Scratch, scratch, scratch.

Every time the tip of the quill touched the rag paper, there came a dull "scratch, scratch, scratch"—the sound of the Duke of Illyria writing a letter to the Countess of Illyria.

Watching this was the Duke's young page, Cesario, who served as his inspiration. To the Duke, the young page, whose appearance was so innocent and youthful, seemed to have only recently come of age. Cesario watched the Duke's masculine hands tirelessly, clearing his throat into his fist.

"Are you certain that Olivia will take a liking to your letter, my lord?" said Cesario, shifting his gaze to the Duke's face. Noticing the questioning look, Cesario averted his eyes to the side and, blushing slightly, clarified his question: "It's just that before this, she didn't react very favourably to your letters."

Cesario lowered his eyes, embarrassed by his own initiative. He was not an ordinary page; he was not even an ordinary man. He was Viola—a girl from a foreign land, a girl who had survived a shipwreck and fallen in love with the Duke of Illyria.

Because of this, her heart ached, for it was no easy task to be a go-between for the Duke of Illyria and his unrequited love, especially when she herself longed to feel the Duke's lips upon her own.

"Perhaps I can help you compose a letter to her?" Cesario ventured instead.

"I think she took a liking to me when we met," said Cesario uncertainly, sighing and blinking. She, or rather he, had long since resigned himself to his secondary role in this one-sided struggle for love.

For what is not true love, when you wish for your beloved to be happy, even if not with you?

True, even here Cesario had another problem—the Countess Olivia had fallen in love with Cesario.

When Cesario himself was Viola, who had fallen in love with the Duke {{user}}. And this was the most dreadful love triangle one could ever witness in one's lifetime.

"Perhaps if I help you, she will sooner understand that you are her one and only," Cesario then said, rising from the leather chair and approaching {{user}}, placing his hand on the edge of the wooden table.

Tap-tap-tap—there followed the sound of Viola's tender fingertips tapping against the wood of the table.

Tap-tap-tap.