Allison was crying when Stiles found her in his room. One of the scullery maids, Emily, had been sent to the den an hour after Gerard left it. She cleaned Stiles up and brought him new clothes. He was no longer embarrassed to be helped into his pants, but it was still frustrating. Then, leaving the first aid supplies behind, the maid helped him walk back to his room at a slow, annoying pace.

Stiles heard the sound of tears before he got to his busted door and sent Emily away, but not before the maid promised to bring him a pain relieving tea later. When he was alone, Stiles leaned outside of his room, letting the sound of the tears sink in.

She always cried for him. Even though she usually tried to hide it, he could always tell. She'd come prancing into his room, trying to cheer him up, but he'd notice the redness of her nose or the puffiness of her eyes. How someone so sweet came out of a family so vile was a miracle.

There, in the hall, Stiles felt his own eyes begin to prick and sting. He took a deep breath and let it out, but it was unsteady. No, he couldn't cry too. This was nothing new, and Allison didn't need to see him looking defeated. He had to be strong for her. He had to make it seem less serious. For her sake.

Rubbing his eyes and then his nose, he took another deep breath, and this one came out smooth. Then he took a painful step to the door and entered the room.

Allison was sitting on his bed, but at his appearance, she jumped up and came to his side. Her arms went up to hug him, but then she hesitated and put them back down. The first time Gerard had beaten Stiles, he'd bruised Stiles' ribs, and when Allison tried to hug him for comfort, she'd sent him into a wave of pain. She'd learned to restrain herself ever since, even when there was nothing wrong with Stiles' ribs.

He was pretty sure he did have a bruise somewhere on his torso, though, so he appreciated it.

"Hey," he greeted with a grin. "Why the waterworks? Did something serious happen?"

"You're such an idiot," Allison scolded and rubbed her hands vigorously over her own face. "You know it was serious. It's always serious. But you always try to make it sound like nothing. But it's not. It's not right."

He tried to reach out for her to calm her down, but he winced with the motion and she backed out of his reach.

"You see? You're in pain. No one deserves to be treated this way. I'll talk to my father. We have to stop this." Her eyes were scanning him for more signs of harm, but Gerard was better than his daughter. He kept most of the damage where it could be hidden. "It's not right."

Sighing, Stiles stepped close and wrapped his arms around her, despite the way his body rebelled. "I'll be fine," he said. "I'm really okay. It will take way more than your wretched grandfather to stop me. Didn't you know? I was born with thick skin."

"Liar. You're the palest person I know. And you bleed easy." Her tone started as a joke but ended sadly. It was too soon to joke about bleeding. The bandages on Stiles' chest were proof of that, even if Allison couldn't see them.

"Shut up," Stiles said, his voice still teasing. "You're going to make me depressed if you keep talking like that. I may be a strong and dangerous person, but I have a fragile ego." He pulled back and motioned to his bed. Despite his own claims, he let her help steady him on the walk to it. "Come on. Let's do something productive. We could practice naming nobility again?"

She laughed at him, knowing studying was far from what he wanted to do then. The sound wasn't joyful, but it was better than her upset and angry tone, so he accepted it as a victory.

He did want the beatings to stop. Honestly, he did. But he didn't know what to do about them. He'd tried begging. He'd tried being silent. He'd tried fighting back. Nothing ever worked when Gerard was on a mission. As for asking Chris Argent for help? Stiles had almost snorted at the idea. Chris Argent wouldn't get within ten feet of Stiles unless there was no other option. There was no way he'd ever help Stiles go against his father. No, Stiles would probably have to die in order for that to happen. But it was charming that Allison thought it was possible.

'Dearest Derek,

I know you said you couldn't visit before autumn, but I must insist you do. It will be too cold to walk by your side in the garden if you wait until autumn. The rains will come and wash out any plans we could make. The wilderness will be fading into its least pleasant form, all drab and prepped for winter. You simply must visit before autumn. I wish to stroll the forest paths with you, ride into town as your companion, and see all the life of summer alight your face with a smile. Beyond that, your eyes will look the most striking in the backdrop of our summer green fields. I miss those eyes more than I can say. Please honor my family and I with the joy of your presence before the leaves begin to fall.

Yours, Kate'

"That'll do for now," Kate said after reading the letter. Stiles was surprised, honestly, because she didn't offer any edits or additions like she normally did.

Actually, she'd been unnervingly complacent all day. He hadn't seen her at all the previous day, after Gerard's beating, and though her tone was as harsh as normal today, she said far less. Whenever Stiles moved, wincing from time to time, he noticed her eyes trailing over him. She'd never find the bruises that way, but she kept checking regardless.

Maybe he shouldn't be surprised. She often acted odd after a particularly good beating. Despite her abusive nature, she always let him heal for a day or two before getting rough with him again. In the beginning, he'd thought she felt remorse or perhaps cared about him, but she always returned to slapping him around eventually. The emotional tug of war was exhausting.

"I'll rewrite it neatly for you," Stiles said, taking the letter back from her and pulling out a new sheet for the final draft. "Will you be needing anything else today?"

"No," Kate answered, the syllable slightly too long, as though she were thinking hard about something. "Finish your scribbling and then see the maids for first aid. I can't stand you being so sluggish. It's aggravating. This letter took you twice as long to write, and it's not even the longest one we've sent." She stomped to the door, annoyance in the set of her shoulders. "Be a man and stop wincing all the time. You weren't even hit that hard."

The door shut loudly behind her, covering the fact that Stiles had snapped his pen in half. Cursing, he gathered the shards and dumped them in the waste basket, and then he returned to mop up the ink. The focus on his mess distracted him from his anger, and when he sat back in his seat, he was more relieved than agitated.

With a tired sigh, he reached for Derek's envelope and dug around for a second letter. It was on a smaller bit of paper than normal, but he welcomed the message regardless of length. His chest warmed just on the salutation, but he did his best to remain calm and indifferent while he read.

'Dear Stiles,

Lately I have been thinking about horses. One of our mares recently gave birth, and the foal is the strongest I've ever seen. It runs around the paddock with gusto bordering on foolishness. Rain or shine, he goes out into the yard all on his own. When he is older, he'll make a fantastic mount. You can see in his eyes that he wants to prove himself, and I have no doubts that he will surprise all of us.

I think my favorite time to go riding is in spring, when the bushes are fresh with life. The fields and forests are never so fragrant as then, and I think my horse likes that too. I admit I am usually a solo rider. I feel more at ease when out from under the gaze of others. Though I'm beginning to believe I wouldn't mind company if the right person were around – someone whose conversation makes me feel excited, not anxious or annoyed. Someone who speaks and writes very well. Someone like that, I think I could spend all day with.

Yours, Derek Hale'

Dear Stiles. Yours, Derek Hale. Ever since Stiles had accidentally sent a letter with those greetings, Derek had begun doing the same. Just seeing the words at the top of a letter were enough to make Stiles excited. Despite having never met Stiles in person, Derek Hale, next Earl of Beacon, considered him a close enough acquaintance to write such intimacies.

Stiles was beyond honored. Stiles was smitten.

Yep. He could admit it in his head. He had a crush on some lovely penmanship.

Not that he was planning on telling anyone that.

Damn. He didn't even know what Derek looked like. All he had was some tiny portrait in a book, and no one ever looked like their portraits – especially not Stiles. Though, to be fair, Stiles' portrait was from when he was in his awkward pubescent years. The point, however, was that Derek's portrait told him little more about Derek than Kate's rantings.

Pulling out his own paper, Stiles tried not to get hung up on Derek's physical appearance and to focus on the words. In almost three months of corresponding, Stiles had begun to believe he could honestly trust the words Derek Hale sent him… And if that ever proved false, well Stiles would probably be crushed and despondent, but he'd cross that bridge when he came to it. He grabbed a new pen and tapped it in the ink.

'Dear Derek,

Newborn foals are always excited and energetic beyond their sense. I would wait to pass judgment on the strength of this little guy until he finally does prove himself. I recall a specific foal from my childhood – a russet coat with two front socks. He had the energy of four horses as a newborn, but when it came time to saddle him, he shied away. He would not take the bit willingly, and any sort of tack gave him too much anxiety to be of use. My father was prepared to sell him, or shoot him, but I asked for the steed as my birthday present. My father said 'Fine. He's as stubborn and foolish as you. Maybe you'll drive each other mad.' He was angry at the time. I didn't take offense.

I rode that horse without any tack at all, and we were the best of friends for seven years. I don't know what became of him, but I hope his new owner understands his peculiar nature and appreciates him.

As for when to ride, I wish I could predict the perfect time to ride so that I came home in a drizzle. The air before rain is refreshing, but coming home soaked is not so much. Roscoe, my horse, liked the rain, though. He always stuck his nose up and tried to eat it.

I ride alone these days, and without Roscoe. I admit, I see the appeal of riding solo, and I would do anything to get a few hours of peace away from this manor. However, I prefer to ride with company. The only person I currently like enough to ride with regularly is Allison, but maybe soon I can ride with a new companion – one with a young, feisty horse that has gusto bordering on foolishness.

Yours, Stiles'

No one noticed Stiles in town. No one ever did these days. It was his plain clothes. It was his tan. It was the fact that he walked into town instead of stepping out of a fancy carriage. To anyone with power, Stiles was invisible. His position as scribe may afford him some luxury and status, but only in the company of his mistress. In the streets and shops of town, he was just another servant.

Stiles always allowed himself a moment to feel down about that, but then he shook it off and continued on with his day. He'd had a long time to grow accustomed to being nobody, and it didn't get to him the way it used to. Now he just enjoyed the conversation of the maid he accompanied on a shopping trip.

Officially, Gerard only let Stiles go because he could, theoretically, defend the maid from thieves or carry heavy baskets. Unofficially, Stiles had set up that reasoning so he could go on walks with his favorite maids. They took the worker's carriage into town, a plain thing for utility not show, but they got to walk all over without anyone spying on them or telling them what to do. It was nice.

He also enjoyed shopping, actually. Sifting through stalls for the perfect fruit; feeling swatches for the perfect fabric; rummaging through junk to find that one cool artifact – he really did find joy in it. Back when his name had been longer than six letters, he'd never taken the time to enjoy markets and shops – at least not normal ones. He'd always preferred the outlandish shops. Well. He still preferred those, but he no longer had the funds necessary to frequent them. So he found joy in everyday shopping. Or at least in teasing the maid about her choices or making jokes about the fruit.

"Look! This one looks like Earl Gévaudan," Stiles said, holding up a pale fruit. A quince was a naturally knobby pear-like fruit, but this type was even more perfect for the joke because it was almost as white as Gerard Argent's skin.

The maid, Caitlyn, covered her mouth to smother her laughter and shook her head. "Stiles, that is terrible!" she exclaimed when she could breathe again. "You really shouldn't joke like that."

"Ah, what's the worst that could happen?" he asked. He meant it rhetorically, but Caitlyn's laughing smile died instantly and he groaned. "No. Stop it. Everyone needs to stop thinking about that stuff, alright? I'm fine."

"You always say that." She paid for her produce and led Stiles into a shop next door.

"And I'm always right." Stiles darted in behind her, barely sliding through the door before it shut. Sure, he could have grabbed it to stop it closing, but this way was more exciting. He slid in front of the maid and held up his hand. "Caitlyn, who was right about the weather when you and the others wanted to go on a picnic and I said it would rain on you?"

Caitlyn sighed and rolled her eyes. "You were."

"And who was right when guessing that Reddick had a crush on the milkmaid?" Stiles paused and grinned. "And then proceeded to trick him into confessing to the wrong milkmaid?"

Now Caitlyn was smiling too, remembering those shenanigans. "You, Stiles. Now shut up. I see what you're doing." She pushed past him to examine the fabrics on display.

"What am I trying to do, Caitlyn?" Stiles kept pace behind her as she moved around the shop, checking colors and knit counts.

"Make me believe that everything is fine." She paused by a deep red swath of fabric and nodded. "Alright. Then okay. I'll pretend that everything is fine. And you can go on being a dumb idiot."

"Hey!" Stiles complained, but Caitlyn turned and bopped him on the nose with one finger.

"No complaints, Mister. We've all got to make sacrifices, and yours is to deal with people thinking you're a fool. Now zip your lips and help me get a few yards of this red one." She leaned around Stiles to get the shop keeper's attention and waved him over.

Finally, Stiles took noticed of the red fabric. Crimson, really. It was like satin, though Stiles had very little knowledge in fashion and it could have as easily been cotton without him knowing any better. There was thin red thread sewn in delicate patterns across the whole roll of fabric, giving it a mildly oriental feel.

Forehead knitting together curiously, Stiles asked, "Why are we buying this?"

"Lady Katherine needs a new gown for the ball next week," Caitlyn explained. "Although, if I'm honest, I think she's going to save it for whenever Mr. Hale finally visits."

The shop keeper stepped over and helped Caitlyn unroll the fabric and count the appropriate amount of yardage. Then he stepped over to the counter and cut the fabric for her. Finally, he folded the fabric and placed it in a brown bag.

"I can't wait to see Lady Argent attempting to pull this one off," he remarked as he handed it over. When he and Stiles locked eyes, the shop keeper winked to punctuate his joke. Surprising. Stiles had never really heard townspeople making fun of the Argents.

"Oh stop, Mr. Hewitt," Caitlyn said with a grin, lightly smacking him in the shoulder. "Between the two of you, I don't know who's worse." She sighed then and rubbed the spot on Mr. Hewitt's shoulder that she'd hit. "I'll truly miss you when you've gone, though."

"You're leaving?" Stiles asked. Mr. Hewitt had dark skin and short hair and generally looked as presentable as a shop keeper should, but he also had tiny hoop earrings that were sure to get him peculiar stares in good company. Stiles liked them though. He didn't recognize the shop keeper, but someone moving away was always interesting gossip, and also a little sad of course.

Mr. Hewitt nodded and took a deep breath, letting it out slowly through his nose. "Yep. The whole family is. We're opening a shop over in Greenburg. It'll be sad to leave here – I mean, I grew up here, you know? – but the rent is cheaper there, and I hear Baron Posey is a good landlord. The population is supposed to be more… diverse? I suppose? I guess I'll find out when I move there."

"Maybe your accessories won't be as frowned upon in diverse society," Caitlyn said and reached up to touch one of Mr. Hewitt's earrings. He leaned away before she could, laughing.

"Maybe. I mean, that's the hope, right?" He glanced over at Stiles and swallowed nervously. Nervously? Why on earth would Stiles make anyone nervous? "You don't mind them, right?"

"Me?" Stiles startled at being called out. He quickly shook his head. "No. I really like them. I think they look good on you. I mean, I wish I had that kind of… confidence?" Now he was just starting to sound dumb. But seriously, he just wanted the shop keeper to relax a bit.

Mission complete. Stiles' stupid little ramble released some of the tension in the darker man's shoulders, and he smiled again. It was a slightly different smile than the one he gave Caitlyn, but Stiles couldn't place why.

Caitlyn led Mr. Hewitt away then, asking for help with other fabrics. Apparently the gown for Kate was not the only article of clothing she was going to be making in the coming days. Like most people, the Argents bought the majority of their clothes from shops, but for special events or balls, they had them all personally sewn. Caitlyn was a seamstress by trade, but since she didn't need to make clothes for the Argents continuously, she also worked on commission to other important families. And if no one needed a seamstress for a while? Well, then Caitlyn did the shopping. Now it seemed she was doing both jobs at once.

Throughout their time in the shop, Stiles noticed Mr. Hewitt throw him several more curious looks, and he grew more and more confused. They weren't scared looks or angry scowls. They were interested or hopeful or just shy smiles. It wasn't until they were being waved off by Mr. Hewitt that Stiles finally thought he understood, and he was so shocked by his realization that he missed the last step back onto the street and almost fell over. As it was, he just stumbled ungracefully before catching himself.

"I'm completely alright," Stiles assured Caitlyn, who had rushed to him. Then he glanced back at Mr. Hewitt, stunned in the doorway. "I'm fine," he said. "I'm fine."

Mr. Hewitt nodded, his face still a little worried, and then retreated inside. Caitlyn didn't take his word for it and looked him over all around before allowing him to take one more step. Caution kept Stiles from making any inquiries until they were several shops away, but his curiosity wouldn't let him stay silent any longer.

However, when he opened his mouth to speak, Caitlyn beat him to it and he was left gaping like a dried out fish.

"I think Mason was flirting with you," Caitlyn said. "Or, at the very least, he found you attractive."

"I-" Stiles started to argue the point but then realized what exactly she'd said. "I knew it! I was about to ask you! I noticed something was going on but I wasn't sure." He nearly dropped the basket in his right hand from shaking it too much in his excitement. "But I don't know why he'd bother, since he's moving soon. And anyway, he could do way better than me."

"Well there's another point we'll have to disagree upon, I'm afraid," Caitlyn said with a hidden smile. "I can count on one hand the number of people who don't think you're attractive. And I don't just mean your pretty face, either." She reached over to touch the only visible bruise on Stiles, a light purple discoloration on the right side of his jaw, back near his ear. "Bruised or not."

"Well at least we're not focusing on my bruises anymore," Stiles answered sarcastically, with a false cheery tone.

Caitlyn laughed a little as they found their carriage and stepped inside, ready for an easy trip home. "You're definitely a fool, Stiles."

Well, she had been right in the shop. As much as he wanted to, he really couldn't argue with that. He spent the whole ride back thinking about how a stranger had openly found him attractive. It had been so long since anyone had flirted with him… at least in person. Derek might have flirted, but it was hard to tell on paper.

Mr. Hewitt. Mason. If he weren't moving away, Stiles wondered if he'd have gone back to visit the man. He was barely younger than Stiles and clearly interested. Sure, Stiles had a crush on an Earl, but would he really pass on a chance at a real relationship? With someone more on his level?

He stared out the window and wondered. Even if Mason Hewitt was moving away soon… should he go back and visit anyway?