Agnes Aubert's Mystical Cat Shelter

A woman who runs a cat rescue in 1920s Montreal turns to a grouchy but charming wizard to help save the shelter in this heartwarming cozy fantasy from the Agnes Aubert leads a meticulously organized life--and she likes it that way. As the proudly type-A manager of a much-needed cat rescue charity, she has devoted her life to finding forever homes for lost cats.; But after she is forced to move the cat shelter, Agnes learns that her new landlord is using her charity as a front--for an internationally renowned and thoroughly disreputable magic shop. Owned by the Agnes couldn’t care less about the shop--magical intrigue or not, there are cats to be rescued. But when an enemy from Havelock’s past surfaces, the magic shop--and more importantly, the cat shelter--are suddenly in jeopardy. To save the shelter, will Agnes have to set aside her social conscience and protect the man who once tried to bring about the apocalypse--and is now trying to steal her heart?

Autorentext
Heather Fawcett is the New York Times bestselling author of Agnes Aubert’s Mystical Cat Shelter and the Hugo Award–nominated Emily Wilde series, as well as a number of books for children and young adults, including Ember and the Ice Dragons, The Grace of Wild Things, and A Galaxy of Whales. She has a master’s degree in English literature and a bachelor’s in archaeology. She lives on Vancouver Island.

Klappentext

**NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER • A woman who runs a cat rescue in 1920s Montréal turns to a grouchy but charming magician to help save her shelter in this heartwarming cozy fantasy from the New York Times bestselling author of the Emily Wilde series.

“Absolutely magnificent! Full of cats and magic, this is the kind of book you want to instantly reread. I loved every character, every cat, and every moment with all my heart!”—Sarah Beth Durst, New York Times bestselling author of The Spellshop**

Agnes Aubert leads a meticulously organized life, and she likes it that way. As the proudly type-A manager of a cat rescue charity, she has devoted her life to finding forever homes for stray cats.

Now it’s the shelter that needs a new home. And the only landlord who will rent a space to a cat rescue is a mysterious man called Havelock—who also happens to be the world’s most infamous magician, running an illegal magic shop out of his basement. Havelock is cantankerous and eccentric, but not not handsome, and no, Agnes absolutely does not feel anything but disdain for him. After all, rumors swirl about his shadowy past—including whispers that his dark magic once almost brought about the apocalypse.

Then one day a glamorous magician comes looking for Havelock, putting the magic shop—and the cat shelter—in jeopardy. To save the shelter, Agnes will have to team up with the magician who nearly ended the world . . . and may now be trying to steal her heart.

Havelock is everything Agnes thinks she doesn’t need in her life: chaos, mischief, and a little too much adventure. But as she gets to know him, she discovers that he’s more than the dark magician of legend, and that she may be ready for a little intrigue—and romance—in her life. After all, second chances aren’t just for rescue cats. . . .

Leseprobe
Chapter 1

I paused on the threshold of the shop to stamp the frost from my boots. It settled on the sills and cobblestones at night now, a fine white fur, as if winter were a great beast who skulked through the city while we slept, leaving bits of pelt behind. At least the snows hadn’t arrived yet, which was some relief.

I removed my gloves, surreptitiously checking my sleeves for cat hair. The landlord, an older, narrow man, watched me with an expression of gravity disproportionate to the situation.

“It’s a good size,” I said, finally giving up the attempt at honesty. The shop was not as bad as some of the others, but even if it were, I was desperate to find something to compliment. I noticed only a little mould in the corners, and no evidence of mice, though it was perhaps half the square footage claimed by the newspaper advertisement.

M. Levasseur smiled, not quite hiding his relief. “It is that,” he said. “You will not find anything larger in this neighbourhood, mademoiselle, where folks work hard and learn to make do.”

He gave me a pugnacious look, as if readying himself for an argument. I only smiled, feeling a stab of relief—this suggested that I was not the first to enquire about the place. And now that I had seen it, I could guess which side—landlord or tenant—had been rejected.

“Good location for a charity,” he went on. “The Sisters of Salvation have their shop across the square. And Saint-Jean gives free meals almost every day.”

“Oh?” I said nervously, pretending to be surprised. On my walk there, I had passed Saint-Jean, a pretty but worn-looking stone church at least a century old, and the Sisters of Salvation, which provided free clothing to those who could not afford any. I had, in fact, made use of both during especially lean years.

A foghorn sounded, and I heard the rumble of ships being unloaded at the river wharves, smelled the mingled algae and soot. I could not help thinking that an isolated location such as this, tucked in amongst warehouses and far from the bustle of the city, was not ideal for my particular needs.

You’ll make do, a little voice lectured me. It added in its pessimistic way, You’ve been turned down eight times. Stand up straight.

I adjusted my posture and smoothed the tension in my face, aiming to project the confidence of a seasoned businesswoman. It was more difficult after a long day; my back ached, and on the whole I would have preferred to be at home in a hot bath.

“Why are you moving?” M. Levasseur said bluntly, as if already anticipating an unfavourable reply. He struck me as a frowning sort of man, with the perpetually lowered eyebrows of one who makes a study of disapproval, but nevertheless he seemed to be warming to my presence, and especially to my approval of his property, those abundant eyebrows levitating higher on his pale face.

“I was renting a shop on Rue Sainte-Roseline,” I said simply.

“On—” His expression changed. “You weren’t there? Where it happened?”

I did not want to discuss this. And yet I very much wanted him to feel sorry for me, so I made myself say, “You read about it in the papers, then?”

“Of course. They said a dozen shops were blasted.”

“Yes—I’m afraid mine was among the hardest hit. It is, at present, barely habitable. My landlord, Mme. Richard, will verify the particulars.”

I opened my folder and removed a piece of paper. On it were a half-dozen references, their names and addresses neatly typed.

“I know her—a good woman.” His face, I realized, had reddened a little on my behalf. “Goddamn magicians! Duelling in broad daylight, in the middle of a street full of decent, hardworking folk. But isn’t it just like them?”

“Indeed,” I said, my throat tightening. “So you understand my haste to move.”

“Goddamn magicians!” he said again. Abruptly, he seized my hand and pressed it. “You have my condolences.”

Embarrassingly, his concern brought tears to my eyes; I cry as easily as I blush—namely, at the drop of a hat. At the same time, I felt the uncoiling of a familiar resentment, which had long been apt to emerge at the mention of magicians. I didn’t like this side of myself, and endeavoured to push the…