Beat was certain she was dreaming, or hallucinating, or perhaps watching a fantasy movie in which she was a character. This simply can't be happening, she told herself over and over. Nonetheless, every time she rewound the tape and played it from the beginning, her reliable ears discerned what was incontrovertibly her own voice.

"This place reeks of witchcraft," she heard herself utter. "Are you witches, then?"

She shook her head wearily. "I've never used this kind of accent before," she told the equally astounded rat sisters. "I've never even tried. The only people who still talk this way are very old or dead."

"It doesn't make sense," marveled Prunella. "How can you and George both be Queen Victoria?"

"It doesn't make sense for either of us to be Queen Victoria," said Beat. "Yet here I am, in a live recording, channeling her."

"England's going to hell in a handbasket," said the regal-sounding voice from the tape player. "If you don't believe me, take a walk in Whitechapel at night. Prostitutes. Dreadful creatures. I can't abide them."

"This," said Rubella optimistically, "is an unprecedented spiritual phenomenon. We've always assumed that a person leaves only one soul behind…but what if it's possible for a soul to divide and reproduce, like an amoeba?"

Beat took in a deep breath. "I've been having nightmares, just like George's," she admitted. "Buckingham Palace, royal vestments, murderous guards, the whole lot. I didn't tell you this before, because I didn't think it meant anything."

Rubella smiled sympathetically. "Every dream means something," she stated.

"Right," said Beat. "So if I dream that I'm taking off my clothes in the girls' locker, and I suddenly discover that I've turned into a boy…what does that mean?"

Prunella burst into laughter. Rubella merely nodded. "What it means," she replied, "is that you've been watching too many Japanese cartoons."

At her computer, Penny Simon was tapping out the final pages of the fantasy novel Bad Demon! No Soul!, the sequel to Bad Dragon! No Damsel!, Bad Zombie! No Brain!, and No Gruel for You!. Unsatisfied with the ending she had written, she reworked it yet again:

"I came here to steal your soul, but in the end I gave you mine," said Eduardo, his horns sparkling in the moonlight. Della, as she stood on her toes to kiss his soft lips, no longer saw before her a being of darkness and damnation. Instead she saw a boy, a man, with razor-sharp teeth that melted her with their warm smile, and muscular, veiny arms that wrapped her in ecstasy. "I love you," she said again and again, never wanting to stop. She knew she would be his forever, and that their love, though forged in Hell, had been ordained by Heaven.

She clicked on the Print icon and leaned back in her chair. This'll be a hit, she assured herself. A girl falling in love with a handsome demon? Who else but me could've thought of it?

Into the paper-crammed apartment walked Beat, her nose pointed downward, her fingers firmly clutching the tape recorder as if fearing it would open up and bite her. "Hello, dear," said her mother. "How was school?"

"School?" said the girl crossly. "Oh, is that where I've been for the past seven hours?"

Penny helped her daughter to lift the book bag from her shoulders. "Help yourself to tea and crumpets," she said tenderly, "and then you can take a nap, or watch telly, or whatever you like."

"I've got homework," Beat told her.

"Forget about it," said Mrs. Simon. "It won't hurt you to put it off until the last minute just once."

Beat dropped herself onto the couch and heaved a sigh. "Mum," she asked earnestly, "do you believe there's such a thing as reincarnation?"

"No, dear," her mother answered. "But a year ago I didn't believe in aliens, so…who knows?"

"I just found out," said Beat, rewinding the tape yet again, "that there are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in my philosophy."

"Awww," said Penny wistfully. "My little girl's quoting Shakespeare."

Her little girl pressed the Play button. "Tell me what you think of this," she requested.

The sound of hypnotic suggestions filled the living room. "I see you've been to Prunella's," observed Mrs. Simon.

"Wait for it," said Beat.

Her voice emerged from the player: "I am Her Majesty the Queen, and I demand that you answer my question."

Mrs. Simon chuckled. "Why, Beatrice, I had no idea you could enunciate so well."

"Neither did I," said the girl.

They listened in silence to the interview between Prunella and the Queen. "I do so miss my Albert. He was only forty-two when he died. You'd think the heart of a queen would be made of stronger stuff…"

"This is brilliant," said Mrs. Simon, by this time on the couch by her daughter. "Is it a rehearsal for a play? Have you thought about becoming an actress?"

"Mum," said Beat forcefully, "I don't remember saying a word of this. I was under hypnosis."

"Hmm," said her mother. "Interesting." Girls and their parlour games, she thought.

Too tired and confused to do anything else, Beat laid belly-down on her mattress as the tape in her hand played through. "He goes among the prostitutes under the pretense of trying to 'reclaim the fallen women'," uttered her Victorian-inflected voice. "His wife is uneasy, and I can't say I blame her."

I can't believe how uptight this lady is, she mused. Everything with her is morality, morality, morality. And she won't shut up about the prostitutes. Look, Your Majesty, if you'd just enact some social programs, they wouldn't have to resort to selling their bodies to put food on the table!

An hour went by. Mrs. Simon, laboring over a noodle salad dinner, became increasingly annoyed with the Beat-Victoria ramblings that poured constantly from her daughter's bedroom. "Beatrice, dear, please turn off the tape," she called out.

She then resumed her cooking, but the queenly voice persisted: "It seemed only reasonable to take upon myself the title of Empress of India…"

"Beat, honey," she said, exasperated. "Is a bit of silence too much to ask for?"

"…by the authority of the British Crown…"

Her patience taxed to the limit, she rushed to Beat's room in hopes of discovering the reason behind the girl's obsession with the strange recording. To her surprise, the tape player sat on the bed beside Beat's motionless, face-down form, turned off.

"…the jurisdiction of the East India Company…" It was Beat herself, mumbling barely coherent words in a long-forgotten accent.

Mrs. Simon reached hurriedly for the girl, twisting her onto her back. Her limp body offered no resistance. "I'd prefer to wear black, thank you," she babbled, her eyes eerily unfocused.

"What's wrong, dear?" asked her mother.

"William Gladstone," said the uncomprehending Beat. "He always addresses me as if at a public meeting. Prostitutes…eating away at the Empire's moral hardwood like termites."

"Talk to me!" cried the panicked Mrs. Simon.

To be continued