Veylstrathe Morringlen House and the Parlour That Outwaited Its Own Voices

The parlour of Veylstrathe Morringlen House carries the softened imprint of routines that dimmed rather than ended. The faint scent of cooled tea and worn wool lingers above the furniture, holding the air in a muted stillness.

The Measured, Reserved Pattern of Alenwyss Morringlen

Alenwyss Morringlen, tutor of household handwriting and arithmetic, lived with her cousin Therren, a clasp-engraver whose orders thinned to nothing.

She guarded the paperbind recess with patient precision—slates arranged by task, quills trimmed evenly, blotters rotated to reveal a fresh corner. Each evening she paced a small, centering arc, murmuring numbers to steady her breath. But as Therren’s earnings failed and winter stiffened her hands, her reliable pattern slipped: pages went uncorrected, ink rims dried into brittle rings, and the recess sagged into softened disorder that revealed her strain.

The Corridor Where Her Timing First Faltered

Along the east interior hallway, Alenwyss’s boots lean against the wainscot, leather stiffened by long disuse. Therren’s abandoned clasp-engraving blanks scatter in a crescent near the baseboard, corners dulled by moisture. A cracked lamp chimney rests beside a dust cloth she dropped and never reclaimed.

The Scullery Settling Into Its Own Quiet

Inside the scullery, mismatched mugs cradle pale rings of dried tea. A chalk-lined kettle rests beside the smoothing stone she once pressed to her aching wrists. A linen apron droops from its peg, its former crisp folds surrendered to soft collapse.

At the landing’s far end rests Alenwyss’s final corrected slip—ink faint, margin trembling—beneath a shawl she never reclaimed. Therren’s last failed engraving blank lies beside it. Veylstrathe Morringlen House remains dim, untouched, and indefinitely abandoned.