There is, at the top of the main staircase, a heavy oak door with a frosted glass panel, like a monochrome sunset, over the frame. On the door, at eye level, is a brass nameplate. “Ariane Emory, Pysch.,” it says, in deeply engraved letters
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She grins, suddenly wicked and mischievous. "And since I'm not seeing any signs of a cold..."
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She tucks a piece of hair behind her ear. "I can teach you a few exercises to control a dream state, but you should know that learning to control dreams is frequently slow and many people never gain the knack."
"And I can address the root causes of the dream with you, talk about it, see if you can work the issues out. If you're uncomfortable doing that with me I have a few colleagues here who'd be willing to help."
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He seems to be considering, uncertainly, his eyes flickering to her. "I know what's making me dream. It's Mother."
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