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Isadora has vanished. Beck turns down the floor lamps so that the screens give off most of the illumination at our end of the room and leads Celia and Lucinda to the large empty platform Beck calls the dance floor. Beck says, “The platform is controlled by the computer. Just move naturally. Don’t run, but don’t worry about smacking into walls, either. I’ll be right here, just give a shout if you need anything.”

Both Albas come downstairs. “Did we miss anything?” younger Alba asks.

“A giant version of Ida B. Beck’s got the ventriloquism worked out.”

“Yeah, she was doing that last week.” They sit down on the sofa. Older Alba has two mugs of tea. She hands one to me. It’s nice to have a daughter who can anticipate my thought of tea before I even think it. The two Albas snuggle into the sofa cushions. I sit next to my present Alba and she leans into me, sleepily.

Celia and Lucinda stand in the center of the dance floor. I see Lucinda reach for Celia’s hand and then Beck cuts the overhead light and closes the mesh curtain that separates the dance floor from the rest of the room. The Museum’s grid lights up. Celia and Lucinda appear on all monitors, standing at the entrance to the courtyard. Celia whispers to Lucinda, and they turn hesitantly in opposite directions, letting go of each other’s hands. Beck sits at her keyboard wearing headphones, typing. Isadora, still in the guise of Ida B, appears at the other end of the courtyard. She pads toward the two small figures. They turn to face her. Beck types, and the large monitors change from sweeping overview to two human-eye-level views of Isadora walking down the middle of the mosaic-tiled floor, framed by greenery. We’re seeing through Celia’s and Lucinda’s “eyes.”

“Welcome to my home,” Isadora says when she is near enough to be heard. She sits and wraps her tail around her feet, neatly. “This is a virtual museum of things that don’t exist in your world anymore. Is there anything in particular that you’ve lost? I can’t promise that we have everything, but sometimes we can surprise you.”

Lucinda turns to Celia, then takes a few steps toward Isadora, bends and whispers into Isadora’s pointy ear. I say to Beck, softly, “Did you catch that?” Beck nods once.

“Yes,” Isadora says to Lucinda. “I think we can find that. It’s a recent acquisition. Follow me, please.” Isadora stands and walks at a brisk pace toward the entrance to the Getty wing. She looks back to see if Lucinda and Celia are following; assured that they are, she drops back to walk beside Lucinda. Celia’s gaze swivels from wall to wall, taking in Nazi-looted paintings, art that is hidden in Swiss free ports, Greek sculptures (whole here, but in fragments in the real world). Lucinda focuses on Isadora.

“Can I touch you?” Lucinda asks Isadora.

“You can try, but I’m only code; I don’t have a physical body like you, just a subtle body.”

“What’s that?”

“I have a body of consciousness, a body of light. Some people say they like this better than a physical body, but I wouldn’t know.” Isadora stops and bows her head so Lucinda can stroke it. The glossy fur compresses and springs back under Lucinda’s gloved touch, but when Lucinda says, “Did you feel that?” Isadora says, “No, I’m afraid not. Did you?” Lucinda says no. They resume walking.

Celia says, “This is crazy. I mean, don’t get me wrong, it’s amazing, but why is all this stuff here? Why are you here?” She doesn’t add, Why are we here?

“Why is anything anywhere?” Isadora replies. “These are things that meant something to people. Beck put them here in case someone wants them again. It’s like any museum, but it has the advantage of being unreal. I’m here because I am also unreal. I can’t exist in your world. But then again, I don’t think I would want to.” Beck is typing rapidly. Isadora begins to levitate. Soon she is walking a few feet above the floor. She does an elaborate gymnastic move, a rolling twisting flip, then settles back to walking beside Lucinda, who laughs with delight. Celia smiles, but her dubious expression says that her question hasn’t been answered.

They reach a service corridor. It’s dim here; it’s hard to tell where the light is coming from, and the ceiling is suddenly much lower. “This way,” Isadora says. There’s a small green door in the wall, hardly higher than Lucinda and Celia’s heads, as though it’s meant for children or people from an earlier century. “The key is in your pocket,” Isadora tells Lucinda, and it is, an old-fashioned brass key. Beck looks up at me over her screen, smiling, and I say, “Wow.”

Lucinda unlocks the green door. She looks at Isadora, who says, “It’s okay. You can go in.” Celia says, “I’ll stay out here.” Isadora settles on her haunches, her back to the door. Lucinda passes through the door, and for a few seconds the image of a child’s bedroom fills one of the screens: an unmade single bed half covered in brightly colored pillows and stuffed toys; a riot of clothing bursting from a suitcase on the floor; a rocking chair; electronic clutter under a lamp on the nightstand; cantaloupe-orange walls; frilly white curtains covering closed blinds that are back-lit with golden afternoon sun. Lucinda’s voice says, “Oh!” and Beck cuts Lucinda’s audio and then her video to give her some privacy, but not before we hear Lucinda begin to cry.

Celia is watching the green door. Then her field of vision swings to Isadora, sitting calmly, though we can all hear Lucinda’s hiccuping sobs through Celia’s audio. Celia hisses, “Y’all are insane. How did you get that? That room doesn’t exist anymore, at least not like that, with all her stuff—how did you know? When did you record that? How did you even get in?”

“I don’t know,” Isadora says, in her maddeningly unplaceable faux-English accent. “I don’t go anywhere or get anything. Things just arrive—Beck uploads them and they’re here.”

Beck switches her mic so Lucinda can’t hear her. “Alba asked me to record that room a year ago. She didn’t say why. She helped me break in, I spent about twenty minutes recording, and no one knew we’d been there.”

“Fucking time travelers,” Celia mutters. “Y’all are manipulative bitches.”

I give both Albas a disapproving side-eye. “Don’t look at me,” says the younger one. “Sorry,” says older Alba from the depths of the sofa, too softly for Celia to hear. “But it’s what Lucinda needs.”

Celia starts to ask Isadora something, but the green door opens and Lucinda comes out, still sniffling. “Was that what you were hoping to find?” Isadora asks Lucinda.

Lucinda nods. She starts to reach for Isadora but then turns to Celia instead and hugs her. They stand together for a long moment, silently embracing, two small figures whose heads and hands are engulfed in VR headsets and gloves, taking comfort in each other’s physicality.

Beck is typing. I extract myself from the sofa and stand behind her, my hands on her shoulders. She’s conversing with Isadora, though Ida B is sitting silently, whiskers twitching, waiting for Celia and Lucinda to continue.

Beck: What do you think? Would you like to look like Lucinda?

Isadora: Yes, she’s wonderful. I would be grateful if she would allow me to become her avatar.

Beck: Okay, we will ask her and Celia if they feel happy to do that.

Isadora: Tell her I will be her backup disk.

Beck: She doesn’t need a backup disk. She’s a person.

Isadora: Everyone needs a backup disk.