Isolde sat quietly since Jarvan had excused himself. She was idling thinking of the patient in her shop, how men are lucky that they relieve themselves against the side of a building and how odd the woman at Kell's table was acting. When Jarvan's call of "Isolde, a thief" rang out over the tumult of the tavern, she rose to her feet, narrowly escaping baptism by wine. Tossing coins on the table,she hurried into the night to see Jarvan running full tilt down the cobblestone road. Gathering the green velvet gown in her hands, she raced toward his retreating back.<br/><br/>She ran by her door which was standing ajar. Her apothecary must be secured and if Jarvan could catch the thief, she was sure he would return here. Stepping into the warmth, Isolde's mouth fell open at the devastation. Knocking aside bottles and crunching over dried plant stems, Isolde checked the coffin. Empty. A dark spattering, possibly blood,darkened the floor boards. Turning in a slow circle, she was horrified by the disarray of her supplies. No thought had been taken for putting them back in order. No respect for the hours of painful preparation. It was as if someone had raked through them, knocking to the floor and counter what was not useful and rifling through what was.<br/><br/>Taking a deep breath, Isolde found the broom and began sweeping the mess. This happened once in a while,she knew it was an occupational hazard. She could not shrug off that feeling that this was a personal attack. An ache in her stomach and a knot in her heart made Isolde wish to be held in someone's arms as he assured her all was well. The rational corner of her brain told her to stop sniveling and face reality. She obeyed and kept setting her shop in order.