“May I have some fruit juice?” Nola asked, stalling for time alone, and Leslie left through the door to the adjoining bedroom, now converted into a giant walk-in closet. In the room beyond, a staircase led down to a suite crowded with Leslie’s and Wade's staffs in addition to local interpreters.

Hoping that Coke still contained its medicinal qualities, Nola soaked a rolled washcloth corner in the soda and gave it to Lulu. While Lulu sucked with vigor, Nola removed the cutout plastic bag that had been tied with a string over a sodden printed rag serving as a diaper. Before removing the cotton pants and frayed jacket that must have serviced generations of babies, Nola checked for a note. There was none.

Still sucking on the washcloth, Lulu pulled her foot up. Nola sponged the thin little buttocks, then fashioned one of her smallest T-shirts into a diaper and secured it with a hotel laundry plastic bag and Band-Aids. “Let’s get your cute head in this other T-shirt,” she told Lulu. “Where are your hands? Here they are! One, two … Tomorrow we’ll get you clothes.”

A maid brought in the diluted milk in a glass bottle and a used pacifier.

“Thanks.” Nola cradled Lulu, surprised that the baby’s fingers closed on the bottle as she sucked. Her brown eyes never left Nola's face. Their gaze was alert and intelligent.

In the silence that ensued, Nola stroked the soft skin of the baby’s legs. It was warm and dry and so velvety to the touch that she wanted to let her fingers linger on it forever. She had forgotten the feel of Jenna's skin, so many years ago. “You’re smart and beautiful,” she murmured to Lulu, amazed anew at the rush of tenderness. In the ballroom on the mezzanine floor, a party was coming to life, and here she was alone, yet the bass note in her head was gone.

If only she could believe in herself.

After a while, Lulu let the rubber nipple pop out. Nola rose to pace the room, holding the compact body against her shoulder. Lulu laid her head in the crook of Nola's neck, utterly trusting and relaxed. Mine.

Just as Leslie returned, Nola heard the baby’s burp and smelled the scent of milk.

“Did you hear that?” she whispered with a sense of achievement, as though she had passed a test. “I never thought it possible, but I’m in love with this little creature as much as if I’d given birth to her an hour ago.”

“Where did you come from baby dear?/ Out of the everywhere, into the here,” Leslie said, “George MacDonald, who died in 1905.”

Nola laughed. “You’re impossible. Get housekeeping to send up a crib.”

“Keeping the puppy? Won’t Wade be surprised.”