'Whatdo you know about hypnotism?' Mr. Costa asked.

    Lucydidn't have to think too long about this one. She didn't know much, just the thingsshe'd seen in spooky movies, or the comedies where people got hypnotized andwalked around like chickens. Lucy truly hoped she wasn't going to walk aroundlike a chicken. She told Mr. Costa just that.

    'Don'tworry,' Mr. Costa said. He steepled his fingers. Lucy noticed that there wereindentations on six of his fingers, as though he had recently taken off sixrings. 'What I do is give you the skills you need to achieve your goal,' headded. 'Do you have a goal, Lucy Doucette? A purpose in coming to see me?'

    Ifyou only knew, mister. She tried to answer with a calm, measured response.'Oh yes.'

    'Good.Here we focus on subconscious behaviors and see how they influence yourconscious life. The methods I use are tried and true. They go back to Victoriantimes.'

    'So,the acting-like-a-chicken business is definitely out?'

    Mr.Costa nodded. 'The stage hypnotist wants to give the impression that thesubject is out of control,' he said. 'What I do is just the opposite. I want togive you back control. Control of your life. The way I do that is tohelp you to relax as deeply as possible so you can enter a suggestible state, astate where your memories - things you may have forgotten - can be recalledwith ease, and therefore be understood and dealt with.'

    'Okay,'Lucy said. She hoped she sounded more confident than she felt. 'But there issomething I need to know before we go any further. If that's okay.'

    'Ofcourse.'

    'Howmuch is all this going to cost?'

    There.She'd just blurted it out. By the time she was five or six years old she hadalready learned to shop at the grocery store and drug store, to talk to thepeople from the phone and electric companies, usually wielding her little-girlcharms to forestall a shut-off of services.

    Mr.Costa smiled his nick of a smile again. 'You won't owe me anything for now.Let's see where the road takes us. Then we'll talk about the toll.'

    Lucywas more than a little surprised. 'Well, Mr. Costa, I appreciate this, I truly do.But I'm a girl who doesn't like surprises. Never have. I'd hate to get to theend of all this and find that I owe you thousands and thousands of dollars orsomething. It wouldn't be fair to either of us. I couldn't pay you and you'd bereally mad.'

    Anotherpause. 'Firstly, I never get angry. I've never found it to be productive. Haveyou?'

    Thetruth was, she never had found it to be productive. Of course, that hadnever stopped her. 'No. I suppose not.'

    'Secondly,when we have completed our third and last session, if you find then that youare satisfied with my services, that you have received true value, I want youto pay me whatever you feel is right.' He gestured to the room around them. 'Asyou can see, I live a modest existence.'

    Lucylooked closely at the walls for the first time, at the cobwebs near theceiling, at the thin layer of dust everywhere, at the crosshatched lines in theplaster. Once again, her desire to start cleaning was nearly physical. Then shelooked closely at the photographs mounted haphazardly on the walls, dozens anddozens of them, many in chipped enamel frames, some staggered behind crackedand spider-webbed glass. They all seemed to be snapshots of similar subjects -travel-type pictures of pavilions and gazebos and gingerbread exhibition halls,places that appeared to be small-town centers, ringed by vendors with brightlycolored carts, public benches sporting ads for local concerns. One framefeatured a band shell in the shape of a large pumpkin. Another showed whatmight have been a Civil War re-enactment in progress. A number of thephotographs were pictures of a younger Mr. Costa, holding a violin.

    'Haveyou been to all these places?' Lucy asked.

    'Ihave indeed.'

    Mr.Costa crossed the room to the far wall, the wall opposite the window. There wasa velvet curtain there that took up most of the width of the room. He reachedbehind the right side of the curtain, took hold of a frayed golden rope andpulled it gently.

    Behindthe curtain was a large booth, perhaps six feet wide and just as tall. It hadno window, like a typical booth you might see at a carnival or in front of atheater, but rather a single door crudely cut into the front, a door with a redcrystal doorknob. Above the door was a carved scroll, painted to resemble adark purple sky with billowy clouds. Peering out from behind one of the cloudswas a silvery autumn moon, with just the hint of glitter. Down each side of thebooth, next to the doorway, were the words The Dreamweaver. Across thedoor, over what looked to be a round portal which showed only darkness, wasanother legend, this one in a gilded script:

    Whatdo you dream?

    'That'spretty cool,' Lucy said. And it was true. Lucy Doucette was a small-town girl,one who'd grown up terribly poor. Her entertainment, when her mother was soberenough to take her places, and many times when she was not, had been small-townentertainment - county fairs, local home days, carnivals, parades, festivals,sometimes even wakes if they were held in the park. If there was no covercharge, and it was bright, loud, and festive, Lucy's mother would park herdaughter on a bench, returning every so often a little drunker, or a littlemore stoned, with a corn dog, elephant ear, or funnel cake in her hand. Manytimes these treats were cold, half-eaten, and it wasn't until years later thatLucy figured out that these were probably items of discarded food. Somehow thatknowledge did not make them taste bad, even in retrospect. When you're fouryears old, cotton candy, even someone else's cotton candy, was the best thingin the world.

    Mr.Costa closed the curtain, crossed the room, sat down across from Lucy. 'Shallwe begin?'

    'Sure,'Lucy said. She took a deep breath, tried to relax her shoulders. It wasn'teasy. There was a tension that had settled upon her when she was small and,although there were days when she felt it was easing, it had never gone awaycompletely. She looked up at the Dreamweaver, at his bright little-dog eyes.'Let's begin.'

    'Today,in our first session, we are going to go back to a specific time in your life.The time you can't seem to remember. Okay?'

    Lucyfelt her hands begin to shake. She knit them together in her lap. 'Okay.'

    'Butyou are not going to re-experience this event. There is no need to be concernedwith that. Instead, it will be more like you are observing it.'

    'Observing?Like, watching it?'

    'Yes,'Mr. Costa said. 'Exactly. Like watching it from above.'

    'LikeI'm flying?'

    'Likeyou're flying.'

    'Verycool,' she said. 'What do I do?'

    'Youneedn't do anything except close your eyes and listen to the sound of myvoice.'

    'Youknow, I have to tell you something,' Lucy began. 'In fact, I was going to tellyou this when I first walked in.'

    'Whatis that?'

    'Idon't really think I'm the kind of person who can be hypnotized.'

    'Whydo you say that?'

    Lucyshrugged. 'I don't know. I think I'm too intense, you know? I hardly eversleep, I'm always nervous. Do other people ever say that?'

    'Ofcourse.'

    'I'msure that there are some people who just can't seem to—'

    Mr.Costa held up a finger, stopping her. The finger had a ring on it. In fact, allof his rings seemed to be back. All six of them.

    Whenhad he done that?

    'Ihate to interrupt you, but I'm afraid our session is complete for today.'

    Lucywasn't sure she understood. 'What are you saying? Are you saying—'

    'Yes.'

    Lucytook a few moments, letting the news sink in. She had actually been hypnotizedfor a while.