy in the east wing.. Pun intended. If you have a suggestion for a name I would be all ears, if I do not go deaf first that is.

In thanks for your questions, I'll offer one of my own. Since you rescued me from dinner, what foods do you like? I'll save you the effort of asking me in return, I do not have one. Food does not agree with me.

Yours, now and maybe forever,
Delilah
This letter was written with more care, drawings of poor quality filling the margins, relating to the topics discussed in the different paragraphs. Ex. a screaming bird, with the tiny words 'squawk' coming from its beak, with an angry face on it, or a stick figure holding a sword, at what might be a dragon, or just a lump. Unsure. It seems Delilah is not the best at art. However, the penmanship is beautiful, and the envelope pure white. Inside is a feather of a brilliant green and blue, smooshed slightly by the envelope and by the mailing process. Despite the abuse, it still retained its shape, only slightly bent out of place.

The day had started with rain, and it brought with it a cold front. Franklyn had been sent out on business errands by his father, and had been caught in the rain multiple times.
For most people this would not be a problem, but for Franklyn, it was very problematic.
He returned home, already feeling the bad effects of the cold air, particularly in his lungs. As he came up the front walk, Jameson ran up behind him and pressed another letter into his hands. "Get inside!"
Franklyn hurried, changed his clothes, reported to his father, drank some hot cocoa to try to warm up, and crawled into bed. His lungs were constricted, his skin much too hot, and his head ached. He fell asleep shortly thereafter, and slept much too long, close to 11 hours. He repeated the sleeping cycle several times, and before he realized it, 3 days had passed, and yet the letter sat unopened in his coat pocket.
He managed to shuffle to his coat and get it, and read it safely back in his bed.
Delilah had believed his farce, and he wished to provide her with more tales to amuse her, but he didn't have the strength. Still, he ought to write something.
He sat heavily at the desk, his hands and legs shaking, and began to write.

My dearest writer,

I am glad to have been an accomplice to your escape from such a life-threateningly boring dinner. I find your faith in my ability to climb hair quite buoying to my ego.
And I can say, with utmost sincerity, that the joy my letters bring you has only been a reflection of the happiness that yours have brought to me.
Your apology for not immediately recognizing my family is unwarranted, and I bid you take it back. Indeed, I count us even, as I did not immediately know your family either; let that be the end of our apologies for ignorance.
I can assure you that had a contract been offered to me upon exiting the womb, I would have signed it with a flourish. Were it offered to me now, however, I should like to slap whoever put together the terms.
Hello to your maids, once more, and convey to them my lack of objection to their own letters following yours, should they so please. I can think of no reason conatined in these pages why they shold think so highly of me, nor in life in general, but I am grateful for their approval. I am also very willing to give you Jameson's address, though I may say, you alrady have it. Simply address to me, with his name, and he will receive your missive.
I am fully willing to concede the misery contest to you, without protest. Yo by far have the worse situation between us. I am much more given to whinging, but that is not the measure of a man's troubles.
I wish I could say I share your resistance to maladies, other than an active sense of excitement over your terrible, maleficent letter-writing habit. I cannot, and in fact must apologize that this letter reaches you so late. I have been sick, and am confined to my bed, not by my parents, but by my constitution, which has not handled this illness well. I ought to have written a letter sooner, and am very sorry that I have kept you waiting so long for what is sure to be a short and uninteresting installment.
My hand has had nothing better to do than this writing in quite a while, and so does not accept your apology for its current state. It rather enjoys the exercise, like a dog on a leash.
Speaking of pets, give my greetings to The Bird. Her feather has been a welcome addition to my collection of knick-knacks. I shall give your thanks to Tabor as soon as we are reunited.
In answer to your question of how I avoided the burns, I must confess a detail of my personage I have not heretofore exposed. I am a mage. A minor one, to be sure, but a mage nonetheless. I am able to create and control fire in the palm of my hand, and thus was at absolutely no danger from Tabor's flames. I shall enclose proof of my ablities, lest you think I am making it up.
I find myself quite out of energy, enough that I must regrettably cut this short. My favorite food of late is anything that does not disagree with my system, which is an inceasingly difficult criterion.
May you have the health which I have not had, my friend.

Sincerely,
Franklyn

The letters were more wobbly than previous, and much harder to read than the last letter. The envelope had the same drop of resin, and a small drawing of a flame. Enclosed was a half sheet of paper, with a heart burned out of the middle. The heart was clearly done with fingers, the edges being too smooth to have been cut and then charred.

After posting her letter, Delilah waited patiently the first day for a letter back. She knew that Franklyn was no doubt a busy man, and she knew that monopolizing too much of his time would be selfish of her. Even so, she was enjoying writing to her friend more than she'd ever anticipated. When she was forbidden from going to the gardens, the rain being much too violent to allow her out, even for a small walk, she retired to her room, spending a fraction of her time re-reading the letters she'd been sent, smiling softly and daydreaming. Two letters weren't much, but the young girl treasured them, keeping them carefully tucked away in a box hidden in a nook she'd discovered under some stairs, just a crack in the wood really, but big enough to slip envelopes into.

She wondered what sort of response she'd receive this time and fretted over her word choice, wondering how she came across, she felt like she wrote exactly like a petulant child, whining about her life that was so filled with comforts. When the second day had passed, Delilah began to worry. It was foolish, she knew, but all the other correspondences up to this point were swift and as near immediate as postage could be. She started on another letter, then stopped herself. It sounded desperate, even if it was just a 'how are you?', not responding for two days was nothing. Franklyn could be out of town, the letter could have gotten lost, or he was simply busy.

Her appetite, already nonexistent, dwindled to next to nothing the past week. The sight and smell of food made her feel repulsed, and she couldn't bring herself to eat more than a few bites, refusing anything more for her own sake. As it was when the young lady got into moods like this, she became slow and lethargic, over the course of a few hours barely migrating from one side of a room to another. If engaged in conversation, she was still cordial, and her wit could be rekindled after a few lines, but she lost a bit of spark in her eyes.

Alya worried greatly for her health, Delilah knew. But these moods came and went frequently these past few years. It was almost as if the lively girl slipped into hibernation, hiding herself away from the world, trapped in her own mind, slowing down her body to the point of wasting away. The only light in her eyes was the thoughtful look of someone off in their own world, and one could only imagine what she thought. It wasn't just the lack of a letter, Delilah had been showing signs of her odd behavior for weeks beforehand, and the weather only increased her lethargy. She spent hours upon hours sitting in the drawing room, either on one of the couches, or on the piano bench, the keys not even visible with the lid shut. Or she'd wander slowly through the house like a ghost, looking for something she couldn't find. Then choosing a place to settle, be it a couch or the kitchen, or a scared maids room. The girl just sat, staring at a wall, or out a window, hardly even blinking. She looked scarily like a doll, her face blank aside from her expressive eyes, perfect lips held in the faintest of frowns. She only stirred when someone came into the room, usually a maid come to dust the room, who would watch her with concern, the whispers in the house grew, the same ones that went around when she last had a fit.

By the beginning of the week, Kit and Alya had been preparing for this. They sheltered their mistress in her room, letting her sit at a desk, or lay in bed. Alya could coax her to drink water, but food was refused every time. When they were younger, doctors were called in to diagnose and cure whatever strange sickness Delilah had contracted, but it puzzled the physicians. One had hesitantly described intense melancholy, but even then the symptoms were all wrong, when left alone and unobserved, the girl seemed near happiness, staring into the distance vacantly. Her father never visited her during these fits. The one time he did, a disturbed expression had been so painfully clear on his face, and he rushed from the room quickly, locking himself in his office for hours. Only emerging to have dinner, and he looked pale for the rest of the day, shaken by whatever he had observed.

The third day passed much like the rest of the week, only that Alya had persuaded her lady to take some light broth, it wasn't much, but it brought a hint of color to Delilahs face.

The fourth day, the letter arrived.

Kit showed great restraint, picking up the mail as usual, and slowly working her way to her ladies bedroom, where she was propped up on a chair, hands folded neatly in her lap, positioned so that she could look outside. The young handmaiden opened the door a crack, slipping into the room quietly. She placed the normal mail and newsletters on a dressing table, holding the special one gently in her small hands. She crept up slowly to her mistress's side, speaking in a low, hushed tone. Delilah didn't respond well to loud voices, retreating deeper into her mind, so Kit spoke softly and warmly, gently placing the envelope on the girl's lap.

"..My Lady? You have a new letter.. Would you care to read it?" Delilah stirred slightly, her head turning towards the familiar voice, her hands feeling the paper in her hands. crinkle near inaudibly with her light touch. Still, despite the positive reaction, it wasn't enough to break the girl from her trance. Kit's face fell, she'd been half hoping that this would do something, the only way she'd seen her lady recover had been over time, it generally only lasted a week, but.. She'd been so excited for these letters..

Kit sighed softly, going over to get a brush, working out any tangles that had managed to mar Delilahs golden hair, the slow rhythm was relaxing, and the soft, dappled light from the cloudy day made the room seem cozy. Deciding her job here was done, Kit reached for the letter with one hand, turned away to place the brush back in its place, she would put it with the rest and let her mistress read it when she'd recovered. When she reached for the letter however, her hands met air, the girl frowned, slowly turning her head back to the catatonic lady. Delilah was frowning just slightly, pulling her hands out of reach, holding the letter protectively. Kit blinked a few times, and the girls stared at each other, at a stand off for many heartbeats.. Kit ventured to make a grab for the envelope again, and again Delilah moved, her frown deepening.

Kit gasped softly, her eyes widening.
"Oh! Mistress, would you like me to read it to you?" Kit smiled wide as Delilah relaxed, her hands falling into her lap again, her fingers relaxing their deathgrip on the now wrinkled paper, the frown having smoothed out into nothingness once more. Kit gently took the letter, opening it, and began to read out loud, a concerned look furrowing her brow the further down she got. Occasionally she'd have to stop, sounding out a word, trying to make sense of the confused letters, piecing together what might have been the intent. She pulled out the second paper, staring at it for a long while, before gently putting it on Delilahs lap, still folded up, but there.

"It seems you're not the only one that is ill my Lady.." Kit trailed off slowly, trying to stifle a sigh. "Rest well, we would love to have you back in the next day or two.. Alya and I miss you." The maid squeezed Delilah's hand, gathering her things and leaving the room. Delilah stared out the window.

The letter was smoothed out carefully, posted two days after Franklyn had sent out his. The wax seal, while still of uncolored wax, finally has been stamped with an appropriate tool. The image pressed into the soft material was a flower, after the fashion of the rose that had been on the letters she'd received. The writing was in a similar hand, but slightly different, written like each character was done slowly and painstakingly.

My dearest reader,

I wish I can say my delay in writing you a letter in return was from some misplaced sense of spite, to keep you on your toes as you have had me practically on tenterhooks waiting for word of you, but unfortunately I have no sense of revenge. I have been experiencing the worst case of writing block I have ever experienced in my life! Only after much deliberation did I scrape enough material together to give you a somewhat interesting read and I apologize for my uninteresting life. I worry I will envy you over time for your travels to so many foreign lands, so you must keep supplying me with stories, for you word them so vividly I can imagine I am there too. With the wind in my hair and sun on my skin as surely as if I was stood beside you. Wouldn't that be wonderful?

As tempted as I am to write to Jameson as I do you, I fear even more that I can only put words on paper in a coherent order once, not twice. Lightning rarely strikes twice, and I should not question a miracle when it comes to me, my words tend to flee when I actually need to find them. I wouldn't encourage Kit too much, else you will find yourself drowned in more letters than you could conceivably find space for, the girl speaks faster than a mockingbird and mimics just as much. Alya however, might offer you more valuable insights, but the letter would be but two lines long! The two most different girls you never will find, and I'm afraid you'r stuck with the third. With long letters filled with nonsense!

I can assure you that your troubles are just as valid as my own. The most miserable man in the world is not the only one aloud to complain, those of us with smaller annoyances still feel emotion just as strongly. (Even though I am winning the contest) feel free to complain, I am here to listen and to reassure, even if I fail miserably at the last task. I am far more likely to just complain in my turn, but speaking freely is still a weight off both of our chests I would imagine!

I accept your apologies for the tardiness of your letter, it only made the long awaited words more valuable to me and doubly so because you were kind enough to write through your illness! It pains me greatly to think of you in poor health, and even more so that it happens often! If you did not say so firmly that it was a case of your poor constitution I would have suggested a very cruel fate for your physician, have you tried a miracle man? I hear they can be very effective. You claim that your letter is short and uninteresting, and I hold you accountable only for one lie. Still a sin, but only half of one and thus half as easy to forgive!

The Bird has calmed, as the beast has finally stopped molting and we have been given a temporary respite from the creature. Tabor has all my love, and I hope you can forgive me my shock! I hadn't the faintest idea that I spoke with not just a gentleman, an equestrian, someone with wit and sense, as well as charm, an adventurer, and a mage? Your record only grows! It is a wonder you are not known the world over at this point~ Remember me when you when you are a king, my poor-constitutioned friend. Then perhaps you'd have a full sheet of accomplishments. Teasing aside, I.. Thank you for the gift. It was most kind. I admit to being at a loss what to do with it, so I have folded the paper and keep it trapped in a locket, it seemed appropriate. I am unfamiliar with magic! It was lost to my family several generations back on my mothers side, so tell me if keeping an item that has touched magic near my person is a bad idea, there are so few books on the topic that I do not know if I endanger myself, though I know that would never be your intention!

Like I said, I have a constitution similar to that of a horse. I rarely get sick and I have been very well lately! My health has been exceptional and I would give you all of it if I could, even to alleviate the most minor of your sufferings. Tell me when your health improves, my nerves will fret otherwise, get well soon, I beg of you.

Sincerely, your ever forgetful friend,
Delilah

P.S. You must tell me when you work up some sort of appetite again, as I would love nothing more than to make you something! I have been told I make excellent pies. But that would be up to you decide wouldn't it?

My dearest writer,

I must beg your forgiveness once again for my delay in writing my last letter. I shall endeavor to do better, so as not to help you develop a sense of revenge.
Friend, your life is not uninteresting to me, as boring as it may be to you. It gives me an appreciation of my own situation, as well as allowing me to see what the world loks like through the eyes of someone other than my peers, who are all similar to me in many ways.
As to your assertion that joining me in my travels would be wonderful, I can assure you that I would certainly enjoy such an outing, while you most assuredly would not. My presence is much muted by our letter writing, and thus you have been so kind as to not find it odious as of yet. I pray that trend shall continue.
Jameson would welcome such a letter, as you mentioned, but I can sympathize with the feeling of being a one-trick pony, in a sense. The letter is written, it is sent off, and my words go with it for a time. Indeed, I find it hard to carry conversation after writing a letter, so intense is the load on my brain to write coherently and intelligently. I cannot imagine you having the same malady of stupidity, but I cannot fault you for only writing to me. Jameson shall just have to do without.
As for your maids, perhaps to satisfy Kit's desire to talk till my ears shrivel up and fall off, as well as to take down Alya's few golden nuggets of wisdom, they could write one section of a future letter of yours together. It would certainly by a compromise that I feel would satisfy all parties involved. Of course, don't allow me to tell you how to write your missives, or how to run your household. I merely make a suggestion in order to relieve you of the badgering of your two lovely ladies.
I appreciate your validations of my troubles, and I shall endeavor not to lay them at your feet too much. To that point though, please speak freely. I would see your burdens lifted, you shoulders lightened, and your chest free of weight, were it entirely in my power to do so. Alas, I am a very powerless and unuseful person in that sense, and so must settle for doing what I can: listening with an open ear and an understanding heart as you lay out your trials and tribulations.
Your condolences are much appreciated. Yes, we have tred doctors and others, but my parents do not believe in miracle men, though I would like to try one. Thus, I have never given magic healing a chance. However, it is no doctor's fault that my body cannot handle what others handle with ease. I am, indeed, a weak man in many ways, and can only add bodily frailty to the mix.
Your praise is welcomed, but misplaced. I can assure you, I am a less than average man, and a terrible nobleman, honestly. To have you think so highly of me, my Lady, feels disingenuous.
It also warms my heart, and for that, I cannot thank you enough.
The gift is a small token of my appreciation for our correspondence. The magic on the page will have long since faded, so there is no need to worry. In fact, I do not believe there to e any danger about it at all, since it was done with a happy heart and no ill intent.
I am glad to hear that you are a healthy individual. I can only imagine what a horror it would be to be sick, as well as trapped. As to my own health, I am feeling much better. I was able to go out today in the sun with another of my animals, a bloodhound I have named Ruir. He is an incredibly loyal dog, and despite picking up an interesting scent every ten feet, he stays right by me as we walk. I took him on a long walk over the hills around the estate, before heading down into town to buy some food. My appetite has come back somewhat, by the way, and I enjoy a good tart. Perhaps the pie you mention in your postscript would tickle that same fancy. I firmly believe, were your food as sweet as your spirit, that you wold make the most delicious pies known to man.
My last letter was a miserably short affair, and since I am feeling so much better, I have gone back a bit in our ongoing conversation, in order to answer some of your previous questions and comments.
I am glad to know that you have enjoyed the thrill of being in the saddle as well! At some point in our futures, we shall have to ride together, Glory and Tabor would enjoy the company I'm sure. I am sorry that your poor pony is lonely, although that seems to be the theme of our lives at the moment.
I have never been to Valindra, though I have travelled much in the opposite direction. Harad, Rhun, Ithilien, the un-settled territories of old Beleriand- I have at some point visited many of these places. The forests in Ithilien sound very different from Valindra, more filled with graceful, gentle creatures than with mammoth animals and trees. The trees in Ithilien are smaller, but blossom beautifully in any season other than winter. A gorgeous picture, indeed, the trees in full bloom as you walk along a silvery path through the forest. I would visit there again one day.
The sea is an enchanting choice for a destination, and though my heart is saddened to think that your will may be the only thing that allows you to see it, I am glad that you feel your soul could be at rest there. If I had to choose, I think I would want my ashes spread across the meadow here on the estate. It is an equally gorgeous sight in spring, when the whole of the grasslands is covered in flowers of all types. If I could fertilize those flowers with my remains, I should feel I was becoming part of something lovely, rather than what I am now. That would be my peaceful resting place.
If it is not too intrusive, I shall ask a quesiton by first answering it for you from my end. Feel at leisure to ignore this if it pries too much.
My room is a 15 foot by 15 foot square. There is a window opposite the door. The door sits in the middle of one wall, and is the only entry or exit other than the window. Under the window sits my mahogany beast, and a chair padded only with a blanket I have folded in the seat. To the left of that desk is a small chest of drawers where I kep various articles of paper, ink, charcoal, or other things I may use. The left side of the desk is on open space, where I have stored various things at various times. On the left wall, as you face the window from the door, is my bed. Your average queen sized bed, one blanket, many pillows. It has four posts, which rather than being supports for curtains, as with many beds, supports a shelving unit where I keep many of my keepsakes, souvenirs, and gifts I have received. Your feather is there now, displayed prominently. On the right wall is my wardrobe, a large piece of carved cedar, which is full to bursting with the articles of clothing I must wear for events and dinners and various outings which I despise. Also against that wall is a taller chest of drawers, which houses the clothes I much prefer to wear on a day to day basis. My walls are wood panelled, but painted a dark blue, which is a soothing color to me. The ceiling is painted black, but I have used a phosphorescent paint to put the constellations on my ceiling, so that I can see them easily at niht, when I am often unable to sleep.
And that, my friend, is the room where I spend much of my time. What does yours look like?

As always,
Franklyn

P.S. I hope the charcoal hasn't smudged. Please let me know if it does, and I shall use some other medium.

The letter was much neater than the last, the writing hand clearly steadier. The same simple resin sealed the letter, with a drawing of a pony and a small girl done on the back. Enclosed was a full page drawing, much more detailed than his usual envelope doodles. It showed a meadow, rolling hills of grass and flowers, flowers everywhere in full bloom. It was done in charcoal, the black and white somehow conveying life and colors and motion as the flowers waved gently in the breeze.

Franklyn, in fact, was only feeling a little better. He'd been able to go out to get the mail, but that was about it, and he'd been back in bed the rest of the day. He'd written his letter, and had walked back down the next day to send it off. He hoped it would arrive in time.
He was feeling guilty about lying, and his parents were mad at him for being sick, again, and his mental state was not always bright and sunny, but he wasn't aware of how he sounded until he read back over the letter before sending it. His self-loathing was coming through his writing, and he didn't want that… but he had no energy to write another, more upbeat, offering, and so he sent it off.

Time heals all wounds was how the saying went. In Delilah's case it was particularly true. Her particularly ailment waned over time, she recovered to her normal self after. It wasn’t a gradual recovery, the girl simply snapped back into being. Suddenly sitting up and alert and bright eyed, usually asking for some bread and fruit saying how she was unusually famished today! She never spoke about what happened. Kit and Alya tried to not mention it in conversation, for every time it was brought up, Delilah would stiffen and get a distant look in her eyes, before awkwardly changing the subject. She clearly remembered what happened, for when she was back to normal, with a few bites of food in her system, Delilah immediately retrieved the letter she’d been sent, reading over it with her own eyes. She’d frowned, then got to writing immediately not breathing a word to either of her maids in her haste.

Then.. It was back to being a normal day. And the next. With the meaningless activities to keep the hands busy, the whispers of the maids, and dinners alone. Her father would not see her until later in the day, and maybe even not then. Delilah almost regretted her haste in writing her return letter. She sat in the parlor, for why wouldn’t she? It had the softest couch in the east wing, and they didn’t have any guests to entertain, so the room was free. The day was too warm to practice music, and Delilah was absolutely terrible at art. Her last painting had been quietly burned by one of the butlers, and no one had bothered to ask where it went. For everyone's sake.

So she was trying her hand at embroidery again, doing her best not to prick her finger, as she’d lost her thimble two weeks ago. It was somewhere in the gardens, but impossible to tell where. It was just half past six and if she were lucky, she would be allowed to see her father at seven. He was locked away in his office, doing god knows what, but every Thursday she was allowed to visit him. Unless the Duke was tired, or in a bad mood, or busy, or had something else to attend to, or didn’t really feel up to it-

Delilah pricked her finger. Hard. It was impossible for her to say whether or not it had been accidental. Setting aside her tambour frame, she stared at her finger. A tiny bead of blood was slowly welling up, sitting perfectly in the middle of a loop in her fingerprint. It was such a crimson color, unlike anything else found naturally. Rubies looked too bright and gauche in comparison, paint couldn’t even come close, berries were poor imitations. Delilah blinked as the little bubble broke, trickling down her finger, filling the grooves of her print. It broke her little reverie, it was disturbing how distracted she’d been getting recently, fascinated with a crack in the wall she could stare at for hours. The girl absently wipes her finger on the couch, propriety be damned, no one would notice.

A swift glance at the clock told her that she’d been absorbed in her work for some five and twenty minutes. The young lady stood, her dress ruffling with the movement, making crinkling noises. It was a light blue piece, with far too puffy skirts but a bodice that allowed her some room to breath. Corsets were, blessedly, out of fashion for the season, but were replaced with the abominable contraption called hoop skirts. Delilah could hardly fit through doorways without turning sideways. But- Atleast it wasn’t hats again. In her personal opinion bonnets were much more appropriate for ladies, the monstrosities she’d seen at balls when she was younger!

As she walked to her fathers office, Delilah couldn’t help but smile at the memories of her father letting her out into society. She was out far younger than her peers, at the moment she turned fourteen, she was released. It had been quite the scandal, and she could vividly remember the parties she’d been to. How the lights had dazzled her eyes and the dresses made her want to gasp at every swirl and sway. She hadn’t cared a wit whether people thought she wasn’t to be there, the young girl had just been awe struck. It had all lost its luster with time however, and she’d eventually come to think of them as dull.

Though, with her current situation, Delilah wouldn’t have complained if she could go to even a country ball, it would be such a breath of fresh air to dance again! Maybe Kit would be willing to learn the steps, and they could sneak into the ballroom? Wouldn’t that be fun!

All of Delilah's mirth disappeared as she arrived at the dreaded door. Her fathers study was massive, more a library than anything. It had a set of double doors, which were opened just a crack, and no windows on the inside. A massive desk, with bookshelves and ledgers lining all four walls. Papers were everywhere, on the floor, shoved into book pages, piled high on the desk, and her father, in the middle of it all. The eye of the storm, furiously scribbling on a piece of parchment, his face flushed slightly red with what looked like anger.. Or indignation.

The girls breath caught, and she moved away from the propped open door slowly, until her cursed dress caught on the wall, the cloth so blastedly loud! The Duke looked up, his face purpling with more anger, likely ready to yell at whatever servant had been careless enough to disturb him, when he caught a glimpse of Delilah's ghost white face, her hands clutching her skirts until her knuckles were as white as her face. The anger didn’t disappear, but he checked something on one of the infinite sheets of paper, then scowled and waved her in.

Delilah felt a sinking feeling take her, and she knew there was no escape now. She stepped lightly into the room, taking care to fully close the door behind her, then curtsied to her father, head bowed in respect.

“Sit, girl, sit!” The duke waved at.. Nothing. There was no other chair in the room and he frowned further, and Delilah rushed to reassure him that she did not mind standing at all.

“After all, my Duke! It is a sign of respect, is that not why you keep no other chairs in here?” Delilah spoke in a voice different from her own, higher pitched and innocent, widening her eyes to appear harmless. Perfect and harmless, anything to keep him from finding fault. She’d given him an out and he knew it. It only made his mistake more mortifying in the proud man’s eyes. His face darkened, but he too kept his voice light and cordial.

“Of course! Stand then, girl. You’d only ruin your dress anyways.” The Duke had a higher voice than most men, nasally and with a bit of a hiss. It suited him oddly enough, even with a face most agreed was aesthetically pleasing. After he spoke, there was silence. The two stared at each other for a moment, before the Duke went back to writing, the sound of his pen against the paper scratching and grating. Delilah continued to stand there, her hands folded in front of her, not daring to leave without a dismissal. The Duke continued to write, finishing the ledger he was working on at the time. His head turned up, and he looked briefly surprised then annoyed to still see the girl there.
“Did you need something?”

“No, sir. I was waiting to be dismissed.” And at these simple words, Delilah recognized her mistake the minute the sound left her lips. Her father paused, then lowered his voice, dangerously low. She couldn’t have won. If she left, she was being disrespectful and disobedient, and if she stayed and waited to be dismissed, she looked petulant and like she was mocking him. She could never win.

“You mean to make a fool of me girl?” Her fathers voice was a harsh whisper, the air crackled with tension. Never a fan of subtlety, he broke the silence with a scream. Snapping a thread with a pair or garden shears, an ax instead of a scalpel.

“Leave then! You’re dismissed! Out!” Complying, Delilah scurried from the room, ducking at the change in the air, narrowly avoiding a book being thrown at her head. More papers scattered the floor, a thick carpet of words. Safely outside the door, she sunk against the wall, breathing out shallowly. Her hands were trembling hard as she ran them through her hair, getting caught in the thick net of gold. That- That could have gone worse. She escaped lightly. When she’d let her father know of her decision to not marry, to not see suitors anymore, things had gone worse. Delilah could still smell the blood. A shudder went down her spine, chilled by the wall that seemed to steal all her warmth. It had been a bad idea to get a new litter of puppies, but she hadn’t thought- She didn’t..

Delilah stood, not able to banish the shaking in her hands. Rushing back to her room, she knew, even then, she’d be back next Thursday. She always was.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Her hands were still shaking hours later, Delilah just couldn’t get them to stop. Not when she was safely back in her own room, not after speaking with Alya, not even after drinking some warmed tea, suffusing her body with heat once again. It was odd and very annoying. Delilah frowned, pressing her hands onto the top of her vanity, staring hard at herself in the mirror. Her face had sunk from her illness, deep bags under her eyes made the blue look dull and empty. And still. And still. She still looked pretty. The sunken cheeks were gaunt and delicate, the eye bags shadowing her eyes in a way almost flattering, the dull eyes like glassy marbles. Delilah closed her eyes, not being able to bear looking at herself, the frustration was almost overwhelming, making hot tears prickle at the back of her eyes, burning.

Her legs gave out and she crumpled onto a chair, burying her head in her arms. She tried to cry, to will herself to do it, to let the tears fall down her face. And nothing, the burning sensation increased to pain, she wanted nothing more than to just release everything built up. But she couldn’t. A deep breath in, then out. Sit up, Fix your hair. Wipe the eyes. Shoulder back. Head up. Smile. The mirror stared back at her. Reflecting her failure.

By the time her maids entered the room, chattering and excited, Delilah had recovered her poise and she smiled widely, laughing and speaking with energy. No one needed to know the inside was hollow, they loved the shell after all.
Franklyns letter was a very welcome addition to the day, even if the words seemed to swim, and Delilah had to read it on her desk, not trusting her hands to hold it steady enough to read. It was charming as always, and the assertions of better health were heartwarming. Delilah allowed herself a sliver of privacy, a moment wholly to herself, to simply read and think and ponder.

For someone who claimed to visit so many places, he also claimed to be ill often. Perhaps it was a medical order. Trying the air of different places to see what agreed with him, for health. Travel was the best medicine for some. The description of the room painted a beautiful mental picture, and Delilah couldn’t help but crookedly smile. Scoundrel behavior indeed to ask a woman to describe her bedchambers. But he’d given her an out, and she really did have no objections to the question.

She waited another hour before she was collected enough to compose a response.

My dearest reader,

I would love nothing more than to accept your apology, but alas this is the second time I have been this slighted and- Well, Alya has assured me that it is unthinkable to forgive you. To be even and back on an even playing field once more, I’m afraid I’ve cursed you. It was quite a cruel curse as well, that I hope every time you try to find a coin you’ve dropped, you’ll find it's slipped into the floorboards or always just out of reach. Your spare change might have reason to fear me now I’m afraid! Now we’re even, and I’m free to come up with countless curious coin curses and capable curiosities.. Capriciously?

Now that my revenge is sated(for the time being), I may move on to more interesting matters! You must stop saying how dull you are in person or I may be in jeopardy of starting to believe you! From your letters you seem perfectly charming and capable, in your circles not a one must tire of your company. If all your peers are the same as you, then you must secretly be Arthur and your peers the knights of the round table. Tell me, what’s the weather like in Camelot? Give my love to Sir Dinidan, he never failed to make me laugh in the books. If I ever begin to resent your presence, it will only be because you are not near enough to speak freely to.

While I can not join you in your adventures, I’ll be with you in spirit and in imagination. My letters are really just a collection of my thoughts pinned onto the paper like butterflies. Once there, they remain and can not return to my brain, rather like doing spring cleaning, unfettering me of all the cobwebs that dust my attic. It does mean I can not write the same thing twice, which can be burdensome, but does force creativity! Speaking of writing, Kit read your idea and I’m afraid you’ve metaphorically completely swept her off her feet! She’ll be putting some sort of addition to my letter and I do hope you don’t mind but Alya declined to offer anything but a polite ‘hello’. She fears that if she says anything too profound she’ll be expected to have repeat performances in following letters. Your advice turned out to be most wise, as Kit has been completely absorbed in making her words absolutely perfect, but I suspect she’ll give up before long and just write.

I appreciate your offer and I promise I hold it dear to my heart, but that is also where I keep my troubles, and I would rather the two of you did not often meet! As for your troubles, specifically your illness, I can not help but worry. Magical healing is not what one expects, and it is quite the experience! Though not one I can readily recommend. My late mother was a frequent patient of those who used magic and still she passed away. They are not infallible, and my father no longer allows them on the estate. I do not know whether to feel relieved or disappointed.

It is what makes your gift ever so fascinating to me! It is appreciated that it will bring me no harm, I have read too many fairy stories I suppose about magic artifacts and such superstitions. The locket I keep it in has a similar shape to the drawing and is quite ingenious, it detaches from a chain easily and allows me to carry it on a necklace or bracelet, it has quickly become one of my favorite charms. I am glad your health begins to return! And the mention of a dog made me smile today. My father keeps a pack of bloodhounds himself, for hunting, but he loans them out most of the time as he very rarely goes hunting himself nowadays. I had a litter of puppies of my own for a fortnight, but they no longer live with us. They proved too.. Rowdy for my fathers liking and they live with one of the servants.

I appreciate the flattery on behalf of my pies, but I assure you that a good pie is never too sweet, just the right amount. If you put all of your emotion into making it, it can become quite therapeutic, and no one will ever know what emotion they are eating, they all taste the same. Baking is half measuring, half magic as my old nurse used to say! I will make you something if I can remember to, my mind has been quite all over the place lately!

And all over the place it seems to me where you travel, nowhere must be an old friend to you at this point, as well as everywhere. The lands you describe I have only read about and seen upon maps, they are undoubtedly different in person. But I find it charming that you would have your soul laid to rest at home, rather than abroad. A meadow is a wonderful place to lay for eternity, and if your ashes were spread there perhaps some spider lilies would grow. They are by far my favorite flower, even if they do happen to grow upon old battlefields most often. They are so vibrant yet so delicate! And can cover rolling hills in a blinding wave of red.

There’s a little myth about them, did you know? That the last time you ever speak with a person, knowingly or not, the path you take away from them will bloom with the flowers. A sign of parting. It’s beautiful in a way. A memorial to what once was, and what will never be again. I chose the sea because it never rests. Long after the waves wash away all land, it shall remain, and I with it, ever changing and becoming something more. A meadow will give way to a town and a town to cities, your bones will pave the way for a new generation. It’s funny how really only after death do we make any sort of change, do we keep the world on track..

Ah! See what I mean? My mind wanders more and more, and I hardly remember what I was supposed to be writing about! Which might be a good thing, considering how much of a scoundrel your question makes you appear! Luckily for you, I have been emboldened by our already brazen disregard for normalcy with our letters. So I’ll indulge.

My room is large, I can not say the square footage, because I am blissfully ignorant of it, just know I will have more space than I will ever need. It has been my bedroom since childhood, and it reflects that in droves I’m afraid. Some of the furniture is still too small and constantly on the list for removal and renovation, and somehow I just can’t seem to find the time to do it. The door is hidden off to one side, not visible from the rest of the room unless you stand directly in front of it. It has a little corridor of its own, leading to the rest of my room.
The walls are painted, rather than papered, and are covered with drawings of nature. My walls reflect skies and rolling meadows, and forests and rivers. The artist was very talented. It almost seems to breathe, but the animals in the grass do not think, and the wind does not move the leaves. I’ve spent the majority of my life looking at these walls, I’ve named all the animals, and counted every tree. I prefer the window, it overlooks the garden, and just beyond that I can just glimpse the horizon.
The window is a large thing, on the back wall, with a couch underneath it, so I can sit and look out. It is shaped like a large door, rounded at the top, and when I was younger I fancied I could open it, and have my own private entrance to the garden. I dreamed it so many times, it was simple, yet still impossible. It has no latch and does not open.
The rest of the room is fairly simple, a dresser for clothes that can be folded rather than hung up to avoid wrinkles. A vanity on the right wall, filled enough pieces of jewelry and cosmetics to last ten women their whole lives. All of the furniture is of a white wood, or rather, it was, as the years passed we’ve had to repaint them white several times. The floor is of a hardwood I couldn’t name and is mostly covered by one of the largest rugs I’ve ever seen in my life. It’s fluffy and white, and I occasionally slept on it instead of my bed on warm nights. It’s surprisingly comforting.
My guess is that my bed is queen sized as well, the usual four poster, and unlike your unique contraption, has sheer curtains, like gauze or tulle. If I have any keepsakes, I must hide them in a box nestled in a dresser drawer. My ceiling has a painted sky, but like the real one, it can only be seen during the day. Most of my clothes are kept god knows where, I am not truly allowed to see any of them until I am dressed. I do not know if I despise them, when you have little say over what you wear, you tend to take things as they come. Hopefully that paints a picture similar to yours! I may not be a wordsmith like you, but I can provide basic descriptions with little difficulty!
My room has watched me grow into who I am now. I wonder, if the walls could speak, what would they say about me? Do they love, hate, despise, admire? We can only guess. Oh! I have two questions for you this time, if you do not so mind my greed. The first one is simple, do you sleepwalk? I’ve been told I’ve had the problem since youth, wandering around, opening doors, I even once made it outside! Before I was ushered back inside. I have no memory of it at all!

And the second. If you could be any animal, what would you be? Why? How would you live your life from that point onwards? I always liked to believe I’d be a sparrow, they are small and quick, and are such curious birds!

Keeping in expectation as always,
Delilah

P.S. The drawing is beautiful.
..Thank you.

The handwriting is shaky, but determined, and much more of the letter seems to have been re-written and erased, some of its smudged, and where it is, the words are written again in the margins, for clarification. Delilah only ordered one wax seal, so this time, the wax only has a crude smiley face etched into it. A second piece of paper is underneath the first, Kit’s letter, along with what looks like a basket of red currant tarts, one less than a dozen, each bite sized.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
This letter is much less formal than the other, the handwriting sharper and seems to reflect more energy.

Dearest Franklyn
Hello! It’s me!! Delilah has no doubt mentioned me countless times in her letter and I was so excited to hear that you wanted to hear from me! I hardly knew what to say, but I was so excited I knew I had to write right away. I do hope there hasn’t been too much delay? You’d tell me if there was right? Oh! I hope you enjoy my ladies pastries, I helped make them! Or well- I made sure they were alright anyways.

Just to make sure you know, it’s Kit. Well, my name is Katherine, but that seems so long and so stuffy? Everyone always says Kit suits me much better. Just like a glove. Or a hat. Well, not a hat. Those don’t really fit do they? Just sit.. Well Kit fits me better! So that's what everyone calls me now!

How are you doing?? I read that you were feeling better, but it is so easy to lie in letters, my goodness! If Alya and Delilah weren’t peering over my shoulder every other word, I’d have told you all sorts of untruths! They are such sticklers for truth, which is a tad bit ironic for my lady- Or, well I really shouldn’t say. I must keep my lips sealed. Sworn to all kinds of secrecy and all. I bet you keep a great many secrets too! Probably much more important than mine anyways. Like the stablehand Jamie, he snuck out last night and I saw him and he made me promise not to tell a soul! He was off to see a girl in town and the master is very peculiar about the help having relationships, you know.

Oh! Oh, I’ve never written to a nobleman before! I hope you don’t mind! And I suppose I just told on Jamie, didn’t I? You won’t say anything, right? You must promise to be silent too now! Though.. You probably couldn’t care less! Poor Jamie, he’s such a good lad, and ah, I’m going off again aren’t I? Like I said, I know a great many things, Alya always says that if I hit my head just clouds would come out. And that if I focussed on quite literally anything else I wouldn’t have space left from all the nonsense I stuff in my skull. She’d always saying things like that!
And the most annoying bit is that she’s always right.
Do you know people like that? Still, I love her dearly, but she can just be so- Hmph. But tell me more about yourself! Or- When you can. Letters are dreadful things aren’t they? I have so many questions about you, and I have to wait to get answers, oh its just awful. I have half a mind just to go visit, but I get precious few days off anyways. And I have to use those to see my family. I have a new little brother! He’s the cutest little thing, but the way babies scream! I don’t know where they get all the air. My father and mother and most of my family live in town, but my father commutes to the estate every day to work for the Duke.

My lady lets me leave as often as she can spare me, but like I said, the Duke is quite peculiar about staff. We only get so many days off. Oh, it must be so nice for you, to travel where you wish, to do what you like. Tell me! Do you get to many balls? I’ve never been to one, unfortunately. Mistress says they are nothing too special, but.. With all due respect to her, she finds the oddest things exciting. She was so happy when she saw squirrels in the gardens. Squirrels! It was somewhat interesting, we had all thought the master’s bloodhounds had found all of them, we mostly have Murmers, and those lizard things are just terrifying. With the beady little eyes, and the way they whisper back what you say. But the Duke likes them.

The letter continued for another few paragraphs in a similar way, Kit is talking about courtly gossip and drama. It doesn’t even ask questions, she’s just going on a tangent about how crazy people are.

Yours,
Kit

P.S. Hope you don’t mind!

P.P.S Sorry I ate one of the tarts, I got tempted.

P.P.P.S Respond soon!! I don’t know if I can physically wait another second!

Franklyn was finally feeling better by the time he received the next letter. He'd gone out to meet Jameson and get the mail, and the 'courier' had smiled at him as he handed him a full basket of goodies.
"You seem like you're making decent headway here." Jameson smirked a bit. "Baked goods and everything."
Franklyn's eyes had boggled a bit. "I didn't know if she would actually send this… you want one?"
Jameson nodded. "I've been smelling them this whole time." He snagged a tart and popped it into his mouth, chewing slowly. "These are delicious… might have to start writing my own letters if it gets you food." The mail carrier winked. "You enjoy, I gotta keep moving."
Franklyn waved at him as he headed back up the walk to his house.
~~~~

The letter was longer than usual, but Franklyn was feeling alright, so he was in the mood to try to answer in kind. He found that lying was difficult, as his natural frailty and the earl's son's athleticism and strength didn't match. But at this point, he'd be admitting so much by telling the truth… Delilah would be so disappointed and saddened, he didn't see the letters continuing.
Though they wouldn't continue if I told the truth anyway. Too boring.
The letter from Kit made him laugh, but it also worried him. If he wrote back to her, she might ask questions, and if he wasn't careful to weave the exact same web of lies, he'd give himself away.
He popped a tart in his mouth, and chewed while he thought. Jameson was right they really were very good-…
Jameson.
And suddenly an idea was upon him.
He scrambled to get his quill and begin writing back.
——-
That afternoon, he sent off the letter, but not to Delilah. He had the afternoon carrier send it to Jameson first.
The mail carrier got the letter just as he was heading home, and read the note attached with amusement.

Write to Kit. You two would get along.

He smiled to himself, and went home to follow Franklyn's instructions.
The letter was in the next morning's post.

This letter was much bulkier than normal. The envelope was the same resin seal, the same handwriting, but full of several pieces of paper

My dearest writer,

I regret to inform you that this must be the end of our correspondence. Such a curse cannot be recovered from, and I fear you have sentenced me to a life of constant coin counting, corraling, and crying.

Coinlessly,
Franklyn

P.S. Please see page 2.

The next page was a full length letter. He clearly thought he was funny.

My likely irritated writer,

Your curse is well chosen, and I shall tell you why. In my travels, I have acquired monies and currency from various countries, which I have kept as keepsakes. Many are coins, and I would find the loss of them quite sad. To show you what I mean, please enjoy the few tokens I have sent you from my collection.
The weather in Camelot, you ask? Well, if I were Arthur, and my friends the Knights of the Round Table, here would be my response:

It's true! It's true! The crown has made it clear.
The climate must be perfect all the year.

A law was made a distant moon ago here:
July and August cannot be too hot.
And there's a legal limit to the snow here,
In Camelot.
The winter is forbidden till December
And exits March the second on the dot.
By order, summer lingers through September
In Camelot.

Camelot! Camelot!
I know it sounds a bit bizarre,
But in Camelot, Camelot
That's how conditions are.
The rain may never fall till after sundown.
By eight, the morning fog must disappear.
In short, there's simply not
A more congenial spot
For happily-ever-aftering than here
In Camelot.

Camelot! Camelot!
I know it gives a person pause,
But in Camelot, Camelot
Those are the legal laws.
The snow may never slush upon the hillside.
By nine p.m. the moonlight must appear.
In short, there's simply not
A more congenial spot
For happily-ever-aftering than here
In Camelot!

I hope this answers your question to full satisfaction. And I am very glad to hear that you will only tire of my absence, and not my presence. If there is charm on the page, I shall be forced to continue using the same quill, for there is where the charm must come from. What a pair we make, you signing your letters on your maids backs to bring good luck, and me using the same quill in order to bring charm. Surely a meeting between us would be disastrous, for I would have no charm and you no luck!
On the other hand, I should very much like to meet you in person. One day, you shall be able to join me in my adventures on more than spirit and imagination. Until then, I cherish the butterflies you send from your brain. They flit in the meadow of my own mind, and I enjoy their presence.
Hello to Alya. She has done herself no favors, for now I expect a repeat performance of this greeting.
And I see what my encouragement has done to Kit! I have put the bloodhound on my scent now, it seems. I have, however, thought of a way to throw her off the trail. A more alluring scent, perhaps? A sweeter target, certainly. I hope my solution shall be satisfactory to all involved.
Your troubles and I will only meet if you let us, but as you are acquainted with mine, I feel I have a duty to meet yours, whether they are heartened by my presence or not. Please feel no pressure, but also feel no fear in introducing them to me.
Your tale of magical healing and its dubious efficacy is one of a few reasons we have not attempted such a thing. There are also stories of people whose maladies were made worse by an ill-practiced spell. Thank you for your concern, though, as it does me good to feel your sympathy put to words.
I am happy to hear of my bit of burnt paper becoming something enjoyable to you. I shall endeavor to up the ante in my next letter, and send you something a bit more remarkable.
I am sorry to hear of your puppies' unsuitability for noble life. I am sure they bring much joy to your servant, as Ruir does to me.
I must ask, what emotion did you put into the tarts? They were delicious! I would say they are delicious, except that by the time this reaches you, they shall most certainly only exist in memory. Please do not trouble yourself to send more treats, I cannot afford to become fat on your delicious food! But thank you for these, very much. They have helped my appetite to return in full, at least for sweetmeats.
Your words made me most thoughtful for a good hour this afternoon. I must say that I quite enjoyed the mental images you painted with your words. I do have but one disagreement with your assertions. You said how odd it is that we must die to make a change and leave a mark on the world. I would likely have agreed with you, until I received your first letter. My dear Lady, you have made such a difference and left such a mark already, and that from afar. I cannot imagine how your friends must feed off your energy and circle you like moths to a flame. Certainly, your letters have had an impact in my own life far and above what many of the people I talk to face to face have had. Your death, if it leave a legacy, shall only add to the one that you have now. While the rest of us may have to wait to become fertilizer for the flowers, in order to make a difference, you are a person for whom the flowers grow. Please think no less of yourself than you ought; in this lonely heart, at least, you have made all the difference.
And if I am indeed a scoundrel, then I must ask you to remember who sent the first letter. This too is your legacy, that I am embroiled in a scandal, the like of which I should never recover from. Please do your best to embroil me further.
You claim to be the lesser wordsmith. Yet your description of your room makes mine look like the efforts of a small child to describe their small space to an adult. I have such a clear picture of your living space now, that it is almost as if I have been there. Scandal, indeed!
Your walls must think highly of you. Walls are sensible beings, and any sensible being would come to the conclusion that you are to be admired.
I do not, as far as I know, sleepwalk. I've been told I sleep like the dead, unmoving and barely breathing. I generally wake up in exactly the same position I fell asleep in. It would seem you do get to have adventures, with the simple downside of being asleep for them!
If I were an animal, I think I should like to be either a bird or a fish. Both are often free to travel as they wish. A bird can go anywhere it likes, a fish can swim anywhere that suits its mood, and neither is interrogated for its choices. As for how I would live, well, I should like to see the world from above, or visit every square inch of the earth that is covered in water accessible to me. Either would be a lifetime of enoyment and travel, and I can think of nothing I'd rather be doing.
I can only assume you read much, and my question is this: what do you enjoy reading? Genre, author, style, all of the details you wish to share. I personally am a reader of mysteries. I never have the knack for figuring them out very quickly, but I enjoy the suspense and the sense of awe at the ever-present sleuth who manages to uncover the nefarious plot.
Oh! I cannot believe I've left this till last in the letter! I recently acquired a 'Bird' of my own. A falcon, whom I have named Alak. He is a peregrine, a rather small male, but very fast. I took him hunting yesterday with Tabor and Ruir, and what a fine animal trio they make. Tabor carries me with the air of a long-suffering old brother, while Alak hunts the small game, as Ruir cheers him on. The hound retrieves Alak's kills, and they seem to be getting on well. We are a happy quartet. Do tell Bird hello from Alak.
I hope this letter finds you faster than the last few. It is never my intention to make you wait.

Hurriedly,
Franklyn

P.S. I am glad you like the drawing. I only hope it didn't smudge.

The envelope had several coins of foreign make in the bottom, some silver, some gold-plated, some of unidentified metals. They had different languages and the likenesses of various important foreign dignitaries on them. All were highly polished and in very good condition. There was also yet another letter.

The third letter started in the same handwriting as usual, but written smaller.

Dearest Kit,
Greetings and Salutations to you as well! It is I, Franklyn, responding to your letter. Thank you so much for your verbosity and willingness to be friendly to me in my loneliness. However, I have a problem.
Lady Carmine is quite the letter-writer, and I find my letter-writing abilities taxed fully in answering her. However, I would not wish to leave you without a pen pal of your own. So I have endeavored to procure you a letter writer of your own.
You may remember I wrote to Delilah of my courier, Jameson? She responded that she could not find the time to write to him, for which I am grateful, for he would surely outshine my own efforts. As it turns out, I find myself in the same position regarding your delightful correspondence. And thus, I shall put the two of you together on paper, and see what comes of it.
Please don't hate me, although how you could after you read Jameson's offering, I don't know.

Sincerely,
Franklyn

From here, the letter was written in a much neater and stronger hand, firm strokes of the quill forming neat and slightly blocky letters

Hello, Kit.
My name is Jameson, and I deliver to Franklyn, to whom you've written. He has tasked me with writing to you, and responding to your delightful questions. I hope you will not mind that it is me, and not the original addressee of your letter.
The pastries were delicious! Franklyn graciously allowed me to have one, and they were flavorful and had the perfect proportion of pastry and filling. You can have too much, and these didn't, so I must congratulate you on your quality control work.
Katherine is a lovely name, but I can understand the desire to shorten it. Everyone calls me Jameson, likely because my parents always did, but I've been trying to get Jim to stick. So far, it hasn't.
Franklyn is indeed doing better, thank you for asking. And I must ask- what kind of untruths would you tell? Exaggeration is such fun, if the listener is in on the joke. I must say, you seem very open about your secrets, which is an interesting combination. I now know that you have many secrets, and I can also tell I would likely never learn any of them from you. I, on the other hand, hold no secrets. I can apparently not be trusted with them, as a mail courier apparently is also a bearer of tales.
I apologize that you've been demoted from writing to Franklyn to writing to me, but I won't tell on Jamie either. Despite what they say, your secrets would be safe with me.
Alya cannot be entirely right- you seem full of more than simply clouds and air. There is a spark of life and quite a bit of intelligence between your eyes, I can already tell. I do know people like her, though. They are well-meaning, and I assume Alya as well only means well.
Congratulations on the baby brother! I know nothing of that life, I am the baby in my own family, and of course, having no wife and kids of my own, I wouldn't know exactly how much babies cry.
As for all your questions, if it pleases you, ask away! I am more than happy to share. I also wouldn't be opposed to meeting on one of your days off, but I can understand if you were looking forward specifically to Franklyn.
I must say, dear Franklyn doesn't get to many balls. He is able to many things, but only under his parents' supervision and with their blessing, which is difficult to procure. Personally, I've never been to a ball either, being a mailman.
Murmers terrify me, I'll admit. If a house on my route has them, I often wind up circling back later in the day when they've gone away. I am glad to hear you have squirrels as well, to soften the impact of those reptilian horrors.

Jameson didn't ramble as much as Kit, but he did ask a few questions, about her likes and dislikes, her hobbies and habits, just making conversation, consistently friendly and polite the whole time.

I do understand if you'd rather not write back, again, as I was not the intended person for your letter. But your energy and zeal for life has made me smile, and if nothing comes of this, I will keep that little moment in my back pocket to pull out on rainy days.

Your fellow servant,
Jim