A/N: I think the number of people who tell me "I know you say writing Bates is hard…" is a sign that I should stop whining about it every time I write for Bates. Haha. Sorry, I can be such a broken record sometimes.

By the way, I hope everyone's been enjoying a little game of "Spot the Downton References" throughout these letters! They range from the obvious to obscure.

EDIT: THANK YOU to Awesomegreentie for taking the time out of her busy life to be my beta reader! Even if I forget to write this in the A/N like the ungrateful little JERK I am, this should go without saying.

Dear Mr. Impertinence,

You may think it flattering for a woman to hear herself declared equal to the Goddess of Beauty and Love (you see I've glanced through your book), but really it only makes her feel burdened with absurd expectations. A woman likes to know she is loved despite her faults, you know — or at least I do, for I won't pretend to speak for half the human race. As for Aphrodite, I don't understand why she left a perfectly good husband for Ares, who sounds ghastly. Imagine — the God of War, clanging about with his armour and battle cries, and always on about his feats of gore and death. What a bore! I would much prefer the blacksmith who makes himself useful and has a much more agreeable nature. I think you meant to be hard on yourself when you called yourself Hephaestus, but really he's more likeable and human than the other gods, drunk on their power and glory.

Though I must confess — I haven't read much of your book, since the wedding is very near upon us now, and it was mostly Lady Mary who told me about the gods. I hope you don't mind — I was so curious about what you said that I made a little inquiry about Hephaestus to the young ladies. Lady Sybil thinks all the gods and goddesses are rather "conceited," actually, and that the humans, beasts, and demigods are far better for finding one's counterparts. Lady Mary then said she's learnt her lesson in comparing people to Greek heroes, and thinks she'll stick to English novels for now. I didn't tell them about our little bear-robin joke, since I want to keep it between ourselves, unless of course you've gone and blathered it to your inmates — I know what a social gab you are!

I do feel a bit guilty for teasing you so often. I think you should try and tease me as well, so I can continue making fun of you with a light conscience. (I couldn't give up such a favourite hobby, so I'm afraid it's the only solution.)

But really, John, the man you are now is nothing like the father you remember — I'm sure of it. You are kind where he was cruel, brave where he was cowardly, worldly where he was ignorant, and loving where he was full of hate. And you possess the control he never had. Besides, we all have our dark chapters. (What is it that His Lordship said in the library all those years ago, when Mr. C's old friend came visiting?) There mightn't be many with a past such as yours, but I wager even fewer have emerged ever the stronger and better for it, as you have. You are an uncommonly strong and honourable man, John Bates — the very picture of a big bear, or the blacksmith of Mt. Olympus.

I'm curious, though — what sorts of mischief did you get into as a child? I can tell you never had a little sibling, at least, since you seem to think nothing of five children — you wouldn't have a moment to think for yourself, you know, much less enjoy your bookcase! I had two such little monsters in my family — what perfect beasts they were, always running and knocking things about and causing a fuss. (Still, I missed them in my first few years away from home.) Anyway, I daresay Amy and little Jack will suffice for us.

You've decorated our little dream hotel — I think I'll try and give it some life. Let's see — our cook is Mrs. Blackwell, generally very reliable and diligent, but she does on occasion get into a spot of trouble when she's taken too many liberties in experimenting with her dishes. But that's all right — she's got an old, ailing mother, and we pity and like her far too much to ever dismiss her. Then there's Therese, the young maid who helps me prepare the rooms and such — she's rather like a mix of Daisy and Gwen — and Mr. Roy Whitaker, a gentle, pleasant young man who helps serve the meals and tends to the guests' bags, and the like. Perhaps he's got a way with horses (and now he's beginning to resemble our poor, dear William), so he can serve as our groom when need be.

That's a nice, cheery little crew, don't you think? I don't know anything about hotels, really, so I've made it all up as I like. I think Mr. Whitaker could entertain us all with a ghost story on a dark, stormy night like tonight — can you hear the rain and thunder? It's pouring frightful at the moment — and there's a knock at the door, scaring the children half to death — but really, it's just a poor, miserable traveler, seeking one night's shelter.

What do you make of my additions? I'm chuffed to bits at it, myself — I've been laughing as I wrote it. It seems so silly yet so delightful to me, and I'm curious to see what you'll think of it. Oh, and I'm sorry I haven't written as often as I'd want — I've been stealing precious moments here and there over the past few days. (At least it's longer than usual!) There's no rest for the wicked, as Mrs. H says, though I don't believe it, as Th. and O'B are having the easiest time of it.

Your non-Greek, non-immortal, and very tired

Mrs. Bates