Agnes Aubert's Mystical Cat Shelter

It was as dilapidated as the rest of the shelter, and one could only get it so clean before one’s efforts were thwarted by ancient and immovable stains. Anyone could cast a spell, which merely involved speaking a word to release the magic from its vessel, be that a pendant or ring, book or decanter. The spiders glowed gently on the walls and ceilings, and the place smelled as it always did: like a museum, wood polish and old things with a charcoal undercurrent of magic. It was his latest tactic for soliciting affection, as he’d learned at last that hysterical yowls were more likely to earn him a scolding.