The highest room in the tower is a bedroom. Feminine, but not childish.
A cream colored canopy bed dominates the room, and most of the other furnishings match. Even the floor -- wood, worn smooth with years -- has been washed with it. Color peeks from a braided rug, and the jewel bright pillows strewn randomly through the space. Small ones mixed in with the eyelet lace bed clothes. Larger cushions piled against the baseboards. Scarves are draped over the canopy, and spread over the flat surfaces.
Across from the bed is a small dressing table. A pitcher and washing basin sit on one end, while the other holds a tray of sparkling costume jewelry. A few white candles stand between, some new, others dripping from use.
There is a single window in the tower room. Beneath the ledge is a cupboard with another pillow crowning it as a window seat. A small breeze brings the scent of lavender and stirs the sheer fabric hanging to either side of the make-shift bench.
A chest at the foot of the bed holds heavy velvet drapes for cool nights, and extra bedding. The walls are bare, save for the hearth.
It is a place for quiet reflection.
In my daydreams, I go there. Sometimes with a glass of wine, to watch the sun set. Sometimes to pull the velvet drapes, light a candle, and tune out the world. It is a place seperate from the world. A place just for me.