The window was part of what made the room, really. It was spacious, taking up easily three-quarters of the wall in both width and height, designed so that the lower half could be raised and the screen that covered the outside swung open outward, allowing access to the outside if you were willing to wriggle a bit. Past the window there was a narrow balcony of sorts, stretching further than the dimensions of the room, long enough to comfortably lay down and wide enough to fit two people there, if they were close friends. The floor of this balcony was for the most part solid, with tiny, mesh-covered holes spaced evenly every foot or so, ensuring it would stay drained. Guarding the edges, another parade of animalistic figures, these done in ironwork and stone, a railing high enough and sturdy enough to keep a sleeper from rolling off.

Ivy had grown up along the walls of the House over the years, and a few tendrils were already assaulting the fierce stone carvings, decking the otherwise solemn animals in wreaths of pale green leaves that twisted and bobbed with every breeze. The ironwork was old as well, and though well-preserved and well-cared-for there were still rust spots visible at the joinings. When it rained the scent of ivy and rust would fill the small room even if the window was closed.

There was a curtain on the window, a simple, sheer drape of ivory cloth, just enough to keep the sun from glaring and to ensure privacy but not enough to make the room feel completely enclosed - always there was the window there, bright and waiting. There was a bed as well, a mat spread on the floor that was surprisingly soft for its seeming thinness. Two pillows accompanied it, one large and down-filled, traditional, the other a more tightly-padded cylinder of velvet that could provide a fair amount of support. A linen sheet was spread over the bed, mossy green with ivory threads tracing a faint, lacy border at the hems, and folded at the foot of the bed were two more coverings, one a fuzzy flannel blanket, forest green, and the other a fluffy down comforter in the same hue as the curtains, its variance from white more a matter of age than color choice. Both thicker blankets were slightly stained, a bit tattered at the edges, clearly well-used and perhaps even secondhand.

Three other items had a place in this small room, a table, a clock, and a box. The table was placed beside the head of the bed, and was quite simple. It was made of polished wood with a naturally reddened tone, a gleaming contrast to the greens and tans elsewhere in the room. It stood little more than a foot high, with a shallow drawer that held a small notebook, a few cheap ballpoint pens, and a tiny ball of neon-green fluff with a crinkly pink tail and crinkly pink ears, a catnip-stuffed toy of some sort. On top of the table, the clock was a miniature masterpiece, the parade of animals found here once again in unbelievably intricate carvings, many of which were slowly moving at measured intervals. The effect was similar to viewing a zoo from a few miles up, tiny giraffes bobbing their long necks, miniature monkeys swinging from tree to tree, a lovingly detailed polar bear diving into a pool and returning with a fish in his mouth, and more, so many more that even after watching the clock for hours there would still be animals left to discover. The clock took up nearly the entire surface of the table and stood a good three feet tall, all of the gears and mechanisms hidden within it, only a large brass key standing at attention in its slot and the double-sided clock tower that crowned the tiny zoo making it clear that this was in fact intended to keep time. When all else was still, a slow yet somehow cheerful ticking could be heard... and on each hour, a different animal made its call, quiet enough to sleep through but loud enough to be heard clearly if you were listening for it.

The last item, the box, followed the themes already laid out. It was wood, stained to near-white, stylized animals picked out in a deep green on the lid, standing guard over the contents. When it was opened, the faint sounds of a music box would chime, gentle melody filling the room. The box was lined inside with velvet, again that intense green that spoke of tall trees and mossy glades, of forests where no human had set foot for centuries. The scent seemed to enhance this, sandalwood and musk and pine, mixed with the unmistakeable scent of leather.

The box was intended to hold only one sort of thing, and it did its job well; heavy black leather, a strand of delicate silver chain, a bit of bright red ribbon, each item in the box was in essence the same, a collar. Some were pure jewelry, some the sort of collar a dog or cat might wear, some were the leather and steel gothpunk sort, some were scraps of ribbon or fabric... but all of them were obvious in function, gathered here with as much reverence as any church might give to a treasured icon.

The box is never locked, of course. It was designed so that a lock could be attached to it, but the wood in that spot is unscuffed, unscratched, making it clear that there has never been a lock. The reason for this is simple: to take off a collar is something that should only be done by the One the collar belongs to... but to take up a collar, to wrap around a waiting throat a visible sign of surrender to that One, that is always acceptable, always allowed, always right.