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Bertha leaned forward, chin in hand, watching the medievalist on the monitor tilt her head as though deciphering the light itself. Nicolle looked serene, almost *anchored*. The kind of contentment Bertha had learned to distrust.
“Alright,” Camille said, half-laughing, half-awed. “That’s wild. She actually looks… smarter.”
Bertha smiled faintly. “Sometimes that’s just posture.” She tapped her stylus against the glass, a rhythmic click. “We could add dimension. Depth. Something to tie it all together.”
“Like what?”
Bertha’s eyes slid over the interface, past the appearance matrix, past language acquisition, into the subtler grids of *identity architecture.* “Something foundational,” she murmured. “Something she’s always had. Something no one would question.”
Camille peered closer. “You’re thinking religion?”
Bertha didn’t answer. Her finger moved, elegant, deliberate, dragging a glowing line across the schema. The console hummed.
Inside the chamber, the light flared gold.
When it dimmed, Nicolle was standing a little differently—straighter, but softer. The plum skirt had gained a heavier texture, a woven pattern near the hem that suggested care and memory. A pale blue scarf draped loosely around her shoulders. At her throat, a large silver Star of David caught the overhead light, reflecting it in a slow pulse.
Her hair was the same, but the pins had shifted: one now had Hebrew script etched along the edge. On her left wrist, a beaded bracelet. Her book had changed too—no longer *Beowulf,* but a bilingual volume of medieval Hebrew poetry.
On the monitors, her file restructured itself line by line.
> Nicolle Taylor — now Nicolle Taler.
> Born to a Conservative Jewish family in Madison, Wisconsin.
> Spent summers at Camp Herzl.
> PhD dissertation: “Scripture and Song: The Transmission of Faith in Medieval Europe.”
> Teaches comparative religion, runs a monthly Havurah study group.
> Keeps kosher, mostly.
> Wears linen on holidays; lights candles on Fridays.
Bertha exhaled slowly, as though finishing a sentence she’d been writing in her head.
Camille’s voice was quieter now. “She’s Jewish?”
“She’s *always* been Jewish,” Bertha corrected softly.
“Alright,” Camille said, half-laughing, half-awed. “That’s wild. She actually looks… smarter.”
Bertha smiled faintly. “Sometimes that’s just posture.” She tapped her stylus against the glass, a rhythmic click. “We could add dimension. Depth. Something to tie it all together.”
“Like what?”
Bertha’s eyes slid over the interface, past the appearance matrix, past language acquisition, into the subtler grids of *identity architecture.* “Something foundational,” she murmured. “Something she’s always had. Something no one would question.”
Camille peered closer. “You’re thinking religion?”
Bertha didn’t answer. Her finger moved, elegant, deliberate, dragging a glowing line across the schema. The console hummed.
Inside the chamber, the light flared gold.
When it dimmed, Nicolle was standing a little differently—straighter, but softer. The plum skirt had gained a heavier texture, a woven pattern near the hem that suggested care and memory. A pale blue scarf draped loosely around her shoulders. At her throat, a large silver Star of David caught the overhead light, reflecting it in a slow pulse.
Her hair was the same, but the pins had shifted: one now had Hebrew script etched along the edge. On her left wrist, a beaded bracelet. Her book had changed too—no longer *Beowulf,* but a bilingual volume of medieval Hebrew poetry.
On the monitors, her file restructured itself line by line.
> Nicolle Taylor — now Nicolle Taler.
> Born to a Conservative Jewish family in Madison, Wisconsin.
> Spent summers at Camp Herzl.
> PhD dissertation: “Scripture and Song: The Transmission of Faith in Medieval Europe.”
> Teaches comparative religion, runs a monthly Havurah study group.
> Keeps kosher, mostly.
> Wears linen on holidays; lights candles on Fridays.
Bertha exhaled slowly, as though finishing a sentence she’d been writing in her head.
Camille’s voice was quieter now. “She’s Jewish?”
“She’s *always* been Jewish,” Bertha corrected softly.
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