Twelfth Night: Chapter Three

I think his soul is in hell, madonna.

I know his soul is in heaven, fool.

The more fool, madonna, to mourn for your brother's

soul being in heaven. Take away the fool, gentlemen.

~Feste & Olivia~

Twelfth Night

Act One

Scene V

“Are you yet determined that you are going to do this?”

“Yes, Hans, now give Anna the scissors. I do not trust you with them.”

The three were once again in the kitchen, only instead of cleaning they were preparing the woman for her new role. Hans had made a few more attempts at talking her out of this scheme, though he knew they would do no good. This was the last attempt, he vowed. I am done.

She was seated before him with a towel strung around her shoulders. Anna was standing directly behind her, hand held out to receive the scissors. Nothing about this scene of a woman cutting hair would have been odd, if the person whose hair she was cutting was not clothed in garments that were clearly not meant for her gender.

The two siblings had dug through the attic earlier, trying to supply the woman with what articles of clothes they knew she needed and yet didn't have. But most of what she wore now had been her brothers, saved from the wreckage. Anna had assisted her in binding her breasts, and now, clad as she was in trousers, a blouse, and an overcoat, no one could tell that she was not a youth. Well, once the hair was cut off they would not be able to tell.

The brown locks that currently tumbled down her back framed her face and gave every indication that she was female even with the lack of chest. Until it was gone, no one would be fooled. Sighing, Hans placed the blades onto his sisters palm, and watched as she cut off the woman's hair.

To her credit, although she looked as if she might cry at any given moment, the woman did not shed a single tear as lock after lock floated past her shoulders to land gentle on the floor. Mercifully, Anna worked quickly and it was all soon over. Hans viewed his sisters handy-work with a critical eye, as the object of it brushed stray strands off of her and stood.

“If I did not know who you were, I would not have known that you were a woman.”

She smiled. “My mother was a gypsy,” she explained, “Preforming and acting is in my blood.”

“Are you ready to do this? You truly have no family to take you in?”

“As I said, my mother was a gypsy. My father was looked down upon because of it, and nearly all his relatives shunned us. The only one who didn't was an uncle who made his fortunes in Messina, yet we heard just before we left that his daughter had died, so we did not care to intrude upon him. We were by no means poor, but my brother sold our fathers estate. We were going to sail to Italy, to visit my mother's goddaughter Portia when the storm hit. In truth, sir, this is the only way that I can make enough to continue on that voyage.”

Hans nodded gravely. “Well, let us be off then. The duke has court this afternoon, which will be the perfect time to present you to him.” He leaned over and pressed a kiss to his sister's cheek. Anna was currently sweeping up the fallen hair, and she smiled at the both of them as they walked to the door.

“Wait!” she called out suddenly. They paused. “Have you thought of what your name will be?” she asked the woman.

“Yes.” she replied after a brief pause. “While I am a man, you may call me Cesario.”

~*~

He burned. That was all Sebastian of Messaline knew, the heat that he could not escape from. On occasion, he heard voices, one, maybe two. But neither of them were the ones that he wanted to hear. Nor could he discover the location of said unspoken voice, for the ones that he knew spoke in such low tones he could not make anything out.

Someone was lifting up his head, and pouring a warm broth down his throat. The sudden flow of liquid brought some clarity to his mind, and removed the dryness from his throat. “Sister?” he asked. There was no reply, so he tried again. “Sister?”

“I am sorry,” someone answered. “Your sister is not here.”

Sebastian heaved, and coughed. “W-where?” was all he could manage to say.

A pause.

“I was only able to save you from the shipwreck, sir. I doubt that your sister survived.”

The speaker covered his ears a moment later, as the man he was supporting on the only bed in the room let out the most inhuman cry ever heard. He was so loud that the children playing in the next street over heard him, and were afraid. People in the street paused, and wondered at what could make such a sound. But Sebastian did not care. When he ran out of air to support his wordless shout, he collapsed back and sank into blissful darkness.

~*~

It had worked. Cesario and Hans had made their way into the court of the Duke Orsino, where the Captain had presented the girl-dressed-as-boy. After some questioning by persons already employed by his Lordship, Cesario presented herself to him.

He requested that she sing. She did. He asked her to play the piano-forte, and she demonstrated her skills in that as well. Ordering one of his men to bring him a sword, he attacked her suddenly. Her father had scene fit to educate his daughter alongside his son in many subject, swordplay being one of them. Orsino won the impromptu match, but only because his age and years practicing were far more than hers.

Suitably impressed, he employed her as his valet. Cesario bid farewell to Hans, and stepped into her new role with ease.

~*~

Mariah opened the window to tell whoever was below it to hush. They were disturbing her grieving lady with happy music. Upon seeing who it was, however, a smile lit her face and she practically flew outside to stand before the imposing figure.

“Feste!” she cried. “You have come home to us at last!”

“Aye, sister,” replied the man, “I would have been here sooner if it hadn't been for the storms across the sea delaying my journey.”

Mariah looked her younger brother over with a critical eye. Feste the jester, the fool, was the tallest man in Illyria, there was no doubt of that. In a crowd, he stood nearly a head higher than everyone else. He was a well-built man, hardy from many years of labor and travel. A dusty traveler’s cloak covered his broad shoulders, and his boots were in need of a good cleaning, but he appeared to be in good health.

The lady's face grew somewhat somber. “You did not make it back in time to attend the funeral rights. Lady Olivia is so furious with you, brother, I fear she shall hang you when she sees you.”

“It's just as well,” he replied, “For many a good hanging prevents a bad marriage.”

She blushed. “You are resolved to stay then?”

“I am resolved in two things, that being one of them.”

“Where did you go while you were away, brother?”

“Here, and there. Wherever I could find work that was far away from the cursed steward. Tell me, is he still employed to her?”

“Aye,” Mariah informed him, “And that is why I say Olivia will hang you. There is no lost love between you and the steward, and he has grown ever closer to my Lady with her father's death. She clings to him as if to a rock in a storm, determined that he will hold her up. And he does.”

Feste drew his sister into an embrace. He, who had known her nearly all her life, could tell that she was feeling many things over this affair with Olivia. But most of all, she was worried. And when Mariah worried, she worried herself sick.

“Think no more of this.” he told her as he pulled back. She through the gap between his arm and torso (she was no where near tall enough to reach his shoulder) and let out a small gasp.

“Speak of the devil and he shall appear.” she stated, gesturing. Feste turned to see Olivia and the steward approaching them. “They must have wondered where I had gone,” Mariah continued, “for I was sent out here to quiet you, and had not returned.”

“Go flirt with Toby.” Feste whispered in her ear, and ignored her cry of outrage, “And leave these two to me.”

After glaring at him for a moment, she complied, flouncing off to the kitchen to located the man her brother had spoke of, all the while praying his companion was not with him.

As she left, Feste turned to the two who were now standing before him. He bowed low. “God bless thee, Lady!” he cried, taking her hand in his and pressing a kiss to it. Olivia yanked her palm from his grasp.

Turning to her steward, she said imperiously, “Take the fool away.”

Malvolio reached for Feste, who darted away from his hands. “Did you not hear her correctly sir? She told you to take her away. As you are her servant, you must obey!”

“Fool,” Olivia said, “I told him to take you away.”

“You told him to take away the fool,” he replied, “And the only true fool here is you. No," he said swiftly, holding up a hand to stop her protest, "Give me a but chance to prove it!”

She stared at him warily. “Can you do it?”

“Yes.”

She and Malvolio shared a glance. “Proceed, Feste.”

“Good madam, you wear black,” Feste began, gesturing to her attire, “For whom do you mourn?”

“For my brother, fool, this you know.”

“His soul is then in hell, madam.”

Crack!

His face stung as she slapped him. “I know,” she shouted, “that his soul is in heaven!”

“Which proves that you are a fool, for mourning a soul that is in heaven. Therefore, steward, take away the fool.”

Olivia laughed slightly at this, her earlier temper quickly gone. “I had forgotten you in your absence.”

“I did not think it was so easy to forget me, but I forgive you this one fault, if you shall forgive mine.”

“I wonder,” Malvolio said dryly, speaking for the first time, “that your lady should take delight in such a stupid rascal. Why, I have seen the likes of him put down by a boy who had no more brain than a stone. Look, even now unless you laugh and respond, he knows not what to say. He's gagged. A fool he is, though not a good one.”

There would never be friendship between the jester and the steward.