The house was built in '97.

It was never meant to be an Inn. It isn’t an Inn. Not officially. It’s a white-shuttered Victorian two-story painted winter-deluge grey, secreted high between foothills and oaks. One thinks irresistibly, Dickensianly, of it having nestled itself there when it was a young house playing hide-and-seek with the other houses, and deciding never to come back out again. But of course, Kaleidoscope Rd. 21 is the antithesis of Scrooge's house, except for the winter fog and the quaint Dutch fireplace. It was built as a family home. It always has been a family home and always will be.

But there are always visitors at the door.

The house is bursting with magic. It curls in the walls and whistles mellifluously in the eaves and never sleeps. Our neighbors call us eccentric. We prefer to think of ourselves as salesmen. We're just selling something most people don't know that they want.

Kaleidoscope Rd. 21 is home for all creative minds.

I am the third eldest. First came the dancer. Then the bibliophile. Then there’s me. There's a lot more of us, tucked away in back rooms or running amok through the trees. I'll trot them out for you later. For now, you get me: the writer, the historian, the archivist. The magician.

My name is Kate. Welcome to our home.

Much love,

Writer Kate