"I would've taught you how to build a memory palace," Regan said. "It's the technique my father taught me. And it's the best. It's mostly a defensive technique, but once you have the framework, you can do anything. Here." Sitting up fully, she stuck out her hand. "Easier to show than tell. Come inside."
It required a measure of trust, but Regan was inviting her friend inside, rather than trying to invade.
If Jean took the invitation, she would find herself in a garden. They stood under a blue sky, on what looked like a expensive and luxurious private estate. Perfectly manicured lawns and topiary sculpted paths and mazes through the gardens, surrounding a lavish Baroque mansion. Regan was next to her, stretching out and then finding a bench to plop down on. "See, your mind can have whatever structure you want it to have. If you don't pay attention to it, like most people don't, your mind will be a scattering of places, thoughts and memories. Like, your memories of your grandmother might live in a room that reminds you of the parlor where she always served you tea. Things like that. But if you let your mind just scatter, you can't control it, and other people can read anything that you didn't have the sense to hide. For psychics like us, it's especially important. And for other psychics--if you tried to read my mind, you'd find yourself here. But you wouldn't be able to figure out what I was thinking, because you wouldn't know what my thoughts looked like. They could be hidden in the fish in the pond, or the clouds in the sky--fleeting and changing. And unless you knew exactly how and where to look, you won't be able to find anything but what I want you to see."
Shrugging, Regan spread her hands to indicate her estate. "This is what I want you to see. My gardens are public. My mansion is a little more private, but you won't find the doors locked."