“Look over there,” Cyprus directed. They stood on the rim of a hill. Cyprus pointed to the edge. Beneath, through clouds, a scene appeared. A lovely woman—no, wait, a child—first young, then old. “Oh God,” Lydia cried, out loud. “Do I remember that? Or hasn’t it happened yet? That’s the seventeenth century, isn’t it? And that girl—” As Lydia spoke, the girl detached herself from the scene and walked up a shining ladder to the hill’s brim. A bit too much, Seven thought, but Lydia seemed entranced. Then he took a better look.

“It’s my independent study—Tweety,” Seven cried.

“You’re not that independent,” Cyprus said.

Lydia sat down with surprise. “Why, that knocks the breath right out of me,” she said, and Seven laughed. “Why, I remember now,” Lydia said. “I remember making up my mind, quite on my own, to be born again. Only when did I decide?”

“In the dream state,” Tweety said. “And in that old peoples’ home. But you forgot, and I was afraid that you might not remember,” she added forlornly. “My real name is Daga. I adopted this form so you could see what you’ll look like—”

“Daga, I told you it was just a matter of time,” Seven said.

“Of what?” Cyprus asked.

“Well, there’s no need for me to have this image now,” Daga said, “You won’t be using it for a while—”

“In those terms,” Seven said quickly; and Daga disappeared.

Lydia scowled. “I still don’t understand clearly.”

“You decided to be born again, as you remember now,” Cyprus said. “Tweety, or rather, Daga adapted the image for you so you could see how you’ll look. Seven always calls Daga ‘Tweety.’ It was a nickname of sorts. You liked that, too, and decided to use the name as well. Seven was giving you a good deal of help on his own. It was in the nature of a surprise for me, so I could see that he was acting independently.” She added, looking nowhere in particular, “He wanted to keep one step ahead of me, in other words.”

Seven lowered his eyes.

“But you’re quite free to recall all the things that you’ve forgotten, Lydia,” Cyprus said. “I’ll give you a clue. Remember the young artist you met the night you died, at the poetry reading?”

“Of course! Now I remember. He’ll be my father! I’m so … verbal, but I’d like to deal with experience in terms of color and emotional richness for a change, yet still continue to be connected with the arts somehow. And for once, I’d like emotional parents. I’ve been quite intellectual in many ways, which is good; and I’ve enjoyed it. But often I’d get so involved in ideas that I had trouble really feeling. And I do have strong abilities I haven’t begun to develop along those lines—”