Chapter 26
I spent the next morning determinedly trying to erase the memory of what I had done, not at all successfully.
The fact that I had survived a kiss with the Witch King—which, in all honesty, I had wondered about, as Havelock often seemed to be more magic than man—did not mean it had been wise to throw myself at him.
To this end, after finishing the morning checklist, I pulled on my coat and scarf and took the tram to the Rue Sainte-Sophie shelter, leaving élise in charge of Rue des Hirondelles.
When I arrived at the bank, I found several people milling about outside the shelter, the reason for which was soon apparent: the door was locked, the sign turned to Fermé.
I had a key, of course, and let myself in, whereupon I was immediately accosted by Mina.
“We had to close,” Mina said before I could open my mouth, shoving the door shut behind me as if the polite crowd outside might try to force their way in. She looked more frazzled than I’d ever seen her, her pale hair falling over her shoulders, half out of its braid.
“Mina, what—” I stopped and stared at the shelter.
It was empty.
“I told you we would run out!” Mina said, waving her hand.
I moved forward as if in a dream. I looked into each empty cage as if I might find a cat there, perhaps hiding under the water dish. But Mina was right. Every cat was gone. Several of the doors hung ajar, which gave the impression of some ailurophiliac bandit having made off with them in a hurry.
“I’ve sent a telegram to the shelter in Longueuil,” Mina said, “to see if they can send us a few of their cats.”
I nodded. I knew the man who ran the charity there. “Pierre will be happy to help. But I still don’t understand how this happened.”
“Here,” she said, and shoved a newspaper into my hand. It was the Daily Gazette. For a moment I could only blink at the English words, my brain refusing to translate them. Then—
“What the hell,” I muttered.
“Mystical” cat shelter under police investigation, the headline blared. Under this was the lede: Beloved charity believed to be trafficking in enchanted cats: source.
“What the hell” was all I could say, again.
“The reporter is quite sympathetic,” Mina said.
“He interviews a half dozen of our clients, who all have similar claims: their cat cured their arthritis, or their back pain, or made them unaccountably lucky. So you can understand this.” She gestured at the people outside, two of whom—both children—were peering through the glass, hands cupped around their eyes.
“Every cat was spoken for within twenty minutes of opening. Don’t worry,” she added, seeing my look.
“I was careful. I checked every application. They all went to good homes, as far as I could tell.”
I skimmed the article. It was as Mina had said; though the story was framed as a dispassionate report, it was clear the journalist saw us as a positive paragon of a charity, while the police were implied to be overzealous pedants, and heartless to boot, in making an enemy of our humble organization, particularly given the weightier problems afflicting the city.
“This is Roger Fairwood’s work,” I said. “It has to be. He wants the public on our side if the police try to shut us down.”
“Are they investigating us?” Mina said.
“I don’t think so,” I said honestly. “Not seriously, at any rate. Laurent has been poking around, yes—Fairwood saw him here the other day. Perhaps he wanted to scare the police off by planting a sympathetic story.”
“I suppose it’s good,” Mina said dubiously. “Having such a powerful ally.”
This was hard to argue with, as I gazed around the empty shelter.
After all, was this not exactly what I’d hoped would happen when I’d asked Havelock to enchant those cats, even if I had not foreseen the rumours being so efficacious, or spreading quite so quickly?
And yet I felt terribly out of my depth in the face of this sort of publicity—Les Amis des Chats had never even been mentioned in the papers before.
“What’s the situation at the other shelter?” Mina said. “Do you have any cats left?”
“The other shelter,” I repeated. I’d left just before élise opened for the day, and it had taken me some time to reach Rue Sainte-Sophie—my tram had been late, then broken down, leaving me to wade through the fresh snow.
I’d left élise alone, with no idea of the stampede that was about to ensue, and no backup.
Without another word, I dropped the newspaper and dashed out the door.