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“Not exactly,” he said, looking infuriatingly pleased with himself. He seized my hand and dragged me towards the stairs with an almost boyish enthusiasm.

“Not exactly,” I said with a sigh, though I allowed myself to be dragged. His hand was warm against mine, and more solid than it often felt, and Banshee trotted happily alongside us, as if approving of this turn of events. “It’s the sort of thing you can only be exact about. Either the shop is in one place, or it’s in another.”

He did not enlighten me, only turned to give me one of his mysterious half-smiles, which didn’t fool me for one moment—he was evidently nervous, which only made me more nervous in turn. Halfway up the main staircase to the shelter was when I began to hear it: a melodious cacophony that could only be one thing.

“Birds!” I exclaimed. “Havelock, what have you done?”

But he would make no reply, not even a sarcastic one, and I let go of his hand and hurried into the front room of the shelter ahead of him.

Immediately I let out a shriek as something skimmed past above me—I heard the whir of small wings, and turned to find myself face-to-face with a hummingbird as vivid as a fistful of jewels, who hovered for a moment before darting up into the cavern of the ceiling. There, several dozen perches had sprouted, atop which rested birds of all description, but mainly of a bright-feathered, tropical variety, nothing like what might be found in our northerly latitude. They darted to and fro, squawking and calling to one another, sometimes even descending to the shelter to alight upon a windowsill or piece of furniture.

The shelter cats gazed upwards in awestruck silence, as if receiving a vision from the heavens, while Cataclysm darted back and forth, seeming to believe herself in hot pursuit of any bird who strayed within twenty feet of the ground. Even Thoreau had deemed the event more interesting than his fireside nap, and had hopped up onto the counter to gain the advantage of height, looking more spry than he had in years. Banshee, meanwhile, crouched low to the ground and let out the first sound I had ever heard her emit apart from purrs: an eerie chitter like the mechanical stutter of a sewing machine.

“What do you think?” Havelock said. “I thought they might appreciate some variety in their days, particularly the shelter cats, even if it is only an illusion. Everyone needs a purpose in life, and why should they be any different?”

I couldn’t begin to think of a suitable response. One of the birds passed low over my head, and I ducked again, though I felt no breeze from its wings. There came another burst of song from above, and several yellow and green feathers drifted towards the floor. We might have been standing in some lord’s aviary.

“But,” I began, half laughing as I spoke. I felt eight years old again, all astonished delight at some circus act or clever street performer. “But people will—”

“The enchantment will only take hold at dawn and twilight,” Havelock said. “I took inspiration from the oven. But you can send it away with a word.”

He spoke the incantation. Oro liada is what it sounded like to me, which Havelock deemed “close enough.”

“What will you do with yourself,” Havelock said in a musing tone, gazing at the rows of empty cages, “if you run out of cats to rescue?”

I pretended to think it over. “I might try my hand at taming dark magicians. I understand there’s quite a need for it, and it’s not as if anyone else wants the job.”

“If I meet any, I’ll warn them. They would need a strong tolerance for cat hair and didactic speeches. You wouldn’t want to waste your time with the truly wicked ones, anyway.”

“I don’t think you’re wicked,” I said.

“Only because you don’t think anyone is.”

In fact, my opinion of Havelock’s character was no longer a minority one, at least locally. Since he’d defeated Valérie in the street that snowy day, a wild rumour had spread through the city—not believed by all, but enough that it was difficult to imagine it not travelling to other places. Specifically, that Havelock had not, in fact, been the magician who caused the apocalypse—it had been Valérie, and Havelock had stopped her.

Local pride, it seemed, had something to do with the rumour’s rapid spread. The fact that the world’s most powerful magician had been living in the city for some time, not Paris or New York, as previously supposed—a detail revealed by the Daily Gazette, citing anonymous police sources—was the subject of much chatter. While some were surprised by his choice of residence, they hid it well, expressing instead their astonishment that they had not guessed it before. Given the city’s character, not to mention antiquity—which must, everyone agreed, provide an ideal ambience for the practice of magic—it was likely that many notorious magicians had made it their home in secret, and overall, the revelation was an opportunity for taking stock of the city’s advantages, and the wisdom of those who dwelt there. The fact that Havelock had lived unobtrusively, without bothering anyone in the neighbourhood, was taken as a sign of his respect for the citizenry, and another mark in his favour. In general, there was a great appetite for rumours of the hidden beneficence of Havelock Renard.

“I have something else to show you,” he said.

“But you have given me a gift already,” I protested.

“That’s for them,” he said. “I wondered if you would accept a gift for yourself if I didn’t think of them first, as you are always doing.”

“I didn’t mean the birds—” I couldn’t continue. I had told him about Robin, or at least started to; I could never get out more than a sentence or two before coming apart.

“It’s I who should be thanking you,” I finally finished, gazing at him earnestly.

“For being dragged into my quarrels and nearly killed—yes, I’ve been expecting flowers for days,” he said, looking away with a hint of desperation and pretending not to understand my meaning. Despite my emotion, I felt a laugh rise within me. Havelock seemed to have no more idea of what to do with gratitude than he did with cats.

“Let me show you what I came up with,” he said. “Though you may despise it or deem it morally objectionable in some way, in which case I’ve no doubt you’ll educate me at length.”

He led me towards the stairs—not the ones leading to his workshop, but to the upper floor. I followed as if in a dream, still rather overwhelmed—and, if I’m honest, on the edge of tears from the look of delight on Banshee’s face.

He paused in the hallway and reached for the attic cord. The narrow staircase descended and he took my hand again—this time for balance; the attic stairs were rickety.

I grew nervous, wondering what strange magics he might have stored up here. But I let my breath out when I reached the top.

“It’s still our attic,” I said, suppressing a sneeze as I looked around. I’d only ventured up here once or twice to store extra boxes of cat supplies, and it looked as it had on my last visit: a jumble of boxes, mostly of scarves—the former shop owner had stored her damaged or inferior product up here.