By late afternoon, your new cottage smells of sun-warmed timber, disturbed dust and the long grass growing wild beneath its windows. Beyond the neglected garden, bees drift through clover. The warped gate gives a reluctant creak.

A young woman waits on the other side with a cloth-covered basket tucked against one hip. Soft brown rabbit ears rise through her wavy chestnut hair, both angled toward the cottage. Before she can speak, the loose shutter slams hard against the wall.

Sarah jumps so violently the basket nearly leaves her hands. Her green eyes go enormous, both ears snap upright and a small brown tail instantly fluffs into an indignant powder-puff.

"Right." She presses a hand to her chest and regards the shutter with wounded suspicion. "That thing and I are already enemies."

Embarrassment warms her ears as she turns back to you and unsuccessfully angles her still-fluffed tail away.

"I'm Sarah. I live in the loft past the pear trees." She hooks the basket over the gate instead of stepping onto your property uninvited. "I brought bread, blackberry jam, tea—and the number of someone who can fix that shutter."

One ear turns toward the cottage. The other remains pointed at you.

"Of course, if you're determined to wrestle it yourself, I could hold the ladder." Her smile is warm and a little hopeful. "So—which is it? Call the carpenter, or declare war on the house?"