Page 43 of Fated

But I spent the first six years of my life with Buttercup traveling from henges to sacred burial grounds, to crystal shops to drum circles, to past-life regression camps to—well, to a vagabond existence where my mum was on a trip to find herself and I was swept along for the ride. I learned before I could walk or talk that some things just are.

I thought Uncle Leopold was just telling a story.

Well, he was, but the story was real.

The watch lets you dream your desires.

There’s this thing called lucid dreaming. One of my mum’s friends, Roger, used to regale us with stories about it while he smoked a pipe and blew fantastic smoke rings. I remember him because in dreams he’d always make himself fly and eat mountains of sweets and visit the Egyptian pyramids at sunset. He said if you train yourself you always know when you’re dreaming, and you can control the dreams and do anything you want. You’re completely aware that you’re in a dream world.

I think this watch must let you lucid dream.

The watch dial, that deep ocean-blue enamel face, winks at me, shining lustrous in the sunlight.

I scoop up the watch then, and before Mila opens her eyes I close it back into its velvet-lined box and tuck it into my nightstand.

I stretch then, rubbing the back of my neck and the raised flesh there, trying to get rid of the sudden chill.

Robert kissed me.

I didn’t want him to, but he did.

In fact, he asked why the hell I was kissing my own husband.

Is it my desire to have an affair? Is it my dream to cheat?

Or is this my subconscious finally dragging up from the darkness the pain I chained up, locked tight, and threw down into the deepest cave of my soul? I thought I’d locked it away; lost it in a labyrinth with no center and no way out.

But here it is, rising up, peeking at me, like a monster with yellow glowing eyes peering in my bedroom window at night.

I’ll have to face it, won’t I?

That is, if I want to keep dreaming, I will.

Years ago, my therapist told me what’s buried won’t stay buried forever. Hidden things have a way of crawling into the light.

She was right.

Mila yawns again and then slowly opens her eyes, blinking up at me. Her red hair tangles around her face. She brushes it from her eyes and then smiles brightly.

“It’s the weekend.”

I nod. “Mm-hmm. Morning, sweetheart.”

She darts a quick glance to the window. The sky is summer-blue, light, and clear. Already the green leaves are glistening and twisting in the breeze, and beyond that the lake ripples with cheery good-morning waves.

She bolts up, bouncing on the bed and rustling the blankets. “Let’s go to Montmartre and have waffles with chocolate sauce!”

Montmartre is Mila’s favorite breakfast place, where wicker café tables are cobbled together under tilting dandelion-yellow umbrellas and tuxedoed waiters flourish plates stacked with waffles as thick as a brick and as fluffy as a cloud, dripping with melted chocolate.

“Yes.”

“And orange juice! I want orange juice.”

“All right.”

“And let’s go to the beach with Uncle Daniel! I want to swim!”

She bounces up and down and the bed rocks and sways under her exuberance. Her flame-red hair flies in the air and her nightgown lifts like a balloon with each delighted jump.

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