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Havelock shrugged. “He hasn’t been practicing magic long, thus the change is less visible in him.” He added in a mutter, sweeping his gaze around the shop, “We can put the scarves away, and I’ve a spell that can disguise the oven. That’s only a minor charm; I’ve plenty of them. But that still leaves…”

“A disguise,” I murmured. An idea had crept unpleasantly into my thoughts. I say unpleasantly, because I had just then been wondering if it might not be easiest to simply turn Havelock in when Laurent returned. I could plead ignorance regarding the magic shop and its owner’s identity.

But would Laurent believe me? I had no idea. How plausible was it that I’d had no inkling my shelter was being used to hide such an unsavoury operation? And even if Laurent believed me, what would happen to the shelter if Havelock’s shop was shut down?

I already knew what would happen. Winter was here, and we had nowhere else to go. Like it or not, I was stuck with Havelock Renard—absurdly, horribly—at least until Élise and I could work out what to do about the situation.

Grimly, I said, “I have an idea.”

When the knock came again, I was ready. We’d finished ten minutes before—Havelock had been right in his estimate, and the police had returned after barely an hour. I’d spent the time pacing so energetically I half expected to see a groove in the floor.

Havelock, for his part, had changed into strange but expensive-looking clothes, which had the same air of the theatrical as his cloak: dark slacks and an oversized sweater made from a fabric I didn’t recognize, as well as pointed leather boots. Then he seated himself moodily on the counter as we waited, one leg drawn up, looking the very image of the volatile Witch King of his reputation. He seemed to veer back and forth between a kind of social awkwardness, imperfectly concealed by sarcastic commentary, and a cold, unnerving confidence. This was almost worse than the abeyant danger of his magic, as it made me nervous and off-balance, unsure which aspect of his personality my questions would be met with. I was remembering to be afraid of him again, and I both avoided his gaze and felt my attention irresistibly drawn to him, as a prey animal would eye a predator. I hated it.

He’d unleashed some sort of orb that reminded me a little of the one Valérie had used, though his was larger, with the suggestion of wings. He opened his hand to send it darting from one end of the shop to another, or crooked a finger to make it turn lazy spirals over the floor. His Majesty had regarded it with wary disdain, but Banshee—who had emerged from her hiding place upstairs—had naturally made several ill-advised attempts at catching it, yowling silently at me whenever I stopped her.

“Well?” I said, straightening my skirt. “Are you not going to hide yourself? It would defeat our efforts to have you sitting there, glowering. You might as well have wicked magician tattooed on your forehead.”

He removed a coin from his pocket. “Let them in.”

“Fine,” I said, too fed up with him to argue. I was still sweating, and I had several new scratches on the backs of my hands. If he wanted to sit there and watch himself get arrested, let him.

I plastered a smile on my face and unlocked the door. “We’re not open till nine,” I began, blinking against the light of the bustling street. “But if you—oh! Detective Rouzet.”

“Agnes?” He goggled at me. His face was red from the cold, almost a match for his hair, and he wore a plaid scarf over his wool coat. Beside him was another officer, this one in uniform, a woman with a severe look and intimidatingly broad shoulders. Their breath rose around them in clouds, and a dusting of snow clung to their coats, though the sun was beginning to break through the storm.

“Is everything all right?” I said, not bothering to hide my worry.

“I—that’s what we’re trying to determine,” he said. “The neighbours reported an explosion.”

I wasn’t sure I’d describe the colossal squelching sound as an explosion, but what else could you call it? I nodded, thinking desperately of Élise. How would she manage this? No doubt she’d have a tidy lie already on the tip of her tongue.

“Yes,” I agreed, and my tone was so natural it surprised me. “In the alley behind the shop, it sounded like. I assumed some kids got hold of a firecracker from the stores for the winter festival.”

Laurent made no reply, only kept blinking at me, but his companion said brusquely, “Do you mind?” and motioned to the shop.

“Not at all.” I stepped aside for them. They stamped their boots free of snow on the landing and looked about them. I gave a little start, for Havelock had vanished like—well, a magician.

“Nice place,” the other officer said, giving me a gruff smile. “Been here long?”

“First day,” I said, returning the smile. I pictured Élise, her easy confidence, which somehow seemed to increase whenever she launched into one of her elaborate fabrications. “Our main branch is on Rue des Hirondelles. We’ve been doing so well that we decided to open a second location.”

Some of the confusion left Laurent’s face, replaced by skepticism. “A second location? You’ve enough demand for two cat shelters?”

“We hope to open a third within a year or two,” I said breezily—I was beginning to enjoy myself. I had always fantasized about expanding the charity, and even if I knew it wasn’t real, I couldn’t help but lean into the act. “We’re planning to use this one for the more difficult cases, and for veterinary appointments, given the space—checkups, treatments, spaying and neutering, that sort of thing. Rue des Hirondelles will remain our primary location. But we’ll offer adoption services at both branches.”

“And what will your neighbours think about that?” the second officer said, looking amused for some reason. I wondered where on earth we were—Rue Sainte-Sophie was several miles long, bisecting the business district and several eclectic immigrant neighbourhoods.

“We’ve not yet introduced ourselves,” I said with a regretful shake of my head. “It’s been a busy time. We’ve had to do most of the moving-in at night, after we close the other shelter.”

Laurent was staring at the cat cages, which now lined the rear wall, blocking access to the invisible oven—it was still there, for Havelock had merely created the illusion of solid brickwork, and I had even put my hand in it, to watch my arm disappear into the wall. I’d opened the windows to dissipate the infernal bakery aroma. Apple and cinnamon this time.

“Is that Lynx?” Laurent said.

“Hmm?” I affected confusion while my heart gave a nervous skitter.

Laurent paced to the back of the shop and peered through the bars of the third cage from the left. We’d rearranged the cats within them, as well as the cages, and had moved three of the orphaned kittens into the cage with Clowder and her remaining brood to give the illusion of a different litter. The poor calico—now enchanted to look like a tortoiseshell—sat glaring at me, none too pleased to have her charges expanded in number. One of her foster children was teething on her tail.

“I thought—” Laurent’s voice trailed off. He gazed past the bars at the grey cat peering back at him, who stuck her paw through, slashing it in his direction. “This one looks a great deal like Lynx.”