Page 21 of Agnes Aubert’s Mystical Cat Shelter

I forced a laugh. “Oh, don’t you remember? Lynx is black. She’s at the other shelter, of course. She took quite a liking to you, didn’t she? She’s still available, if you’re interested.”

I began to babble about our adoption process while Laurent frowned and Lynx continued to claw unhelpfully at the air, in no doubt of Laurent’s identity nor her desire to get to the man who’d been so taken with her, and she, it seemed, with him.

“You’ve quite a few orange ones,” the other officer noted, having come to stand at Laurent’s side. “And look! They’ve all got a white eye patch.”

“It’s a common pattern,” I said while silently cursing Havelock. I’d made this exact point to him, but he’d only argued that it was faster for him to replicate one illusion multiple times than create a new one for every cat. We’d only changed their colour—everything else remained the same.

They’re cats, Havelock had said, infuriatingly oblivious to my concern. The police are not going to examine them closely.

“And look at the coat on this one,” the woman went on. She crouched down and squinted at Thoreau. “Why, he’s practically red! I’ve never seen a red cat before. Who knew?”

“That’s a rare breed,” I said weakly. “The—the Danish foxcoat.”

The officer elbowed Laurent. “You could be related!”

“Offer them tea,” an accented voice murmured in my ear. “It will make them remember how busy they are.”

I gave a yelp that I managed to bite back, resulting in an odd sound, half gasp and half snort.

Laurent turned to me. “Agnes?”

I smiled, or tried to. “I thought I saw a mouse.”

“You’ve a ready solution for that,” the woman said. She was still examining Thoreau. “You know, I quite like this one. He’s getting on in years, isn’t he, but look at that face.”

I realized I was shivering lightly. I could sense Havelock standing very close behind me, like a phantom, his chest only an inch or so from my back—I’d felt his breath in the hollow of my ear. The problem was that he was completely invisible, which made everything in me cry out at the wrongness of it. Perhaps magicians were used to this sort of thing, but I wasn’t.

He placed his hand lightly on my shoulder, and I watched in horror as four little creases formed in the fabric of my blouse. “It’s only me,” he murmured, and I almost laughed—as if I should take comfort from this. He was close enough that a lock of his hair touched my temple when he leaned in, sending a shiver through me like the brush of a ghost’s fingertip. He smelled smoky and slightly sweet—a mixture of incense and cigars, most people would have guessed, yet I knew that was not it.

It was the smell of magic. The smell that had filled the old shelter when I came home to find a hole blasted in the wall. This was stronger than that, without anything human woven into it.

“Would you care for some tea?” I managed, still shivering. Havelock had taken a step back—how I knew that, I don’t know, I only knew that his presence had a gravitational pull, or maybe it was fear sharpening my senses.

“Thank you, but we should be off,” the woman said, straightening. “We still need to see if anyone else in the neighbourhood heard anything. But perhaps I’ll return later.”

“Absolutely,” I said. I wasn’t certain if she meant to return to see Thoreau or to interrogate me further, but once again I began babbling about adoption fees and paperwork, which seemed to be the right response. A little smile played on her face, and she cast a longing, almost childlike look over her shoulder at the cats. Laurent, at her side, remained silent.

“Thank you, Agnes,” he said, giving me a look that I couldn’t interpret. “No doubt I’ll see you again back at Rue des Hirondelles. I’m often in that neighbourhood.”

And with that, they departed.

I closed the door behind them and leaned against it, just in time to see Havelock reappear.

It was as if he’d come out from behind a curtain, its fabric made from the light and colours of the shop itself. There was a faint ripple, and he stepped sideways, brushing at his clothes as if removing dust.

I felt a wave of nausea, and there came a ringing in my ears. I slumped to the floor before I passed out, though I think I did pass out, just for a moment. When I opened my eyes, he was crouched at my side. I didn’t like the way he was always darting about or appearing in unexpected places. It put me in mind of a spider.

“Hair full of spiders, eyes like twin fires,” I murmured.

“What?” he said.

“You need to help me with the cats,” I informed him—my voice was a little fuzzy, and felt as if it were coming from somewhere else. “Their breakfast is late, and I have to get on with the checklist.”

He wrinkled his nose. “Oh, of course—I’ll get right to it. You heat the water for their baths and I’ll pour the milk, and then you can send for an ambulance while I pass out on the floor, wheezing.”

“Cats don’t need baths,” I mumbled. My head was swimming dreadfully.

Havelock took no notice. “I must travel to the Rivenwood to gather the magic necessary for putting the shop back where it was,” he said, and frowned. “I was not planning to venture there so soon after my last visit, but needs must.”