Too Much Of What You Want
After a week, Renard arrives in Sebilles.
At the gates he catches his breath triumphantly for escaping Colette, then visits Isobel.
She moved out of her village months ago, after receiving her first paycheck. Then she hopped from town to town around Lacren, but landed ultimately here in Sebilles – a place with uncomfortable memories for Renard, but one that proves his good work, to successfully fund her life in Lacren’s most expensive city.
Her house, too, is a great improvement on her old shack. Though, compared to the majesty of Colette’s holiday manor—Renard wrangles the thought down there, tamping down a lash of guilt and of profound failure.
He fixes his smile, knocks on the door. As he waits, for the first time, he feels nervous about perhaps being seen visiting this woman.
Overcompensating, the second the door opens, he hoists Isobel off her feet into a hug and spins her around the room. She yelps, then laughs a bright chirping laugh with recognition: “Ren!"
“It is I, plumpest peach, it is I," he announces, quickly closing the door.
As they laugh and flirt and play cute teasing games, Renard reveals his bounty of the 800 lucras. Isobel’s eyes widen, impressed, and so further she fawns and hugs: Oh, you are such a good boy!
She takes him into a deep kiss, begins unbuttoning her shirt. This scene will soon progress how it has many times before, since the only times he physically visited Isobel, instead of sending her money through couriers, was for sex. Truthfully, these trysts were infrequent. To take her without fulfilling his duty of dangling luxuries upon her always struck him as impudent, but at the same time, he would resolve to reward her next week with even better profits, tell himself she wanted him, and he’d done well to show up. She would coax him professionally, no matter how nervous he was: it was allowed.
This time, a deep sickness jerks Renard to grab her wrists. Her hands freeze, only at the second button.
She eyes him, too alarmed by this interruption to hide the chink in her performance, and aware this move was not foreplay for anything more experimental.
For — still thinking of Marion, and unable to obliterate the dread and anguish risen in him by his most recent hunt, Renard finds himself not in the mood. It’s not even about having failed Isobel. Simply, with Marion dead, Renard should not be here.
Isobel’s wary look melts into a smile. With flowing grace, she morphs the hold into a hug that presses her breasts against Renard’s arm, also twirling herself out of the grip. It is clear Renard does not feel great right now. But Isobel’s skill is to make others feel good, so she gently cups his back to ease him towards the bed.
“Not tonight, Isobel," Renard mutters, stopping still.
She dips her head, yet still pulls him nearer.
“Not tonight," he repeats, with shockingly firm composure.
The silence holds for long seconds.
Isobel is seated on the bed, gazing up at him with those eyes full of unspoken words: ‘What’s wrong?’ But she does not actually want to hear it, just as much as he does not want to speak about it with her.
That vision of the woman in gold tempers cool, its vitality absent. Steeling himself against the suddenly chilly air, Renard purses his lip, gives a light nod, and exits the room.