Goat Hill

The house on Goat hill is the very same house I always dreamed of when I was.. well, before I was brought here. I think Agrippa reached into my dreams and plucked it form there. It's big, three stories and kind of rambling. It is set back on a hill and surrounded by what appears to a shrub somewhat like hemlock. Pretty but deadly. It appeals to the part of me that enjoyed Sylvia Plath. You know.. head in the oven my daughter just killed herself kind of emo writing before emo was too hip to handle?

The front door is black, ornate but stately, as it should be for a man in his position. I must admit though, even now, when I am trying to put space between us, to find my cute again.. I worry that he is handling his position too foolishly. When I think these things my fingers trace the lettering that has long since washed from my belly. But that's another story.

When you walk into Goat Hill you are greeted by marble floors that are always highly polished. I would appreciate them so much more if I was not the only one polishing them. I think when I have won his affections back again (and never doubt that I will) I will beg him to purchase three kettle slaves who can cook but are very skinny and unattractive.

The furniture is sparse and mostly appears to be antique. There are whole walls of bookshelves, empty though, save for one book that I found on the floor of a closet. It looks like pretty poetry, I hope it is. (it's really instructions on how to properly stoke a wood stove, seriously.)

My room, not where I sleep exactly but my room simply because no one else would want to be there like I do, is the sewing room. It too is lined with shelves but I have filled them with all manner of cloth and silk and ribbons and trims. I have jars of buttons and sparkles and shiny bits of metal. There is a mirror, something like a dancers mirror and a lot of natural light through the wall of windows and door that face 'my' wild flower garden. It leads right onto the stone path that winds though the garden. There is a broken bench out there that I want to fix. I smirk, realizing I am immersed in the broken lately.

The kitchen is large enough to feed an army, there is a brick oven.. like a pizza oven only big enough to put whole people inside of it! Metal grating creates shelves for cooking and a thick heavy kettle sits firmly among the ashes. It reminds me of Cinderella. If I were Cinderella I would sleep here. But.. I am not because I am loved.. most of the time, right?

There are several guest rooms and then my Masters large bedroom that sits below the sun deck.

flash..

"What would you want a big house for Lola?" he asked me on the boat one day, an idle amused question.

"We could have a sun deck on the roof! And sit all afternoon in the warmth." I had replied, grinning and sparkling for him. He had rolled his eyes at me and chuckled.

"I like the barge just fine."

back...

So when he brought me here and told me about the sun roof, a silent gesture to show me how much he did listen to the silly things I said, how much he wanted me, silly little lola, to be happy, I felt so inadequate again! How could ever show this man how much he meant to me? How much his gestures meant to me? How could I possibly care about collars and silks when he gave me spaces and places and prose..

There is sunken marble tub on the third floor and I take a great deal of pleasure in being the one who draws his bath most nights, running the hot washcloth over his shoulders and down his chest. My lips pressed to his temple, a little whisper in his ear.

Lastly.. about the house on Goat Hill is the basement. My breath catches just thinking about that basement. Some woman lived there once, isolated and alone, caged away for the pleasure of a man. I cannot help but wonder what she did to deserve that? Agrippa says it was love.. but then could he do that to me? Shut me away from the whole world in that dark red room?

Can you love someone.. too much?