These all turned out way differently than what I was picturing in my head but das okay. It was nice to feel inspired to open my game and play a little dress up.
Their woes with the Canvas would not fade overnight. Not the emotional ramifications, nor the physical.
It’s the latter aspect Renoir failed to anticipate. He’d had no real timeline in place when he’d torn after Aline—his mind was reduced to its baser aspects, falling into the role of protector/conqueror/guardian, whether it was welcome or not. He paid for it now.
The Dessendre patriarch had made it to the sofa by Clea’s grace alone. The muscles in his legs screamed in protest. His bad knee had refused to hold his weight altogether. He’d been in the process of falling when their eldest caught him, hissing out a breath. The severity of her expression warred against the care in her touch. Clea slung his arm over her shoulder, staggering under his weight before catching herself. Her fingers curled over his side.
“I believe,” he rasped, throat dry and aching. Renoir’s mouth tasted metallic. “You warned me of this outcome, ma chérie.”
She said nothing, lips pursed. The pair straggled through to the seating area. Renoir grunted in pain, easing himself down on the sofa. Clea's attention flicked back towards the atelier, an almost electric energy coursing beneath her skin. He caught her wrist.
Their eldest rounded on him with the energy of a cornered predator, teeth bared and eyes hard. Clea was, as ever, darkly beautiful—worn thin and exhausted by time, but still their finest work. Renoir offered her an exhausted half-smile. She did not return it.
“Alicia—”
He nodded, squeezing her hand. “Remains.”
Clea inhaled sharply, pale eyes glinting in the firelight. “Will she return?”
His mind and his heart were of two disparate opinions. Renoir had no answer. He brought her knuckles up to his lips. “Sit with me for a moment.” They were too alike. Clea wanted to fight, wanted to run, wanted to act. Staying still was the antithesis of their very nature. He tugged once more. This time, she followed the motion. She was careful, he noted, not to touch him now that the immediacy of a fall had passed. Despite his exhaustion and the direness of the situation, something about that struck him as amusing—an uncharacteristically juvenile need to express her displeasure. “Clea—”
“Renoir.” Her voice stressed his name, sharpened it, as if still feeling its way around the unfamiliar syllables. “Whatever you intend to say—keep it. And if you can make it to your room unaccompanied—” she fisted her hands in the fabric of her skirt. “Go.”
He shook his head. “Your mother requires rest. She does not need me.”
Their eldest tossed her head, scoffing. “Ah, now you’re willing to leave her alone.”
“I have no interest in fighting you, chérie. Please. What’s done is done.”
“Easier to say as the aggressor,” she stated, voice flat, lacking both sharpness and venom. It was a statement of fact, nothing more. Renoir nodded. Clea frowned, wrists hanging stiffly over her knees. “Peace, then.”
“Peace," he agreed. "You have my gratitude.”
“I don’t want it.”
Renoir shook his head. He fought the urge to reach for her, draw her close as he might have when she was a little girl. She wouldn’t welcome it. Certainly not now.
Clea leaned back. Her attention flicked from the atelier to her father’s face. In profile, Renoir saw just how thin she’d grown. Dark bags rimmed her eyes. Her cheeks bordered on gaunt, the line of her clavicle too pronounced. The fire had eaten them all away. The weight of the manor’s air threatened to crush them, heavy with memory, haunted by their shared ghosts.
More softly, Clea asked, “Renoir, will she return?”
No, his mind wanted to say. His little one had already made her choice.
Yes, his heart insisted. Alicia wouldn’t forget them, as her parents forgot her.
“All that’s left is to trust in Alicia.”
It wasn’t an answer. Renoir held out his arm. That was an answer—an offer of comfort and a request for it. Clea scrubbed a hand over her face. She leaned into his side, stiffly at first, then melting into the contact. Renoir folded an arm over her shoulder, pressing a kiss to her forehead.
