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“I will never again complain of the uncanniness of your cats,” he said, his voice hoarse from the smoke. “For they are only taking after their minder.”

“Havelock!” I cried.

“Yes, yes.” He lifted the lantern almost reverently and stood, then murmured the spell to unleash the magic. Somehow, his quiet words cut through the chaos and noise like the reverberation of a gong.

A wave erupted from the lantern. At least, that is the closest I can come to describing it. It was cold, but pleasantly so, and had the soft, spongey texture of wool. It was as dark and glimmering as the ocean under a sky of stars. It washed over the workshop and then withdrew, and as it did, it carried things away with it: the lion, wisps of flame shaped into beads of light, the outlines of the glowing spiders, though not the spiders themselves. I did not understand it all, for what I glimpsed was exceedingly strange—I also saw windows to other places, landscapes of looming mountains and coppery desert, as well as the ghostly outlines of people, dancing or talking or weeping, as if they’d been cast there by a film projector. All swept away by the enchantment like a tide retreating with a miscellany of small treasures, shells, and driftwood. And while it was strange, it was also impossibly beautiful. Havelock stood at the centre, the lantern light against his face, his hand slightly extended and his brow furrowed as he guided the magic he had unleashed.

When the wave finally receded back into the lantern, all of it fitting neatly inside the tiny dimensions, I drew in a gasping breath, but the feeling of being plunged into cold water was already fading, leaving only gooseflesh behind. Valérie lay at Havelock’s feet, her eyes closed and her face turned to one side, like a sailor washed ashore after a shipwreck. She breathed but she also seemed strangely grey, as if the colour had been drawn out of her.

“There,” Havelock said quietly. He added, “I’m sorry, Ri.”

I didn’t know what he was apologizing for, because I did not fully comprehend what the spell had done. All I knew was that the fighting had stopped and Valérie was defeated. Just as important, the place no longer seemed to be on fire. The shop gave a groan, followed by a deafening grinding noise, and then it seemed to settle into an equilibrium, emitting only occasional creaks like exasperated grunts. Perhaps these events had not been the strangest it had endured in its long lifespan.

Havelock didn’t go to Valérie, though. He set the lantern down upon his worktable—it continued to glow gently, seemingly unchanged from before—and came to my side, pulling me firmly if a little stiffly into his arms, as if he weren’t entirely clear on the mechanics. He could not have known why I was crying, and so hard that my body shook, or possibly he’d guessed, but he held me without speaking. We sat there in the sudden dark of his shop—the spiderlight had gone out—until concern for Élise, as well as the outraged yowling of the cats, forced me to my feet with the tears still wet on my face, and back up into the light of the shelter.

“How long do you think we’ll have?” Yannick said, folding his arms and squinting nervously at the door, through which the winter light filtered wanly.

“I don’t know.” I was pacing by the cat cages and made myself stop. “I’m amazed the police have waited this long. Even with the distraction of Valérie’s apprentices.”

I’d slept little the previous night. Havelock and I had been awake until the small hours of the morning, putting the shelter back in order—him with enchantment, I with a mop, broom, and conciliatory rations of cat food. Despite the late hour, several neighbours had visited, including Rémy, unsurprisingly concerned by the peculiar noises that had shaken the shelter. From them I learned that the police were occupied on the other side of town, chasing magicians as they dashed from street to street, lighting fires and setting off minor explosions. Eventually, Yannick had arrived and confirmed our suspicions: before coming to the shelter, Valérie had ordered several dozen of her apprentices to draw the police’s attention, so that she could make her final assault upon Havelock’s lair without petty interruptions from the law.

Someone knocked at the door and we all jumped. We stood motionless, eyeing it nervously, but the knock wasn’t repeated.

Yannick scrubbed a hand over his face. “I wish we knew where Valérie went,” he said.

“She takes after His Majesty, it seems,” I said drily. After Havelock had cast Vortigern’s enchantment, we’d been required to turn our attention to the shop, ensuring all the fires had been put out and the foundations were secure and in no danger of crumbling from the sheer volume of magic unleashed within the building’s walls. Amidst the chaos, Valérie had slipped away with two of her apprentices, perhaps using the same escape route as His Majesty.

“It doesn’t matter,” Havelock said. He was frowning at nothing in particular, his gaze abstracted. “She isn’t a danger anymore.”

“We’re not certain of that,” Yannick said. “I like certainty where your sister is concerned. I would prefer not to be magically blasted into unconsciousness again. I still have a headache.”

Havelock had examined Valérie’s apprentices, those she had left behind like spent matches, sprawled unconscious on the floor of Havelock’s workshop. They were no longer magicians. Or, at least, they no longer possessed the innate power to reach the Rivenwood. Their gift had been drawn out of them by the lantern, just as it had pulled the magic out of every Artefact and spider on the first floor. Not even Havelock understood how Vortigern had woven it—he kept declaring, in increasingly plaintive tones, that such a thing should be impossible—but even I could see that it was true. The apprentices now lacked the characteristic look of a magician—when one held a light to them, it played over their features in a way that was utterly ordinary, not seeking to avoid touching them. Havelock eventually sent them away, either by magic or by simply dragging them outside and leaving them on a park bench; I didn’t see, as I had been too occupied with Élise and the cats.

“That headache is your own fault,” Havelock said. “Do you think I gave you that ring with the shield enchantment as a token of my regard? Come here.”

Yannick, who had been rubbing his temples, gave a sigh of relief. When he reached Havelock’s side, Havelock removed one of his earrings and placed his fingertips against Yannick’s head with surprising tenderness and murmured a spell. Yannick’s expression was one of relief.

“There,” Havelock said. “And the next time one of my enemies tries to fight you, run the other way. You’re too new to magic to win any duels.”

“No, I’m just too used to duelling you,” Yannick said, regarding him with exasperation. “You always let me win.”

“Shouldn’t you stay below?” I said to Havelock. He was perched on the counter again, looking as conspicuous as ever. Havelock’s presence had always been like a shout in a quiet room, but now, in addition to his usual otherworldly attire and the shadows he carried everywhere, he flickered slightly when he moved, like firelight, as if he’d absorbed some of the magic from the lantern. I kept worrying he would set something on fire.

He shrugged moodily. “I’m not going to let you get arrested.”

“What does that mean?” Yannick said nervously. “I thought we were trying to avoid entanglements with the police.”

“It seems a bit late to worry about that,” I said. “What are you planning?” I didn’t want Havelock harming anyone, not even Laurent—whom I was no longer angry with, as he had only been doing his job, as I’d told Élise the previous night. (Élise had expressed her disagreement in colourful terms.)

Havelock scrubbed his hands through his hair and scowled at both of us. “Everyone always expects me to have plans and plots,” he said. “All I’ve ever wanted is to be left alone with my experiments.”

Thoreau hopped up beside Havelock, making him start. “What does this one want?” he said, then looked astonished as the old cat unceremoniously laid himself down upon Havelock’s lap, as if it were his usual habit at that time of the morning.

“Is this supposed to be part of the charm?” Havelock said. “Being treated like a piece of furniture?”

“It is,” I said, trying to suppress my amusement. “You’re lucky Banshee has never grasped the concept of jealousy.”

Banshee, indeed, was lying on her side against the counter, having followed Havelock there, absorbed in bathing herself, and would only look up if Havelock shifted position, as if having made a resolution to shadow his every move.