Inside the baby, Lydia scowled, figuratively speaking. It seemed almost unbelievable that she couldn’t talk. So this was what rebirth or any kind of birth was! It certainly wasn’t very dignified, and it presented all sorts of difficulties that she’d (conveniently?) forgotten when she decided to be born again.

Again? Or was she being born in many times and places all at once, as Oversoul Seven maintained?

“Of course you are, dear Lydia,” Oversoul Seven said.

Lydia saw him mentally. Her eyes, or rather, Tweety’s weren’t focusing properly, but in any case, Seven and Cyprus weren’t visible to Bianka or Josef.

“Seven is here to help you handle the situation intelligently,” Cyprus said, “and I’m here to see how well he does. But really, Lydia, there’s no need to be nervous. None at all.”

“We really should call Lydia ‘Tweety’ now, shouldn’t we?” Seven asked. “Or is she still Lydia, learning to be Tweety?”

The baby set up such a howl that Bianka cried, “Josef, listen to her. What shall we do? Her face is all red.”

“Arrarh,” Josef thundered. “Do something. I’m afraid to touch her.”

“Don’t yell. You’ll frighten her,” Bianka cried.

“Josef hasn’t changed. I can see that,” Oversoul Seven said. “But you took his character into consideration when you decided to be his daughter, of course.”

“I suppose it’s too late to pull out now?” Lydia asked dryly.

Cyprus smiled. “You sound so much like Seven when you talk like that, but that’s to be expected. He’s your soul, after all.”

The baby quieted. Bianka and Josef tiptoed into the next room. “Thank heaven,” Lydia said. She slipped out of Tweety’s body and joined Seven and Cyprus by the cradle. Lydia appeared as a young woman of about twenty. She strode vigorously about the room, puffing on a hallucinatory cigarette.

“They don’t have cigarettes like that in the seventeenth century, by the way,” Cyprus said. She appeared as another young woman for Lydia’s benefit. Seven couldn’t decide what form to take, so he tried several until Cyprus asked him to settle down.

“I can’t help being nervous,” he said. “I’m supposed to help Lydia, but how can I when she insists on pacing the room like that?”

“You’d pace the room too, if you were being born again, and into the seventeenth century after you died in the twentieth,” Lydia retorted.

“But I am,” Seven answered. “That’s one of the main issues of all this. Only you’re the … part of me that’s closer to the experience.” Seven looked hopefully to Cyprus, who said, “You’re doing fine; explain it to her yourself.”

“That sounds like I’m not myself, just a part of you,” Lydia said, puffing on the cigarette.

Tweety started to cry again.

“Oh, hell,” Lydia muttered.