Ellucid (Ellucid #1) ★

Five

We spend three days at the penthouse doing what I perceive as absolutely nothing. Asher, Nathan, and Willa go through the case files and I sit in on the meetings, averting my eyes when they show pictures of gash wounds. Sometimes Mrs. Collier joins us, her blonde hair curled into movie star ringlets, her green eyes a mirror image of Nathan's. She at least takes the time to explain things to me, spelling out the significance of every case and how they think it relates to dream powers. Despite the Botox that tightens her face, her smiles are genuine.

After a Saturday morning meeting spent in pajamas eating oatmeal from crystal bowls, she follows me into the kitchen. I wash my bowl in the sink, careful not to smudge it with my fingers, and set it on the counter.

In the living room, Asher and Willa placate Nathan, who is whining about a glob of oatmeal that fell on his black silk robe. Mrs. Collier ignores them, leaning against the island with her arms crossed as she watches me.

She tucks some hair behind her ear, revealing a blinding diamond earring. "I think it's very admirable that you're here," she says.

"You do?" I'm taken aback by the sudden conversation.

"Most people are forced into this kind of thing by external circumstances. Asher, for example, just needed a place to sleep at night."

I bite my lip. I wish he'd known that he could live with Mom and me, if he asked. "What about Willa?"

"A particularly tragic set of events. Not surprising considering her attitude—she's had to deal with a lot." Mrs. Collier puts the carton of oatmeal in a shelf above the sink, between a jar of unopened almond butter and some flour. "But you're here...just because? Nathan told me you're very curious about all this."

"Yeah. My dad was an oneirologist—he studied dreams for a living. I grew up wanting to know more about them. Now that I have these powers...it's almost like I'm closer to him now. I feel like I owe it to him to see this all the way through."

"You want to become an oneirologist, too?" She stumbles on the word.

"No. A fashion designer."

She nods. "It's important to stick to goals like that. When I married Nathan's father, he was wealthy enough that I never had to work a day again. But I wasn't ready to settle down and be a trophy wife. I've stayed at the FBI—it's what I wanted to do ever since I was a little girl. It beats society meetings any day."

I don't know how she wants me to respond. I've always felt awkward talking to adults, like they expect something from me. Nathan's mom is no exception. I rock back and forth on my heels, glancing too often into the living room where Willa tries to blot Nathan's robe with a wet paper towel.

But she seems satisfied. Instead of asking more questions, she straightens her blouse and glides toward her bedroom, probably to get ready to go to work. After she leaves, I hurry back into the living room.

"We're all taking the day off and going shopping," says Nathan, who has finally calmed down about his robe. "Want to come? You can pick something out from Burberry."

It's a tempting offer—I've been eyeing their winter collection in anticipation of New York Fashion Week next month. But I'm exhausted, I've spent every night in this penthouse working on strengthening my dreams, and I want to take some time to sketch in my journal.

"I'm good. I'll just stay in."

I go back into Willa's and my room and sit on the mattress, sinking inches down into the foam. Pulling out my journal and a pen, I open to a new page. First I doodle in some flowers from a painting in Nathan's kitchen that I want to integrate into a pattern. Then I lean back against my gray studded headboard and start writing.