How now, gentle readers! I do beseech your forgiveness for this long delay. Several affairs have occupied my time of late (including playing Juliet in a staged reading of Romeo and Juliet––more stories will hopefully come out of that). I hope the length of this final chapter will make up for the length of time it has taken me to post. And I do humbly dedicate this epilogue to DharmaHarker––thank you for inspiring me to finish this story, and best of luck to you, my friend!

Orsino carried Viola to her chamber and gently set her down on the edge of the bed. The dizziness had passed, but she still felt chilled and achy. The duke laid a hand on her shoulder.

"Forgive me, good Cesario," he said, "Had I known that thou wert ill, I should not have sent thee trotting to and fro on lovers' whims." He knelt on the floor at Viola's feet, so that he looked up into her face. "From all thy duties, thou shalt be excused, until thou hast recovered health and strength. I will commend thee to my servants' care, and hope that thou shalt soon be well again." He rose as if to go, but at the door he turned around. "If thou hast need of any thing," he added, haltingly, as if unused to the words, "some comfort, or some small service, thou need'st but ask."

"You have done much for me already, sir," said Viola, looking down at the floor for fear the color creeping up her cheeks would betray her.

Orsino closed the door behind him. For a moment, Viola sat on the edge of her bed, staring at the place where he had just stood, rehearsing in her mind's eye his kind smile; his warm, gentle touch; his clear blue eyes. She unlaced her boots, letting them drop heavily to the floor one after the other. She flung her doublet and cap toward the chair where they usually hung, missed the chair, and left them lying on the floor. Not bothering to undress any further, she burrowed under the bedclothes and drew them close around her, imagining she was still in Orsino's arms.

For three days Viola kept to her bed. She was never dangerously ill, but she felt miserable. Her throat burned, her head ached, she felt hot one minute and cold the next. By Orsino's orders, the other servants saw to it that she was well looked after. Yet more often than not, when Viola woke from her fevered dreams, she found it was the duke who sat by her bedside. It was his hand that dabbed her forehead with a cool cloth, coaxed her to take sips of broth or tea, and replaced the covers she had kicked off in her sleep. He said little, other than to inquire how she fared; but having him so near was a greater comfort than she ever could have wished.

By the fourth day, she began to feel better, although Valentine advised her to keep to her chamber until the fever was quite gone. The duke did not visit her that day––she supposed he had business to attend to, which had most likely been neglected in the hours he had spent with her the past few days.

The following morning, Viola was quite herself again––or rather, she was Cesario again––a little tired and paler than usual, perhaps, but ready to resume service.

"Cesario!" Valentine greeted her when she trotted into the kitchen. "How dost thou, friend?"

"Well, I thank you," Viola answered. It was the first time any of the duke's servants had called her friend.

"And hungry, too, I'll warrant," said Valentine, beckoning her to a seat at the long wooden table where several other servants were eating. "Come, join us."

Viola had not realized how hungry she was until a plate of bread and cheese was set before her. She ate in silence for a while, listening to snatches of conversation from the other servants. Most mornings the kitchen was buzzing with gossip and activity, but this morning the usual chatter seemed somewhat subdued. There was less slamming of doors and tramping of feet as the servants came and went. The cook seemed to be taking care not to rattle the pots and pans, although there was something decidedly sullen in the manner that he set the big kettle on the stove with a hollow clunk.

"Is his lordship yet awake?" Viola ventured to ask.

"I do believe he is," said Curio rather brusquely, "but 'twould be best if he were not disturbed."

"Why, what's the matter?" Viola asked.

"He's ill," said Curio, with a pointed look in her direction.

Viola turned to Valentine, who sat beside her. "It's not very bad, is it?" she asked.

"I hardly think so," Valentine answered, in a conspiratorial whisper. "Let him but cough, and he will swear he hath the plague. He took to his bed yesterday, complaining of a sore throat and an aching head; but I am sure 'tis naught but a trifling cold."

Viola's heart sank. Useless as it was to blame herself for the duke's illness, she could not help feeling that it was her fault. No one else in the household had taken ill in the past month. If Orsino was sick, he must have caught it from her.

The cook ladled up a steaming bowlful of porridge and set it on a wooden tray, along with a cup of hot tea and small plate of fruit. Viola slipped out of her seat and made her way to the stove. "Shall I bring that up to his lordship?" she asked. The cook grunted, which Viola took as consent; she took up the tray, and made for the duke's chambers.

The door to the duke's bedchamber was partially open, but it still seemed best to knock. Since her hands were occupied with the tray, Viola tapped at the doorframe with the side of her foot. She peeked in through the gap between door and frame, and saw the curtains drawn around the bed. "Who's there?" croaked a hoarse voice from the other side of the curtain.

"'Tis I," said Viola.

"Cesario? Come in."

Viola eased the door open and stepped into the room. She set the tray down on a small table beside the bed. "So please my lord, I've brought you your breakfast," she said.

A limp hand reached through the curtain, and waved twice in a dismissive gesture. "Nay, take it hence; I have no appetite."

"O, come sir," Viola chided. "You must needs keep up your strength." She drew the edge of the curtain aside, that he might catch a whiff of the sweet, spice-laden porridge that had been tickling her nose all the way up the stairs. Through the narrow opening, she saw Orsino lying amid tangled sheets and coverlets, his head propped up on a mound of pillows. He did look rather flushed, and the fair hair around his brow was damp with sweat.

"Cesario," he whispered, "Give me thy hand, my boy."

Viola offered her hand; the duke clasped her fingers limply. "It comforts me to have thee by my side," he said, "for I do fear me I am not much longer for this world. I prithee remember me kindly, when I have gone––"

"Come now, my lord!" Viola cut in. "You cannot be so ill, not yet, but that you may recover still."

"Dar'st thou to mock me in my misery?" The duke let his hand drop with a melancholy sigh. "Dost thou forget so quickly who it was nursed thee but lately in thy hour of need?"

"Not so, my lord, I do remember well," Viola replied in a softer tone. "An you caught sick of me, as I now live and breathe, 'tis proof, methinks, you are likely to live. Let me but do the same for you as you have done for me, and try to comfort you as best I can." She pushed the curtain to the side. "Come, sit you up and eat your breakfast, sir."

With a great deal more groaning and sighing than Viola thought necessary, Orsino pushed himself into a sitting position. Viola rearranged the pillows so that he could recline back against them. She set the tray on his lap, and set about tucking the silk napkin into the collar of his dressing gown. "Shall I feed you," she asked teasingly, "or can you manage that yourself?"

Orsino waved her away as though she were a gnat, but there was a slight smile about his lips. While he ate, Viola drew back the heavy damask bed curtains. His lordship would be stifled inside his brocaded cocoon. She opened the window at the foot of the bed. Not a cloud marred the endless blue of the morning sky, exactly the hue of Orsino's eyes. Warm sunlight poured in through the open window.

Orsino coughed. "O, shut the casement," he pleaded.

"Sir, 'tis not so cold," Viola protested. "You cannot mean to seal yourself away, like a corpse in some ancient monument. Let sunshine and the gentle whispering wind drive hence oppressive, melancholy humors."

"And if the wind grow cold, what say'st thou then?" said Orsino. "Shall I be chilled to death in mine own bed? I prithee––nay, command thee!––shut the casement."

"Say I do compromise, and close one half?" Viola suggested. "If the wind do turn cold, I'll close the other."

She closed one of the windowpanes, and returned to the bed. Orsino thrust the breakfast-tray towards her. "Away with this," he said, "I sicken at the sight."

"By look of it, you lack not appetite," Viola remarked.

Orsino opened his mouth to reply, but before he could speak a harsh cough broke from his lips. He raised his arm and coughed into the sleeve of his dressing gown. Before she realized what she was doing, Viola put her arms around him, rubbing his back until the fit ended. Orsino collapsed against her shoulder, exhausted. Viola placed a hand on his hot forehead and stroked back his sweat-damp hair.

"Cesario?" Orsino rasped.

Viola quickly withdrew her hand. "What would my lord?" she asked.

"Stay…with me."

Viola smiled. She longed to fold him in her arms, but she did not dare do anything more than clasp his hand in both of her own.

"I'll stay as long as you would have me, good my lord."