“Come on,” Roger said. “You told me yourself that new mothers can expect all sorts of goofy feelings at first. Forget it. You’ll scare the baby. Anyhow, I was going to bring you in a dish of fresh peaches. See what a handy husband I am?”

“Peaches!” Lydia exclaimed. “That’s it. I was dreaming about babies and peaches. Or something. But God, I must look a wreck. Is my nose all red from crying? Maybe it’s the stupid drugs the doctors give you during delivery. No, they wouldn’t affect me now, would they?” She paused. “I’m still confused, though. What the devil is the date?”

Roger went “Tut, tut, tut,” made a mock bow, and said, “Madame, it’s October 18, 1927. Is there anything else you want to know? I’m your personal information service.”

Lydia’s eyes widened. “Now I remember,” she cried. “I was dreaming about the seventeenth century for some reason, and when I woke up, I didn’t know where the devil I was.” She shivered and added, “Look, the baby’s sleeping. God knows what he’s dreaming about! Put him in the crib, would you? Well, at least I’m flat now and not big as an elephant. I’m going to get up and dress and—”

“Don’t drink too much tonight, though, hon. It isn’t good for new mothers,” Roger said, regretting his words at once.

“Oh, you had to say that, didn’t you?” she shouted. “You had to spoil this beautiful afternoon.”

“What do you mean, beautiful afternoon? A few minutes ago, you were crying, and I cheered you up,” Roger shouted back.

“What’s going on?” Seven asked anxiously. “Lydia’s in the wrong life. I thought maybe she was just reliving a memory, but she’s really into this! She just finished that life. That baby is her son, Roger.”

“So I see,” Cyprus answered dryly. “Seven, all lives are parallel, you know that. Otherwise Lydia couldn’t have gone from the twentieth century to the seventeenth.”

“Yes, yes. I know. In theory that works. But in practice, well, Lydia is supposed to be a baby, Tweety, right now. She’s not supposed to be having a baby in the twentieth century. How do I get her back on the right track?” Seven paused for only a moment, and went on. “Look at her,” he said. “Now I remember this particular day! If we don’t stop her, she’ll live that life all over again, won’t she? And that was the day she fell in love with Lawrence, husband or no, and—”

Seven was so upset he dematerialized even to Cyprus, turning into a worried swirl of air that rushed around inside itself. “I’ve got to stop her,” he said, wordlessly, of course. “I’m her soul, after all. And what about Tweety? Cyprus, I’m really upset. Now, help me.”