Lirawend Throskember House and the Parlour That Let Its Last Habit Fade Mid-Breath

The parlour of Lirawend Throskember House feels shaped by a routine that didn’t break but slowly dissolved, leaving faint traces of what evenings once required. Cooled tea, worn wool, and the metallic hint of old ink linger along the furniture’s softened edges.

The Reserved, Even-Tempered Practice of Soratha Throskember

Soratha Throskember, tutor of household arithmetic and careful lettering, lived with her cousin Meryth, a clasp-shaper whose seasonal commissions dwindled until none arrived.

Soratha tended the pagecraft recess with quiet diligence—slates stacked by lesson, quills trimmed to uniform points, blotters turned so fresh corners met each new line. Before lessons she paced a small centering arc, murmuring numbers under her breath. But when income shrank and winter stiffened her joints, her precision loosened: slips went uncorrected, ink rims dried into crusted rings, and the once-ordered recess sagged into a softened disarray that revealed her quiet fatigue.

The Corridor Where Her Certainty First Shifted

Along the north interior passage, Soratha’s boots lean against the wainscot, laces hardened by disuse. Meryth’s unfinished clasp shapes scatter near the baseboard, edges dulled by humidity. A cracked lamp chimney rests beside a dust cloth she never picked back up.

The Scullery Yielding Gently to Stillness

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 folds surrendered into a softened collapse.

At the landing’s far end lies Soratha’s final corrected slip—ink faint, margin trembling—beneath a shawl she never reclaimed. Meryth’s unfinished clasp shape remains beside it. Lirawend Throskember House stays dim, unstirred, and indefinitely abandoned.