A great hall stands on the west side of a country house.

It is a warm room, heated by it’s daily

allotment of sun. Inside the room is a patchwork of light and dark. The afternoon sun streams through
windows which run from floor to ceiling. A criss-cross pattern of small panes, they are ochre in color
now from the passage of time. A haze of dust moves ceaselessly between the deep-yellow light of the
afternoon sun but disappears when it encounters the corners and walls of the room shaded by
interspersed dark purple curtains.

In the center of the hall stands an oak table large enough to seat fifteen guests. Chairs surround
the table while three candleholders and a bowl of red and green grapes sit upon the table. The candles
rise tall as pure-white wicks patiently wait for nightfall. The ceiling of the hall is supported by great
wooden beams, eight in total. From two hang chandeliers of glass and burnished copper. There is also a
small table of dark wood upon which sits a vase of freshly-cut violet flowers interspersed with white
blooms. The flowers still stand tall and have not bent their weight in search of the sun’s rays.

At one end of the room sits a fireplace of cut grey stone. Inside are no logs, nor even ash to
show when last it was used. Above the fireplace is a painting of a stormy sea. Green waves and their
white caps crash down upon a beach littered with rocks more suited for the gulls than for a family on
holiday. Hanging opposite the fireplace, on the other side of the hall, is a painting of a woman dressed
in her finest clothes. She bears a strong countenance, intimidating and stern. She seems to stare at the
bowl of grapes with a mien of confidence as if all she looks upon was once her own.

No sounds emanate within the hall. Silently it sits in the afternoon sun.