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I opened the curtains, hung the Cat Friends sign in the window, and unlocked the shelter at nine o’clock, resigning myself to the ludicrousness of the situation. I half expected to be accosted by representatives of the bank, or perhaps the restaurant, objecting to the proximity of such an unsanitary establishment. I’d no idea what business we’d replaced, for Havelock’s spell had superimposed the shelter over everything that had been here before, upstairs apartment and all, but I highly doubted it had been anything so humble as a charity. Fortunately, though, nobody took immediate offense; most of the well-heeled passersby simply did a double-take.

After barely ten minutes, the door swung open and an older man shuffled inside, stamping the snow from his boots. He was dressed in the same woolen finery as all those bound for the bank next door, and carried an expensive briefcase. Before I could even offer a greeting, he surprised me by gesturing to His Majesty, who was perched on the windowsill, surveying the street with leonine condescension.

“Bonjour, mademoiselle,” the man said, then added in English, “How much?”

It took me a moment to understand what he meant. “Oh! That one’s not for sale. It’s for the best, I promise you.”

“Shame,” he said, casting another look at His Majesty. “I had one just like him when I was a boy. A big black-and-white monster—half-wild and ill-tempered, but he took to me for some reason.” A smile touched the corners of his eyes.

“I see.” I mentally ran through our inventory, then motioned the man over to the cage belonging to Juliette, a long-haired brown tabby who came close to rivalling His Majesty in bulk. Thankfully, the cats had returned to their former colours over the course of the previous day, the enchantment draining from them like wet ink.

“She’s not the colour you preferred,” I said, “but she has a fiery streak. She likes to be carried from place to place like royalty, and has more than once fallen asleep in my arms.”

“That sounds like my Sam,” the man said with a laugh. “And that’s quite a throne you’ve made for her. She looks positively mystical, like some magician’s familiar.”

I forced a laugh. Juliette’s bedding, like that of the other cats, comprised one of the former tenant’s cashmere scarves. Juliette’s was particularly luxurious, double-layered and woven with gold thread in a houndstooth pattern, which sparkled becomingly against her fur. The scarves were undeniably useful, not only saving us money on bedding but setting the cats off to advantage, though I did feel guilty every time one of the exotic garments was the victim of a snagged claw or hair ball.

I opened the cage a little nervously, for I hadn’t been lying about Juliette’s temper—the beast was just as likely to claw strangers as condescend to be petted—but I need not have worried. After sniffing the man’s fingers carefully, Juliette arched her neck and pushed her forehead into his hand.

“Would you like to hold her?” I enquired, trying not to sound too eager. Juliette had been at the shelter almost as long as Thoreau, owing mostly to her temperament, but she was also ten years old, and more likely to be passed over than the younger cats.

The man nodded, anticipation stealing over his expression, making his wrinkled face look years younger. I hefted Juliette and placed her carefully in his arms. The cat gave a yowl, but it seemed only an obligatory assertion of pride, for she began almost immediately to purr. The man looked her over, offering many soft-spoken compliments on her stripes, and her eyes narrowed to contented slits.

“I’m fully booked with meetings this morning,” the man said, then glanced down at Juliette. “But meetings can be postponed, can’t they?”

“Of course,” I said, and the two of us exchanged mischievous smiles, like children.

I filled out the paperwork for him, for Juliette seemed disinclined to budge from his arms. He was Roger Fairwood, with an address in the wealthy neighbourhood at the foot of the mountain. He seemed to expect me to recognize his name, which put him in the same class as most rich men, but then seemed relieved when I did not, which made me like him better. He also insisted on paying double the adoption fee, which only increased my delight. Ten minutes later, he was out the door with Juliette—loudly protesting the affront—contained within a cardboard box, and a paper bag of food and other essentials.

“Back down to forty-five,” I said to Mina, who was grinning at me from the counter. Like me, she’d long despaired of Juliette ever finding a home. “That was a stroke of luck.”

“Luck,” Mina repeated in a musing voice. She had one of her history textbooks propped open in front of her, for she liked to do her coursework in between clients. “Maybe. But I think this location will be good for us.”

“Let’s hope so,” I said, my mood bolstered by Mina’s confidence. Though she was a quiet person by nature, whenever Mina did voice an opinion, it tended to be proven correct.

Élise arrived shortly thereafter, and we made our way to the Rue des Hirondelles shelter to see what had become of it, leaving Mina in charge of our new location.

“What will we do if he’s there?” I said. Our rapid footfalls against the cobblestones echoed the pounding of my heart.

“Why would he be there?” Élise said. “He moved everything. So his workshop is on Rue Sainte-Sophie, isn’t it?”

“I have no idea—I don’t know how his horrid enchantment works.” I hadn’t gone down to the basement to check if Havelock had brought his workshop. The trapdoor was there, but there could be nothing beneath it, for all I knew. Havelock could still be in the Rivenwood.

A wisp of cold trailed down my back at the thought of that dark world, lush and foreboding. The memory was mixed with curiosity, which disturbed me almost as much as the place itself.

It was soon abundantly clear that wherever Havelock was, it was not Rue des Hirondelles. The shelter appeared unchanged from without; the green curtains, which somehow were here, too, were closed. But when I peered through the square of green glass in the door, it was as if the glass had grown thicker, more obscuring.

“What the hell,” I muttered, fumbling with the key. The lock clicked and the door swung open. Because Rue des Hirondelles was on a hill, the door could only drift so far before it hit the slope of the sidewalk, which it did with a dull clang.

“My God,” Élise said.

We were staring into—absolutely nothing. What lay beyond the threshold was a greyish void, scentless and ice cold. If that wasn’t uncanny enough, the nothingness rippled slightly at the edges, as if testing its bounds. I held out a hand, wanting to see what it felt like, but Élise slapped it down.

“Have you lost your mind?” she demanded. “Don’t touch it!”

“There isn’t any it to touch,” I pointed out.

“Well, then, don’t touch what isn’t there!” she cried, her voice rising in pitch. I stared into the absence for another moment.