There stood what looked at first to be George Brainbridge’s house in the twentieth century, and what he’d brushed up against was the hitching post that George had kept from his grandfather’s time, as a decoration. Only now, it was to the right of the porch, just by the steps, instead of out by the curb. The house itself was even more confusing for it resembled George’s so completely, and yet glaring distortions or differences were everywhere. It looked to be of brick, yet at the same time, it appeared to be made of some much lighter material. The three windows were right in the front waiting room, but there were also three windows on the left side, where Seven was sure George’s house had only two. Besides that, though, this house looked newly constructed, or too good to be true, or somehow unused.

Seven stepped back to get a better look, and then saw the neat sign. It read: “The Ancient House of Many Windows: believed to be a perfect replica of a structure that actually stood in this spot roughly from 1860 to 2010. The original tell, explored in the twenty-third century, delivered artifacts that led historical designers to begin their detailed assessment of the structure. Later excavations gave further data. The discovery of the original Codicils was made only five years ago when an ancient bomb shelter was evacuated at a deeper level. This peoples’ museum is open to the public. Further information on the Codicils inside.”

The Codicils? Seven could hardly contain his excitement. Yet he was uneasy because no one was about. He sat down on the steps, looking toward the river.

The riverbank had changed; the old dikes built in George’s time were now buried under new topsoil. The river must have flooded many times and then widened somehow, for now it ran deeper and wider below a high bank of planted shrubbery and trees. Seven saw no roads, only natural, well-tended paths, and he realized that he was in the middle of a park area. The surroundings were so pleasant that he was almost tempted to walk down to the river, but he sighed, and walked up the steps to the museum’s porch.

Hesitantly he opened the front door. It was far lighter in weight than George’s twentieth-century door, even though the material looked the same. No sooner had the door opened and Seven glimpsed the layout of the rooms off the hall, than a man’s figure appeared coming down the front stairwell.

“Good afternoon,” the man said. “You’ve missed the tour scheduled for the past hour. I can give you a private tour, however, although it won’t be as extensive as the group one. Will you follow me, please?”