Ashwyndrel Corthamara House and the Parlour That Ended Its Days Mid-Sentence

The parlour of Ashwyndrel Corthamara House feels shaped by a habit that simply dwindled, as if evenings once anchored here faded so gradually no one marked the moment they stopped. The air carries faint notes of cooled tea and wool aired too long, settling over cushions that still bear softened impressions of their final uses.

The Restrained, Steady Rhythm of Mirelda Corthamara

Mirelda Corthamara, tutor of household sums and pen-line steadiness, lived with her cousin Jorwyn, a clasp-scroller whose modest commissions eventually dried up.

She kept the lessonfold alcove with a practiced calm—slates graded by difficulty, quills trimmed evenly, blotters rotated so an unmarked corner always greeted new ink. Before each lesson she walked a small grounding arc, murmuring numbers to ward off the stiffening that winter brought to her fingers. As Jorwyn’s work faltered, so did her cadence. Pages lingered uncorrected. Ink rims hardened. The alcove loosened at its edges, echoing the quiet fatigue she never spoke aloud.

The Corridor That First Lost the Sound of Her Steps

Along the inner west passage, Mirelda’s boots rest angled toward the wainscot, their leather stiffened by time. Jorwyn’s unfinished clasp-scroll blanks scatter near the baseboard, their edges dulled and warped. A cracked lamp chimney sits beside a dust cloth she dropped mid-task and never picked up.

The Scullery That Drifted Quietly Out of Use

Inside the scullery, mismatched mugs hold pale rings of dried tea. A chalk-lined kettle sits beside the smoothing stone she pressed to her aching wrists. A linen apron droops from its peg, its former crisp geometry surrendered into a soft, collapsed drape.

At the landing’s far end rests Mirelda’s final corrected slip—ink faint, margin wavering—beneath a shawl she never reclaimed. Jorwyn’s unfinished clasp-scroll piece lies beside it. Ashwyndrel Corthamara House remains dim, inert, and indefinitely abandoned.