"The Soft-Hearted Widow is jingling her collecting tin along the queue for the theatre. When she sees your fine clothes, she rattles the tin loudly enough to distress the horses pulling nearby hansoms. Don't you recognise her from somewhere?"[2]
The Soft-Hearted Widow is a well-known philanthropist who offers shelter to new arrivals in London.[3] She provides them with three hot meals a day and initial lodgings — whether a spare guest room,[4] bedroom, or whatever space she can borrow.[5] She is often seen collecting donations, as she campaigns tirelessly for support for her charity.[6]
Over the years, the Widow has taken in more than a few unusual tenants, and their fates frequently haunt her to the point of anxiety and tears. The August Travel-Writer vanished without explanation,[7] leaving the Widow to wonder if she had somehow offended him.[8] (She did not. The Travel-Writer is an assassin[9][10] who was ostensibly being hunted by the Admiralty, and left in haste upon seeing an officer visit.[11]) The Fidgeting Writer, a restless soul haunted by three mysterious figures, also left his lodgings suddenly; the Widow wishes she could have done more to help him in his predicament.[12]
The Widow once had a rather surprising second occupation. Before Knife-and-Candle was outlawed, she worked as a signaler for players of the underground murder-game, discreetly informing them when to make their moves.[13]
The Husband
"There are some things we were not meant to know, they say. But you wouldn't be down here if you took that seriously."
Beyond this point lie spoilers for Fallen London, Sunless Sea, Sunless Skies, or Mask of the Rose. This may include midgame or minor Fate-locked content. Proceed with caution.
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As her epithet suggests, the Soft-Hearted Widow once had a husband—a member of the Admiralty whom she believes was lost at sea. In reality, he willingly took part in the Agreement About Nothing of Consequence, undergoing a transformation to become an Emissary to the Flukes. The process left him drastically altered—unnaturally flexible and spiny—rendering it impossible for him to reveal his survival to his wife (nor does he particularly wish to).
However, a conflict with the Khanate near the Flukes' embassy derailed the Admiralty’s attempts at diplomatic communication, making the Emissary obsolete. With no further use for him, he was hidden away in a Veilgarden residence, where he lingers in the shadows, still yearning to complete his original mission.[14]
↑Charm your way into someone's home, Fallen London"Are you a replacement for a child she lost? Or is her interest in you a little more carnal? Either way, you become the Soft-Hearted Widow's guest.You deserve somewhere better, of course. But this will keep you out of the cold. […]"
↑A Spare Bedroom, Fallen London"The guest-room of a soft-hearted widow. Three hot meals a day and a real feather-bed go some way towards compensating for the weekly, and noisy, hymn-singing sessions in her parlour."
↑A Confession of the Soft-Hearted Widow, Fallen London"The Widow has written of an August Travel-Writer she took in; better heeled than her usual lodgers, but insistent – his plight must have been desperate indeed. He kept odd hours and was often away, but on chilly evenings they shared tea and spoke of the prior Sunday's sermon. Until one November morning, when she found his room empty, and her lodger gone."
↑A Confession of the Soft-Hearted Widow, Fallen London"How had she offended him? She speculates frantically. Was her tea bitter? Her mushroom scones dry? Should she have invited him to dine with her guest – an old friend from the Admiralty – when he visited that week?"
↑The August Travel-Writer's Request, Sunless Sea"The August Travel-Writer flips through his notebook while on your deck. "Awful thing, that murder. Commonplace here, I suppose. Fortunately, my interview was illuminating and my business on the Mourn is complete. We can depart. I've another port to visit, if you'd care for another hundred and fifty echoes.""
↑Track down the Fidgeting Writer, Fallen London"A Soft-Hearted Widow shows you the leaky garret he used to rent. The worst holes are plugged with discarded poem-fragments, the words ruined by the rain. Honey-scent clings to the rafters."I do miss him," she sobs. "It was an accident. I'm sure it was an accident. When he wrote I wouldn't see him for days on end – I thought he was at his work. I didn't know he..." she can't continue."
