the dowager’s home was like an endless attic space of things- mostly shiny things, given her magpie sensibilities. but you know precisely where the georgian doll house of glass was kept in all that hoard, in what was meant to be a nursery on the topmost floor of the house . you know because you so often visited it- visited the little mismatched doll family that lived there (always they were in new places in the house, doing new things.. even though the dowager swore she hadn’t touched the house in decades.. ) it was a magical little place, and the old girl knew you were delighted with its little rooms lit with miniature sconces and tables filled with teeny-tiny jelly cakes and macaron towers- knew its proper place would be with you on her passing .