Rimthallow Veridane House and the Parlour That Held a Half-Finished Winter Supper

The parlour of Rimthallow Veridane House preserves the faint outline of a winter evening interrupted—dishes cooling, fabric waiting to be mended, a soft domestic pattern gradually unraveling into silence.

The Quiet Deliberation of Marentha Veridane

Marentha Veridane, instructor of household numbers and refined scriptwork, lived with her cousin Torvick, a clasp-engraver whose seasonal commissions shrank until his tools lay still. Marentha kept the inkthread cove with gentle, dependable order: slates arranged by lesson tier, quills trimmed uniformly, blotters rotated so a clean section greeted each new stroke.

Before teaching, she walked a short, steady loop, murmuring figures to ease the ache in her fingers. But as Torvick’s work dwindled and winter stiffened her joints, her long-practiced rhythm softened—slips went unreviewed, ink rims dried into brittle rings, and the cove surrendered into a softened clutter that mirrored her own quiet exhaustion.

The Passage Where Her Reliability First Gave Way

Along the north inner hallway, Marentha’s boots rest stiffly beside the wainscot, their leather hardened by disuse. Torvick’s unfinished clasp-etching blanks scatter near the floorboard seam, edges dulled by moisture. A cracked lamp chimney lies beside the dust cloth she set down mid-stride and never retrieved.

The Scullery Fading Into a Domestic Quiet

Inside the scullery, mismatched mugs hold pale, dried rings of tea. A white-chalked kettle rests beside the smoothing stone she pressed into her palms during colder spells. Her linen apron hangs in limp folds, long surrendered to the air.

At the landing’s far end lies Marentha’s final corrected slip—ink faint, margin trembling—beneath a shawl she intended to reclaim. Torvick’s incomplete clasp-blank rests beside it. Rimthallow Veridane House remains dim, untouched, and indefinitely abandoned.