Shadevale Orrinthyre House and the Parlour Where the Evening Habit Finally Broke

The parlour of Shadevale Orrinthyre House carries a hush that has thickened slowly, shaped by years of repetition rather than abrupt absence. A faint scent of cooled tea lingers under dust and wool. Upholstery caves inward where nightly patterns once pressed themselves into habit.

The Reserved, Predictable Rhythm of Marentha Orrinthyre

Marentha Orrinthyre, tutor of household writing and mindful arithmetic, lived here with her cousin Felward, an apprentice buckle-shaper whose income faltered season by season. Marentha curated the pencraft recess with unvarying order—quills aligned to length, slates sorted by complexity, blotters turned to fresh corners. Before lessons she paced a small, steady arc, whispering through figures she intended to correct. But as Felward’s wages thinned and her fingers stiffened in winter cold, her dependable structure softened. Sheets lay untouched. Ink rims dried. The recess sagged into a quiet, unspoken decline.

The Corridor Where Her Steadiness First Shifted

In the front passage, Marentha’s boots rest angled inward, their laces hardened like wire. Felward’s misaligned buckle-forms lie scattered near the wainscot. A cracked lamp chimney sits beside a dust cloth she dropped during an unfinished chore.

The Scullery Folding Slowly Into Stillness

Inside the scullery, pale tea rings mark mismatched mugs. A kettle rimmed with chalk sits beside the smooth stone Marentha pressed to her aching knuckles. A linen apron hangs limp from its peg, the last crisp crease long surrendered.

At the landing’s far end rests Marentha’s final corrected slip—ink faint, margin trembling—beneath a shawl she never retrieved. Felward’s unfinished buckle-form lies beside it. Shadevale Orrinthyre House sinks deeper into its stillness, indefinitely abandoned.