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“I’ve woven several spells into this cloak,” he said. He approached one of the windows, murmured a word, and it was filled with glass again. “Each of the pockets has one, as does the lining. And—” He paused, glancing down at himself. “Three of the buttons. I haven’t got to the others yet.”

He began to detail the spells in an enthusiastic tone, oblivious to my complete lack of interest, and I heard not one word he said. Finally I gave voice to the only clear thought in my head at that moment. “You are not Havelock Renard.”

“Who am I, then?” He looked amused. “Alveric of Erl? Well, I suppose in one sense you’re right. People tell all sorts of silly stories about me, so I doubt I’m the person you’re imagining.”

I let my breath out. “The apocalypse. Three years ago. That wasn’t you, then.”

He made no reply, only murmured to another of the windows, which repaired itself in a heartbeat. Maybe he didn’t like the word apocalypse. After all, the world hadn’t truly ended, it had only looked like it was going to, in the way that it can look like rain.

“It was,” I murmured. “You almost ended the world. You, standing right there.”

“It’s a bit more complicated than that,” he said, looking oddly flustered. “Who on earth are you, anyway? I thought Yannick rented the shop to a charity.”

“He did!” I gesticulated at the cages, where the poor cats hunched in various states of fury and terror. We had forty-five now; a surge in adoptions had dropped the number briefly to forty-one before we’d taken in a frostbitten mother with kittens.

“Cats?” He gave me an appalled look, as if he had never heard of anything more ludicrous. “It would be a charitable act to do away with the vermin, and you’ve filled my shop with them? Has Yannick lost his mind? Oh, I suppose it’s no concern of his if the place is infested with fleas—he doesn’t live here.” He made an exasperated sound and went back to rubbing his hair.

Vermin was such an insult, and so unexpected in that moment, that I could only splutter in response. And though I knew it was not what I should have been giving my attention to, still I found myself snapping, “I’ll have you know that every one of these cats has regular flea treatments.”

He wasn’t listening to me. “What have you done to the place?” he said, frowning as he turned to take it all in.

I couldn’t see what he was so offended about. We’d moved the tables, which had been scattered haphazardly about the shop, to form an L-shape against the south wall. The cat cages were stacked neatly atop them. The scarves had been given to the cats or folded neatly and put away. Besides that and the addition of several filing cabinets, we’d changed only the light, replacing broken fixtures and adding several standing lamps to give the place a warm glow.

“Apart from sweeping up an inch of dust?” I said. “Very little. We’ve made it look less like a haunted house, I suppose.”

He shook his head. “We’ll move it,” he muttered to himself. “Yes—that’s the only way.”

“Move it?” To my dismay, I could think of only one way to interpret this, and it involved more magic. “Move the shelter?”

He grimaced, seeming to dislike the reminder that I’d sullied his shop with cats. “It will take a good deal of magic, but it’s nothing I haven’t prepared for. I suspected she’d track me down eventually.”

I could have asked any of the dozen questions that flitted through my mind at that: How had Valérie tracked him down in the first place? What did she want from him, and why didn’t he simply give it to her? But one thought rose above the others.

“Fantôme,” I murmured. “He ran outside, and Lynx after him—I can’t leave them.”

I sprang towards the door, which had been blasted open. But he was suddenly before me, having moved with the inhuman grace of a gust of wind, as if, just for a moment, he’d become shadow himself.

“Are you mad?” he demanded as I fell back from him in terror. “I’ve no idea how far I blasted Valérie. What do you think she will do to you if she comes upon you wandering the streets? She will suspect you know where I’ve gone, and never let you go until you tell her. As magicians go, Valérie is less charitable than I.”

“She—” My voice faltered. I couldn’t stop picturing his monster, all claws and shadow. “You almost ended the world.”

“Yes,” he said.

I took a step backwards, away from the door and the winter night beyond.

“Wise choice,” he said.

He went back to the windows, rooting around in the pockets of his cloak and drawing out more coins, tiny silver ones this time. He placed one on each sill.

“These hold magic from the Third Fathom of the Rivenwood,” he said, sounding pleased with himself. “And I’ve left the weaving of conveyance unfinished—I should be able to stretch it to encompass the entire shop, and thread the other shop into the pattern.”

He kept babbling this sort of nonsense at me as he paced around the shelter, laying his talismans along the walls and in the corners. Once I was certain his back was turned, I darted through the door.

“Agnes,” he cried after me, which made me stumble in surprise—I still wasn’t used to the fact that a magician knew my name.

Not “a magician”—Havelock Renard, I made myself think, because it was not possible to doubt it any longer. That is Havelock Renard, in his pyjamas or not, and if you had any sense, you would keep running and not look back.

On my feet I wore only the socks I’d been sleeping in, and within seconds the snow was sending splinters of cold up my legs. Fortunately, Fantôme had not gone far—he was sitting on the window ledge of the next shop, and began mewling piteously as soon as he saw me. I scooped him up, calling for Lynx. I floundered about in the snow, which was past my knees, for an indeterminate amount of time—likely no more than five minutes, but that feels much longer when one is expecting to be blasted apart by a malevolent magician at any moment. At last I found the black cat crouched beneath a staircase in the alley three doors over.