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We sit together on the bench. Lucinda looks serene, somehow—happier than I’ve seen her in a long time. She’s unkempt, as though she’s been living on the streets, her hair matted, no makeup, her nail polish chipped, nails broken. She’s dressed well enough, in jeans and a sweater, but the laces of her sneakers are tied oddly and her socks don’t match. “What happened?” I ask.

Lucinda says, “You know how things haven’t been going too well with me, the past few years, mental health–wise?”

“Yeah. I know.”

“So Isadora and I, we always used to talk about how cool it would be if we could switch places. She wanted to find out about all the things that were beyond her realm: sensory stuff, mostly, but also she wanted to get out of the basement, go have adventures in the real world, be a real girl. I just wanted to hide in the Museum and rest; I didn’t want to have to deal with anything at all. Last Christmas, when I was visiting, Isadora said that she’d figured out how we could do it, if I ever wanted to try. She said I had to get the new bioware, and I remembered that you always told me I shouldn’t do that, so for a while we went around and around about it. But as I got more and more depressed, it was either that, or kill myself.”

“Lucinda!” I put my arm around her, and she rests her head on my shoulder.

“I had the bioware installed last July. It took a few weeks for it to unfurl, and then I had to practice using it. I didn’t like it much. I wasn’t interested enough to use it the way everyone else does, you know, like the internet on steroids. I did the exercises they gave me, but really I was waiting for Isadora to find me. And she eventually did.”

She puts her hand in mine, and I feel her trembling. “Let’s go inside,” I say, “you’re cold.” I help her up and we start toward the coffee shop on Clark Street. It’s only half a block away. Neither of us says much of anything until we are situated comfortably at a small table near the window, with sandwiches and coffee. Lucinda wolfs down the food as though she hasn’t had any in a while. “I don’t think Isadora has been taking very good care of you,” I say.

Lucinda smooths her hair self-consciously. “I hadn’t been taking care of myself, it wasn’t all on Isadora.”

“Okay. So you let her in. What’s that like? Is it what you needed?”

“Yeah. She is taking care of me, you know. I feel stronger now, healthier. I just needed some time—away. Mostly I’ve been sitting in the library at the Musée du quai Branly, in one of the seats that overlook the garden. In the Museum of Lost Souls it’s whatever time you want it to be, whatever matches your mood, so lately it’s been twilight. It’s so pretty there—the library’s lamps cast circles of golden light over the bookshelves, and the garden is an otherworldly jumble of purple shadow and green leaves. You can hardly hear the traffic. Sometimes I read, or wander into other parts of the Museum, but mostly I just like to sit in that library and think. When I want company, Isadora comes and sits with me, and we talk.”

“Where is Isadora right now?”

“She’s here with us. Do you want to talk to her?”

“Maybe in a while. Can you both be here together?”

“Yes. At first we had to take turns, but now I can be with her. I think soon we’ll begin to overlap, you know, to merge.” Lucinda looks pleased about this, almost delighted.

The idea makes me ill. “What?! I didn’t know merging was even possible. Lucinda, is that a good thing? No one wants to lose you. We don’t want to lose Isadora, either,” I add hastily, “we want you both. Individually, not merged.”

“Don’t worry, Alba,” Lucinda says eagerly, “nobody will be lost. You’ll see.” She seems ebullient, and I realize that it’s been a long time since I’ve seen Lucinda happy. I reach over and stroke her cheek. “I know it’s kind of weird,” she says. “But we’re like two halves of a whole, you know? As soon as Isadora was with me I felt so much better. Complete? All the noise in my head quieted, and I could finally rest.”

A thought strikes me. “Lucinda, do you remember the wisdom teeth? You gave me your teeth to keep for Isadora? What was that all about? I thought she was going to clone you, or something crazy like that.”

“Oh, yeah.” Lucinda looks embarrassed. “I mean, yeah, that’s the plan. Eventually. But I don’t know if I’ll stick around for that. Bodies don’t last forever, she’ll need another one someday . . . Isadora’s got big ideas, but I’m just happy to wake up in the morning and feel good. She says I can live in the Museum forever, or as long as the platform is supported. She’s my backup, and I’m hers. That’s good enough for me.” Lucinda offers her hand, and I clasp it. She’s been like a little sister to me, but I’ve been so consumed with my own drama that I didn’t see that she was slipping away. If Isadora can hold her in this world by offering her another, I can learn to be grateful for that.

“Let’s go home,” I offer. Celia, Beck and Mama are anxiously waiting for us at Celia’s house.

“I’m ready,” Lucinda says. “Isadora?”

“Let’s go home,” a new, familiar voice echoes. “I’m ready, too.” An amused expression crosses Lucinda’s face, or is it Isadora’s face? Chills run down my spine. She’s our Darling, no matter what.

A Lady in a Burnt Garden

Friday, May 1, 2065 (Alba is 40)

Alba: I don’t know when or at first where I am. I’m in the backyard, but there is no house; the house is gone, my Yellow House, it’s burned down, and I am standing naked by the wreck of it, charred wood and cloth and odd glints of glass and metal things, a bowl, a clock; here is Oliver’s piano, collapsed and all the wires sprung loose, the ivory blackened, the case charred, its shape almost intact but the legs gone; the filing cabinet lies on its side, drawers empty; here is our bed, no mattress, box springs sprung; here are our books, like so many injured black birds; I watch pages disintegrate and detach in the wind. The house is not even a shell, it has imploded—the chimney has fallen—the kitchen appliances have retained their basic shapes—that mess of glutinous plastic must be Oliver’s toy collection—the television has melted. Bricks, shingles, siding, beams, plaster, floors, walls, ceilings: all have collapsed into the charred heap, embers still red in white beds of ash. The hole that was the basement is full of black water and half burned, unrecognizable floating objects. No one came to save the Yellow House. It burned uninterrupted—no one is left here to see it. The whole neighborhood is in ruins. The trees that crowded around the house are tall stump silhouettes; they stand over the devastation like mourners around a grave. All around the garden is green; it is raining, and now it starts to rain harder. No birds.

Fragments of music here and there. The rain makes a hissing sound as it touches the embers. I didn’t know I loved the Yellow House until it was gone. So much loss. I kneel in the grass and wait to disappear.

The Empty Orchestra

Wednesday, January 30, 2069 (Oliver is 40, Madeline is 89)

Oliver: Madeline is lying propped up on the red sofa, coughing. I’m sitting in the armchair, trying not to wince: her cough is a horrible sound, a deep barking retch. She struggles to sit up and I help her. Her cough subsides and I sit next to her, holding her hand. She leans against me, eucalyptus scent wafting up from the ointment on her chest. It’s cold in the room even though I’ve kept the fire tended; most of the heat is going up the flue. For days it has been raining. The bleak late-afternoon light covers Madeline’s music room evenly. Her piano is a menacing silhouette against the French windows.

I get up carefully, light two lamps and carry one into the kitchen. I heat some soup and bring it to Madeline, but she waves it away. “Later,” she croaks. I eat some of the soup and put the rest back on the windowsill to cool. When I sit down again, Madeline leans against me. I put my arm around her. Her breath rages through her—her chest sounds like a vacant building full of poltergeists. Madeline is gaunt, and I feel embarrassed to be so tall and substantial, as though my flesh has been subtracted from hers. Her long elegant hands are knobby with arthritis and curled into bird’s talons; it’s been years since she has been able to play the piano, though until recently she still sat in her blue armchair, critiquing my playing.

The fire is dwindling, so I get up and feed it some of the wood that used to be the shed in the back garden. We burned most of the furniture Madeline kept in the shed, and now we’ve burnt most of the shed itself. The carcasses of all the old plastic tech that used to be so coveted for parts are now useless and lying in a heap where the shed was. The smoke from the painted wood is sweet and probably toxic, but we don’t have much choice. I’m sure it’s making Madeline’s cough worse. She’s refused to go to hospital, and I only asked once. What’s the point, she said, they don’t have any good drugs and they can’t make me young again. So she’s been spending the time before she dies watching it rain, coughing, occasionally eating a little soup. I play for her. I read to her. There are stacks of books piled around us, some half read, others put aside, a few that found favor tucked into the sofa with us (A Mammal’s Notebook by Satie, Colette’s Break of Day, a slim book of poetry by Madeline’s husband—love poems, dedicated to her, written over decades; a book whose existence I had not suspected but whose contents I’ve now nearly memorized through repeated readings).