Chapter 3 #3
They entered the meeting hall Fernand had named the Cradle because it would be the birthplace of a new revolution.
Elara had helped pick the round table and richly dyed curtains that suffocated all noise in and out.
The bar cart was still stocked, though with more expensive liquors than they used to afford, and there were traces of false hope everywhere: a map of Anespérer covered in strategy marks, a knife buried in the Senate, wads of soms donated to the cause.
On the table was a large white parcel.
Only seven people in the city were permitted to possess anything this shade.
Seven very powerful people.
Dread roiled her belly, but she reminded herself she was here to turn whatever scheme he had for her in her favor. Not his.
“I need a chef,” he said.
Elara smirked. “Tired of eating stale bread like everyone else?”
“Not for me. I’m talking about Objet d’Art.”
“What is it with everyone and this contest?”
“It gives people hope.” He cast his hands through the air, painting the same picture the Counseil des Sept crafted with their obnoxious Lisette Plouffe posters. “Imagine a poor Aspirant from the Restes winning it all.”
“I don’t delude myself with fantasies,” she replied flatly.
“Then think of the reality.” He went to the bar cart and poured two tumblers with an inch of amber liquid.
“You and I both know the contests are a sham. The Favored are hand-selected by Directeurs only because they can give their Société something if they win: a territory to move into, a business connection, anything for them to claim more power. If a Favored were chosen in the Restes, it’d be a bone thrown to starving dogs. ”
He held out a drink.
She took it, cautious of that dangerous, hopeful spark in his eyes.
“What if,” he continued, “we took that bone, sharpened it into a knife, and struck back?”
The parcel loomed larger. “What have you done?”
Fernand brushed the embossed top, fingers dipping into the grooves of the Arts Culinaires crest: a crossed whisk and rolling pin wreathed in herbs.
Whatever waited inside was official. Important. Valuable.
And he’d stolen it.
“What is that?” she practically whispered.
“Your ticket in.”
She should have told him where to shove this ticket and climbed up the stairs to start her job search anew. But there was nowhere else to go, no one else to turn to. And she was deeply, horribly curious.
She winced as he removed the lid, expecting it to explode as some treacherous trap, but nothing happened. It was a normal parcel filled with tissue paper that peeled away like petals to reveal the cleanest chef’s coat she’d ever seen.
It was inlaid with golden thread around the collar and down the front line of buttons. Across the breast pocket shimmered a name she almost recognized.
Elouise Auclair.
Elara stared at the first name, the drink burning against the nerves in her belly.
A blank envelope sat atop it all.
“I present to you,” Fernand declared, “the invitation of the Favored for this year’s Object d’Art. Only twenty in existence, and this one is yours.”
She stared at the shimmering thread, desperate to find a way out, to stop even the first spark of hope before it turned into a rolling boil.
“No,” she protested. “It’s Elouise Auclair’s.”
“Semantics. I figured Elara Rousseau, who should be Professionnelle by now, would never be welcome in the contest, but Elouise Auclair? Well, she’s just a lowly Aspirant with no history. A blank slate, if you will.”
Fernand always painted everything in the simplest shades. I found this key from a friend who swears the owner is away on holiday. Don’t worry. It’ll be just a small detour.
The owner happened to be one of the most powerful Directeurs in Arts Visuels, and they had not been away on holiday.
If the coat was real, it meant he had to be in contact with a Directeur in Arts Culinaires and somehow bribed them to put her name—no, Elouise Auclair’s name onto the list of Favored. No one would do that. And if they had, this was much bigger than anything Elara wanted any part of.
Elara tentatively reached for the envelope. Again, nothing happened. Not even as she unfolded the crisp paper to read the brief inside:
CONGRATULATIONS, ELOUISE AUCLAIR!
You have been chosen as one of the twenty Favored for Objet d’Art. On this week’s end, you will prepare and present a singular dish to the Counseil des Sept, who will determine if you are truly Souverain material.
You will have one hour to create something with spectacular magie, bold flavors, and unique textures.
More than that, your dish should tell a story of who you are and why you’re destined to become Souverain.
If you are lucky, you will be one of the seven finalists chosen to officially enter the Objet d’Art!
All the best,
THE COUNSEIL DES SEPT
“It’s faked,” she said. “I saw the forgery stand out there.”
“Andre is good, but no one can forge a Counseil document.” He brushed a finger across the cursive embroidery. “The threads have been magied to determine the wearer’s identity. If I wanted to take your place, the coat would kill me.”
She glared. “And the name? It’s my mother’s middle name.”
He shrugged. “I hadn’t noticed. Whatever the case, you’ve already turned your back on what she died for. Here’s your chance to leave everything behind. You’re free.”
With a flourish, he removed an envelope from his pocket and held it out.
Inside were two papers. Elouise Auclair’s acceptance into Arts Culinaires, signed by the board of Directeurs, and a birth certificate marked with the Arts Humains stamp.
All of it hummed with authority.
Elouise Auclair was, for all these documents told, real.
“How’d you get these?”
“One of my connections created it as a fail-safe.”
Great. Another connection. “A fail-safe for what?”
“Do you really want to know?”
It was a rare invitation from him. She could take his offer without knowing anything more, but Elara knew better.
Her mother and the previous rebels hadn’t thought of everything when they bombed the Senate.
They hadn’t thought of the Counseil moving their meeting, and they certainly hadn’t thought of their own devastated families when someone claimed vengeance for their failure.
“Why do you need me to enter?” she asked.