summary. One more unintended (and unexpected, and totally unwanted) side effect of the #santamonicamutants trend made plain in a telephone conversation between Monet and her father.

"Now I understand why you are so enamored with living in California," he said.

Monet's hand tightened slightly around her phone. "I'm sure I don't know what you mean," she replied as neutrally as she could manage.

"I hadn't understood it before. We hadn't understood it before. The weather is nice, perhaps, but not so much better than at home when we visited," Cartier St. Croix replied, his warmth heedless of the drop in temperature of her last remark. "You deferred all your college acceptances, even though you got into so many schools near us."

"My gap year, Papa," Monet nervously explained. "You remember. A year for me to get some work experience, or volunteer, or figure things out."

"Well, yes," he replied. "But then you never come home --"

"Come to New York. And not never," Monet interrupted to correct him.

"-- come to New York to see us, rarely, and we always wondered why. It was beginning to hurt our feelings," her father said, teasing gently. He was a good man, ever kind and generous with her even though he had been hurt by her absence, but something twisted inside her as she acknowledged that she had no heart to laugh. "Now, we only feel hurt that we had to find out the secret appeal of life in California from the Internet, not from our Monet. It's become a mecca for people like you."

There could be no more denying it. Not when she was being called on the carpet. At least, there could no longer be a complete denial -- "I wanted so much to tell you, Papa, but they were very clear that I couldn't," Monet told him, voice now struggling for purchase around a tone of contrition. Only half her statement was true.

"Who is 'they?'" Cartier asked.

"I don't know that I'm even allowed to tell you there is a 'they.' Not that I don't trust you, Papa, but I probably shouldn't go any further than that or I'll get in trouble," Monet replied, feeling surer of herself, at least for the moment. She could keep the Hotel from him. Maybe this would be all right after all -- she was Monet St. Croix, after all, and if she'd kept all of the secret for two years, then an eternity seemed well within the realm of reason for only a part of it.

"But you're right, Papa. I've found others like me, and it's been very helpful -- I've learned a lot about my powers, and now I think I use them much better than I used to."

"That is marvelous! I am so proud of you, Monet! I am glad you've found them," her father exclaimed. "Surely this means we should come to visit more often."

Her heart had been tying itself in knots, but now it stilled inside her chest.

"What?" Monet asked stupidly.

"We must come to visit you more often," Cartier St. Croix repeated earnestly, once more oblivious to the current of horror now traveling through the telephone connection with Monet's voice. "You know how much your siblings are like you."

"Not that much like me," Monet put in hastily.

Cartier was quiet for a moment. "No. Not exactly like you," he said, sounding discouraged for a moment. But only a moment. "But they are special like you!" he chirped, sounding once more as bright as he had just seconds ago. "If you have benefited from being in there, then certainly there is something that they could learn, too."

"Well, Papa," Monet said, trying her hardest not to sound like she was about to protest. "I don't know that it would work for everybody --"

"How can you know? We have yet to try!" Her father was undaunted. "Nicole is bright! Maybe not so bright as you, but then nobody is. There are still things that she could learn."

"But Claudette --"

"And who knows? Claudette may have a condition, but perhaps they can do something to make her better. It is worth trying." Here her father paused. Monet did not need telepathy to know what he was thinking, or who he was thinking about. "Perhaps there is something to be learned about controlling Marius' condition, too."

Marius. Monet tried to think of him as little as possible -- not when his very name sent a shiver down her spine. His image her memory conjured up made her feel even worse. "Perhaps," she replied tersely.

"Perhaps!" Cartier chirped. "We must talk about it, then, when our visit would be convenient for you."

"I don't know. I will check my calendar and get back to you. I have to go," Monet said abruptly. "I'll talk to you later, Papa."

"But we were just discussing a visit," her father replied, sounding confused. "Santa Monica! Doesn't this sound like a good place for all of us?"

"Yes. It's urgent. Must go," Monet told him. "Take care. Talk to you soon."

"Monet?"

Her father received no response. Monet snapped her phone shut, dropped the device onto her bed like it was radioactive material -- then strode out of her room as fast as her legs would take her, desperate for anything to take her mind off the idea of an extended St. Croix West Coast trip.