“Your imagination is too fertile,” he chuckles.
I don’t think so. The lodge is forbiddingly dark—albeit the evening shadows seem to have swallowed any mirthful sun, and the gathering clouds, greying it more, augment the stucco and brown framing. Its roofline peaks at a ferocious pitch, and a round turret on one side suggests that there are women perpetually imprisoned inside. There are even wrought
iron bars on the turret window.
I smile nervously as Joseph extends his hand to help me from the car.
“I’ve always found it beautiful.”
“Then you have a strange sense of beauty.”
He hugs my arm as we walk up the steps and that calms me.
I can’t say I like the Old World interior, but it is fascinating to view—strange combination, I think. It’s obviously a hunting lodge but bears the influe
