“You won’t really believe any gods exist unless you meet some demons along the way, is that it?” Seven asked. “Because if it is, you might get more than you bargained for. And I’d just as soon not watch.”

“Watch? You mean you wouldn’t help?” It was hard for Lydia to concentrate. The environment turned from a shadowy boulevard to a shadowy back street in some town in Ohio where she remembered living at one time or another. It was as if space kept advancing and retreating, always carrying different images; or like staring into a shop window where the reflections almost came alive and were as real as objects. The gods, she thought, were probably just reflections too….

“Stop staring,” Seven cried. “You’re getting the edges of your reality blurred, and we aren’t ready for that yet.”

“For what?” she asked distractedly. She wished that he’d be quiet, because suddenly the images were becoming much clearer, and she could almost hear voices.

“Lydia,” Seven shouted, “don’t let your mind drift so.” But it was too late.

She wasn’t ready yet, Seven thought miserably. For that matter, he didn’t know if he was either. But there was nothing for him to do but follow her—and her beliefs.

The reflections shimmered, thickened into sparkling kaleidoscopes of cubes and circles, piled one on top of the other, all dissected by a strange glinting light against a dark purple sky. Then, in an instant, the whole thing jelled, set, settled into a solidity so perfect that the new castles and palaces carried an air of ancient elegance, a sturdy jeweled splendor that surely was old when the earth was new.

“Why, it’s the land of the gods, just as I once imagined it!” Lydia was so excited that she could hardly speak.

Oversoul Seven, still carrying his paintbrush, sighed. He knew, or he thought he knew, where all this would lead them. But he couldn’t just step in and direct Lydia—the search would have to follow her own desires and beliefs. Her desires didn’t worry him, Seven thought; but her beliefs were another matter. The air was so clear and sparkling, though, that even Seven found himself exhilarated.

“And it’s the most fantastic summer day you could ever imagine,” Lydia exclaimed.

That’s just it, Seven wanted to say, but he didn’t.

As Lydia’s mood soared, her dungarees and trench coat were replaced by a silver suit of armor like one Joan of Arc had worn in a picture Lydia had seen as a child in her previous life. And here she was, Lydia, brave and young; splendid in her determination, out to find the gods—and more. She’d found them. Or almost.

Seven almost moaned, picking up her images: she’d been eighteen when she’d seen the Joan of Arc illustration and had imagined the present scene.

Which was quite real, of course.