The Widow's Tea Parlor, perched on the waterside of Spite, is clearly not what it is advertised as. At its door a handful of dazed-looking individuals milled about, milling like houseflies and only making the one sober man look all the more dangerous, his hard gaze and straight, fierce posture contrasting likely intentionally with the gaggle of wastrels. He looks at you and nods if you enter, clearly not placed to check identity but to prevent trouble from finding its way into the shoreside house.

The exterior of the house is all black wood and glazed windows, a nicer establishment than most in Spite, but still several tiers below anything to be found in Veilgarden. It abutted the sharp shingle beach, colored black and grey with notes of the confusing Pelegin zee, on which boats landed and set off surreptitiously. What causes the waves and tides underground is likely a mystery to even the most educated minds. Within the establishment is a completely different matter. While the outside is quiet, subtle and vast, the interior is loud, garish and what could be graciously called 'cozy', but would more accurately be called 'horribly cramped'. There are dozens of comfortable chairs, things of all shapes and sizes. A man sits behind a bar but there is no alcohol to be seen. The only bottles to be seen are produced to service customers in exceedingly small quantities, the same substance those card-playing suckers had been sampling, though of occasionally varying colors. One tablespoon given was red, one was blue, one was even a strange shade of Almost-Purple that you had a very hard time remembering afterwards. Irrigo, the color of Forgetfulness. The occupants are clearly delineated: the ones who are sampling the product, sprawled or lolling on seats or just planted on the floor, some chatting to others and most speaking into the thin air, and the employees, Dangerous looking men [and women] clearly on the lookout for either constables or troublesome customers. The outstanding occupant is a richly-dressed man with stubby horns and burning red eyes, his rather attractive face bearing a countenance of amusement and mocking disgust as he watched the inebriates.

The walk to the basement becomes much more serene as the rambling customers fade into the background, and the door is obvious in its elegance and bright emanating light. If you knock five times in quick succession, the door seemly opens by itself, and the room presents itself, bright, stark grey and empty except for two comfortable sofa-chairs either side of a deep mahogany coffee table.