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“Just that I should be wary in my dealings with her, as you no longer felt her to be entirely trustworthy. I was surprised that you knew her.” Oliver is playing with his cigarette lighter, flicking the lid on and off. I wish he would stop.

“Not as surprised as I am to find out that you know her. How do you know her?”

“She helped me to emigrate; she came with me on the flight to London. Then, when my uncle stopped sending money to Madeline Baxter, Isadora began to support me. She is my patron.”

I wonder how Isadora knew that Oliver existed, or where to find him, but then I’m exasperated at myself because of course I must have told her to go and help him. How else would she know? “Wait—she came with you to London? In person? On the flight?”

“Yes, that’s the only time I’ve seen her in person. Usually we text, or face chat. Occasionally we meet in this very strange virtual world she has; it’s a lot of museums joined together.”

“I know it well. It’s called the Museum of Lost Souls. Do you do anything in return for her patronage?” I ask Oliver.

“I send her recordings. She loves it when I play for her.”

“My music?”

“No. She has asked—I didn’t think you’d like that.” Oliver stops flipping the lighter and finally lights a cigarette. “I don’t really know much about her. Neither does Madeline. We reckon she must be a very wealthy music fanatic. Madeline sends her recordings, too.”

“What does she look like?”

“When I first met her, I thought she was Chinese. She was dressed like a businesswoman, about my mother’s age. But I must have been confused—I drank alcohol for the first time on that flight—when I see her virtually now, she looks different.”

“Different?”

“She’s a Black lady, not much older than me. She is very poised, very confident. She always has ornate hairstyles and simple, elegant clothes. I asked Madeline once if Isadora was Senegalese, because we have a neighbor from Senegal, and Isadora reminds me of her. But Madeline said Isadora is American. She doesn’t sound like you. She must be from some other part of America.”

“Isadora was born in Detroit, and I grew up with her in Chicago.”

Oliver is surprised. “Is she a time traveler?”

“No. She’s an artificial intelligence.”

“Really?! She is guǐfù!”

“What’s that?”

“People who have the bio-implant can sometimes be taken over by an AI ghost that possesses your mind,” Oliver says. “But usually it only happens for a short time, and the ghost isn’t purposeful; they stay for a few minutes, look around and leave. I first met Isadora when I was thirteen. How extraordinary. Isadora seems so human. Are you sure? Maybe it’s just another lady with the same name.”

“How likely is it that your patron would ask you to play my music? Am I so famous in your time?” I am kidding him, I know the answer.

“Later, yes,” Oliver replies, seriously. “In 2059, it is unlikely, but not impossible. I hadn’t thought of that.” He frowns. “I wonder who the virtual lady is? The one in the museum?”

“I know her name. It wouldn’t mean anything to you, Oliver.”

“How strange! Do you think she possesses many ladies?” Oliver tucks his hair behind his ears, then lights another cigarette off the one he’s been smoking. I’ve never seen him chain-smoke before. He does it automatically, without any self-consciousness.

“I have no idea. In my present, Isadora is entirely machine based, not flitting around hijacking humans.” I wonder if I should tell Beck. Maybe not; I don’t want Isadora to know that I know what she’s up to. But what is she up to?

“Do you mind if I tell Madeline? Neither of us had any idea Isadora wasn’t human.”

“I don’t see why not,” I say. I try to imagine Oliver’s life with Madeline. The way he describes it, it seems like our life here in the Yellow House, an almost monastic life of study and music. I am a little jealous of Madeline and all the parts of Oliver’s life that she shares with him that I can’t. I’ve never met Madeline, but I feel close to her, through the stories Oliver tells, through his affection for her. Why should I feel unhappy about Madeline? In Oliver’s present, she’s nearly eighty. I googled her once. I was surprised to find hundreds of images of her—album covers, concert photos, interviews—she had been famous, for a little while, and then, around 2006, she just stopped. What happened?

“Alba? What are you thinking about?”

“Madeline. How you have a life with her that I’ll never know about.”

“That’s the way I feel about your life with Zach. It’s a closed door to me.”

“Is it the same, though?”