The door opened, seemingly by itself. At first the room seemed dim. Seven and Will took a few hesitant steps inside. Then, however, a series of glows lit up the interior, like spotlights, though not as bright. One showed an empty manger; one, a group of oxen, sleeping; and in the light of the third glow, the Virgin Mary sat crocheting.

She said, pleasantly enough, “Welcome. But if you’ve come to see my son, he isn’t here.”

“We know that,” Oversoul Seven said politely. “It’s you we’ve come to see.”

Mary looked alarmed. “You aren’t reporters? I don’t give interviews anymore,” she exclaimed.

Seven assured her that they weren’t journalists of any kind, and with a partially worried air, Mary put her crocheting work aside.

Will kept saying to himself, “This is impossible. It can’t be happening.” To Seven he whispered, “This whole thing is crazy, and besides, she looks like Whistler’s Mother.” But even as Will spoke the words, he completely changed his mind.

Mary blinked constantly; anxiously. She looked like a windup doll, dressed in a long blue gown with a brown robe on top, her too-smooth head partly covered by a black veil. Her face was too chinalike, too chiseled, and her eyes looked too mechanical. But for mechanical-looking eyes, they were astounding. Will felt that they’d been weeping for centuries, and indeed they did begin to weep again.

As she started to cry, gently, Mary reached for a Kleenex and said, “Do forgive me. My son was a good boy always. They crucified him, you know. Just the same, people keep coming here and writing, wanting me to intercede for them. Life has its cruelties. And I can never answer all the mail, so people must think I don’t care.” With one hand, she indicated a corner of the room where stacks of letters and stone tablets and even sheets and rolls of papyrus, along with telegrams, were all piled together. “Mail even comes by wireless now,” she said, “And I had to have the phone removed because for years I was on the phone day and night. And my son is in the old gods’ home now, you know. I visit him when I can, but he never forgot the Crucifixion. And he’s never been the same since. He never really thought that his father would let him die that way, even if it was to a good purpose. The family has scattered since. But I’m sorry for rattling on like this over my own problems. Would you like a glass of wine?”