High in the limbs of an ancient oak is the estate’s most curious dwelling.
Some say it was built as a folly; others insist it was punishment for a carpenter who lost a bet.
No one agrees on its origin, but everyone agrees it is rarely empty.

Lantern light glows in the windows, the rope bridge creaks at odd hours, and once, someone swore they saw smoke rise from the chimney on a clear summer night.

Guests arrive without invitation.
They never knock.

One day the Cottage is still, the next it’s very much alive — an astrologer setting her charts by candlelight, a botanist pressing ferns between the pages of our ledgers, a sailor stringing a hammock where no hammock should be.

They stay long enough to eat our bread, tell stories (true or otherwise), and leave behind a small batch of wares as payment.
Pearls, potions, tonics, soap.

Each month it’s something different.
Each month, just enough for those who happen to be here when the Guest Cottage is occupied.

When the shelves are cleared, the guest vanishes, and the Cottage waits again, swaying slightly in the trees, as though nothing ever happened at all.