Credit, of course, to the late William Shakespeare.

Her brother has bid her to dinner with the Count, and she was not permitted her refuse. She sat, back perilous rigid, at her dear brother's bed-side, who meant her only well. The Count, too, means her well, so it has been said – by many (so she hears by way of the fool), and even by her own brother (so she has seen herself).

Her brother reached for her face, his hand trembling in the air as it went. He informed her, in that frail whisper his command has become, the magnitude of his worry for her. 'I would not leave you alone, good sister,' said he. 'By all the stars, I would not.'

''Twould never be your doing if you did, brother,' Olivia replied, then leaned her head forth to let him take a tendril of her hair twixt his two fingers. The rash sound of his cough pounded in her ears, and she grabbed at her fingers, stripping them of all their rings, unlacing all the trinkets from her wrists.

'Peace you, sister,' he whispered when she pressed them in his palms. 'I breathe yet.'

Her eyes she cast on her hands. She listened closely to the timings of the clock. 'Of course, sir,' she said, her tongue suddenly formal.

Her brother spoke to her of the Count, with a gasp in his breath. 'He means you only well,' said he. 'So it is said me, he does seek your love.'

Olivia turned her face away, as one might turn away a vile odour. 'If I might, my brother, I fear I've none to give.' When she chanced to look up again, his words were none, but his eyes were set to mark her boldness.

He sighed to the ceiling; he let go of her hand. 'Will you hold his audience?' he inquired of her so quietly.

'I shall uphold a sister's duty,' came her reply, then her footsteps in the corridor. And so, it was not for the sake of a plague-smitten Count that this morning she bade Maria lace her into a whale-bone corset she had never yet worn; but, rather, for the sake of all her poor brother's fears. He worried for her, and she would not deny him from it.

Olivia sits, silent as her father's grave, at the opposite end of the table from Orsino. Malvolio stands guarding at one door, Maria at the other. Olivia speaks only when the silence commands her; Orsino stops his talk only to chew. She esteems him a passing fair converser, and so hears him with her fingers 'neath her chin, as she does when she hears folly-cases from the fool. She does not lay a hand to the food, but sips her wine with a wary eye.

He tells her of her beauty, and she turns her face to the wall. She must dishearten him, but to soft praise she will make no reply. She does what she can without the aid of her empty words. She thinks of carriage-rides, of turns in the gardens, and it's sure she wills herself anywhere but in this coldly-lit hall with gracious Count Orsino.

Much a surprise to her, she cannot say she much minds the keeping of his company. He stares after her with no hungry eye; he does not clench his hands in her presence. This Count is an appalling goodly man. He makes his jests, his eyes both sparkling; and one time alone, he even makes a slight smile tick at the corners of her mouth. And yet, Olivia will not have him.

She would have love in her heart, love whose purpose might knock apart the very world. She would have such love, or she will have the grief that comes by its absence. By all the stars in Heaven, she will have naught besides. She walks the halls once night is fallen, a sudden silence on her. She cups her palm round the flame of her candle and regards the moon outside the casement. She will tell her brother nothing of it; she will attend his good humour whilst still she can.