Author's Note: Thank you so much, wee-me and mywickedlyweirdnature, for reviewing! It does my heart good to know people are still out there. *hugs and truckloads of glittery confetti*

For a very long time she lay, cheek against the finely woven rug that he had brought her from the spice markets of Samarkand, still smelling faintly of spice and patchouli. She might have slept, because she dreamt that she was wandering through the leys, calling his name, except that it was always the wrong name, and though many creatures answered her, none were him. She might have woken, but her eyes were dark, and her head raged like someone was repeatedly stabbing her with a molten pick. Not vomiting was her first priority; her second was to cut off her head. All night she lay on the carpet, powerless even to call 911.

As morning light seeped in through the blinds and gently crawled over her, her head began to clear, until she was shakily able to draw a breath that didn't hurt. She slid her hands underneath her body and pushed against the floor until she was sitting, and then pulled herself the rest of the way up by holding on to the kitchen table. "Beej?" Silence. She tried to call his other name, his Name, but her throat locked against the sound. When she tried to force it out, she gagged, and stumbled to the kitchen sink to vomit, heaving out nothing but stomach juices until she was shaking. What the hell was happening? Determined to do something, anything, she walked unsteadily into their bedroom, where her eyes fell upon a folded letter, creamy parchment with her name scrawled across the top. She immediately recognized the handwriting as well as the parchment- she and Betelgeuse had gotten more than one missive from a highly disapproving Juno. With ever-deepening concern, she flipped over the letter and broke the distinctive black seal. The letter was a few terse sentences.

L-

He has been taken by dangerous and powerful people. Do not try

to summon him. You are vulnerable. Don't let yourself be seen.

Meet me at the unfinished. Do not let yourself be seen!

-J

Lydia read it through twice, and then a third time. Her heart dropped into her boots, but her hands moved on automatic, tugging the sheet off the bed and flinging it over the bedroom mirror. Her eyes flitted around the room, looking for reflective surfaces, the inroads of the Netherworld. Of course, it didn't really matter; they had already gotten to her, had done something to her, made her forget... She touched the ring that had the name inscribed on it, the name she couldn't pronounce, and felt bile rise in her throat just at the thought of it. Someone was going to pay.

But she knew the "unfinished" that Juno referred to; she and Betelgeuse and Juno had talked at length about Lydia's unsanctioned use of the ghost roads, and of the various substations that existed within the city. The Sherman Square control house, the Algonquin Hotel (where he had taken her later for coffee with Dorothy Parker and Harpo Marx), and the Cathedral of St. John the Divine, or as it was named by the locals, St. John the Unfinished. Juno had said this was a major junction- a full-fledged international station house. And Lydia had to get there without being seen in a single mirror.

A quick plunge through her closet brought up three hoodies, a delicately figured pashmina in blue and silver, and a ratty wool throw that had holes instead of sleeves. She opted for a grey, oversized hoodie and the wool throw, and tugged on baggy jeans and sneakers. It was autumn, and not that cold yet, but she was going for the 'invisible street person' look. In her bag she threw a wallet full of cash of various denominations, and her passport. You just never knew. With a quick look around her—their apartment, she headed out the door and towards the nearest metro, a few long blocks from the apartment building.

She walked with her head down toward the Sheridan Square station, which was a straight shot to the Cathedral at 1110th St. Avoiding mirrors was simpler when you were underground. With an eerie awareness she descended the stairs, feeling as she did the dark electricity of the ley line that ran directly on top of this particular metro line. Too late, she thought, it was too late to turn back. A small miracle, the train was already there, and she almost tripped getting to it, stumbling into the car just as the doors were shutting. There were plenty of seats- it was two in the afternoon in the middle of Greenwich village, and everyone was where they customarily waited for the evening to come, just biding time. The only people on board were a few nervous-looking tourists, and that suited Lydia just fine. She tugged her hood down over her eyes, and slumped into her seat, and tried not to think about what Betelgeuse might have gotten himself into.