Choose Your Rest
The inn keeps the rooms it needs. Some you'll find. Some find you. Here are a few we can speak for.
The warmest room in the inn. A stone fireplace that never quite goes out. Quilts heavy enough to hold you down, in the good way. The walls are the color of late afternoon, and the window looks out over the kitchen garden where the rosemary grows taller than it should.
Best for those who run cold. The fire adjusts itself to your mood — the keeper says it's the draft, but Henrick swears the embers watch you.
High-ceilinged. Cool stone. A window that faces the northern road, where the mountains go blue at dusk and the stars come out first. The bed is narrower here, tucked against the wall, with a writing desk that catches the morning light.
Best for thinkers. Scholars. People who came here to figure something out. The room is quiet in a way that empty rooms aren't — it listens.
Up the narrow stairs, past the landing where the cat sleeps. Exposed beams. Skylights that frame the moon. Dried herbs hanging from the rafters — lavender, chamomile, something the keeper won't name. The bed is wide and low, covered in mismatched quilts.
Best for those who need to sleep — really sleep. The kind of sleep where you dream true and wake up lighter. The loft remembers what you dream, though it keeps its own counsel.
The inn assigns rooms. You can ask, of course — the keeper is polite about it — but the building has opinions, and it's usually right. Trust the door that opens for you.
If none of the rooms suit you, pull a chair up to the hearth. The fire is always lit. You're welcome to stay as long as you like.
Join the Hearth instead