When She Dreams（Burning Cove #6）(50)

Maggie changed course and walked to stand in front of the stormy landscape. Sam stopped. He did not ask any questions. He simply waited. Luther Pell did not move. Neither did Raina. They were all watching her now. No one spoke.

“There are a number of techniques for controlling one’s dreams,” she said, choosing her words with care. “Not all of them work for all dreamers. Most people give up trying to control their dreamscapes because it requires constant effort and because it isn’t always successful.”

“Very interesting,” Raina said.

“Some people experience lucid dreaming more readily than others,” Maggie continued. She did not take her eyes off the storm on the canvas. “There are those who have a natural talent for it. I would not be surprised if that is the case with the artist who did these paintings, for example.”

“Do you think so?” Raina asked.

“Yes,” Maggie said. “The fact that the painter is able to translate the nightmares onto canvas tells me that may be true. But he doesn’t know how to control the dream.”

“What advice would you give the artist?” Raina said.

“He should paint two more pictures.” Maggie took a breath and allowed her intuition to guide her. “One must illustrate a scene that is calm and serene. The subject doesn’t matter, but there should be sunlight and a sense of peace.”

“What about the second picture?” Raina asked.

“The scene will be a hallway with no beginning and no end. There will be two doors.”

“Why two doors?” Raina asked.

“Because you can open doors,” Maggie said. “More importantly, you can also close them.”

Sam and Luther did not speak, but Maggie knew they were listening.

“What would you advise the artist to do after he completes the paintings?” Raina asked.

“Each night before he goes to bed he should meditate on the painting of the doors and envision an art gallery behind each. One holds scenes from his nightmares. The serene picture hangs in the other gallery. When he finds himself trapped in a nightmare, he will remember that there is a door. He will go through it into the hallway and close the door behind him. He will understand that while the nightmares will always be there, he has the power to walk away from them. He can go down the hall and open the other door.”

“And enter the gallery that holds the serene painting,” Raina concluded.

Maggie turned around and smiled at her. “Yes. The technique will require practice and time. I must warn you there is no such thing as perfect control.”

“Some measure of control is preferable to none,” Raina said.





Chapter 26




Do you want to tell me what happened back there in Luther Pell’s office?” Sam asked.

“You’re talking about my advice to the artist who painted those landscapes, aren’t you?” Maggie said.

“Raina Kirk was very interested in what you had to say. Do you think she painted the pictures?”

“No, I think she was asking for a friend.”

“Luther Pell?”

“That would be my guess.”

They were standing in the connecting doorway between their hotel rooms. She was on her side. Sam was on his. There was an invisible wall between them. Sam had discarded his evening jacket. His shirt was open at the collar, and the bow tie was undone and draped around his neck.

She was in her robe and slippers. Her notebook was open on the table near the window. She had been jotting down a few observations and plot ideas when Sam had knocked on the connecting door a moment ago.

They had spoken very little on the drive back to the hotel. Both of them had retreated to their own private thoughts. When they unlocked the doors of their rooms, Sam had said a casual good night, as if he had intended to go straight to bed. She had envied him. She was too tense to sleep, and that was fortunate because she knew that when she did there would probably be dreams of a dead woman in a fiery crash and paintings that cast shadows.

She wasn’t feeling up to handling that sort of dreamscape tonight. Exhaustion and stress played havoc with her ability to control her dreams.

“I noticed you didn’t advise Miss Kirk to throw the paintings into the trash,” Sam said.

“That wouldn’t have worked,” Maggie said. “The energy in them was laid down by the artist. It came from his own dreams. I don’t know how to explain it. All I can tell you is that it wouldn’t do any good to try to separate the painter from the paintings. It wouldn’t change anything. He would just create more art infused with the same bad heat. He wouldn’t be able to stop himself.”

“Think Pell will take your advice to paint a serene picture and then paint a hallway with a couple of doors?” Sam asked.

“I don’t know. People almost never—”

“—take good advice. Given that bit of wisdom, you picked an odd career path.”

“Assisting Lillian with the Aunt Cornelia column isn’t a career; it’s a job. I told you, I can’t make a living on confession stories. I need to support myself while I work on my novel.”

“I understand.”

“There’s another reason why I want to become a successful author,” she said.

“What’s that?”