Chapter 10
ELARA
The sun crept through an unfamiliar window and onto the rumpled sheets of an unfamiliar bed. Elara bolted upright. This was not her apartment. There was no cracked plaster or stains upon the ceiling. The air didn’t smell somehow stale and moldy all at once.
Because she was in Nikolas Dupont’s spare room, and she was one of the seven Favored in the Objet d’Art.
She flopped back.
This had not been the plan.
But … the silk pillow pressed to her cheek and the quiet morning was almost enough to convince her it was a good one.
Sun filtered through the lace curtains, warming the sage walls decorated in barely visible flowers.
It wasn’t wallpaper. Someone had painstakingly painted each petal in gentle strokes, creating a wall of nature.
Elara got up and pulled aside the curtain, finding high stalks of lavender blooming in the window box. Nature was everywhere, which warred against her previous impressions of Nikolas Dupont. He was Arts Humains. His world was medicines, surgeries, and bones—not flowers and fine materials.
It was thinking of her Patron that pulled her from the warm sheets into last night’s dress and downstairs.
The kitchen is down the hall on the right, Nikolas had told her. I’ll see you there tomorrow.
Except he wasn’t there yet.
Rather than wait, she began opening cupboards. It would’ve been irresponsible of her to not take stock of the tools and ingredients she’d be practicing with. If she just so happened to learn something more about Dupont in the meantime, well, that was a coincidence.
It didn’t take much snooping to realize Nikolas did not ascribe to the belief that the kitchen was the heart of a home.
It was beautiful, sure, with painted tiles and shining pots and pans.
But only the teakettle was burnt from use, and the cupboards held basic staples that she could work with today, but after? They’d need to go shopping.
For ready-to-eat foods, Nikolas had stale bread, cheese, and cured meats. If he ate at home, he did so like a mouse.
Never again. Not while she was here.
Elara dug for an apron that fit, washed her hands, and began her work.
The morning slipped by as she folded dough and butter into pillowy sheets, then cut them into neat triangles for croissants. Pastry wasn’t something she’d had much experience with, as it required tons of butter and an icebox.
Now she could do whatever she liked.
So she shaped and reshaped croissants and turnovers. When the oven was ready, she pulled a batch from the icebox and got started on the next thing—savory tarts. This morning was just as much about proving her worth to Nikolas as it was about practicing.
“Oh,” a voice said from the doorway.
“Good morning!” Elara spun with a tray of flaky croissants. “I hope you don’t mind, but I made some—”
It wasn’t Nikolas.
A tall girl barely older than Elara smiled back at her.
Her dark skin glowed in the morning sunshine, and she radiated joy as brilliant as her honey-colored dress.
She was a Professionnelle in Arts Spectacle.
And oddly familiar, though Elara knew she’d never met anyone as beautiful or elegant before.
The girl leaned upon an intricately formed cane, tipping her pointed nose into the air. “It smells divine.”
“Thank you.” Elara set the tray on the counter. “I didn’t think anyone else would be here.”
“I didn’t know I’d be here until a very persistent boy wouldn’t leave my doorstep last night.” Her eyes settled on the fresh pastries. “May I?”
“Of course.” Elara turned, searching the cupboards for plates. “I’m practicing a new recipe, and I—”
The girl was already sinking into a steaming croissant. Her lithe form melted against the counter, eyes rolled back. “You made these? This morning?” She took another bite, crumbs speckling her beautiful dress. “If the whole Souverain thing doesn’t work out, you can come cook for me anytime.”
Elara laughed. “I’ll hold you to it when I lose.”
“Nonsense. These are better than Boulangerie Pascal!” She went directly to a cupboard and removed a mug for the café Elara had brewed earlier.
“Do you live here?” Elara asked.
“From time to time. Nik keeps a bedroom open for me.” She took a deep sip. “Forgive my manners. Chantal Maran.”
It was the name that made it all click. Elara had seen this girl on posters that had made their way into the Restes, contraband from little thieves longing for a taste of life across the river.
Except in those posters, Chantal had been dressed in a tutu that shimmered like starlight as her likeness swirled upon her toes.
“You’re the Chantal Maran. The city’s prima ballerina.”
“I was. Yes.” She didn’t elaborate, choosing to take another drag of café.
Elara took it as a sign not to pry.
“You said Nikolas keeps a bed open,” she said instead. “It sounds like an inn.”
“An inn for those who might need an escape. Nik was the assistant to our onsite doctor, and he was there when I fell.” She tapped her cane. “And he was there when my parents rejected me for being broken.”
“Oh.” That didn’t sound like the same boy from the carriage.
“Anyway,” Chantal continued, “Nik asked me to help you prepare for the trickier parts of upper-class Anespérerian society.”
“Like how to resist attacking anyone who looks at me like shit stuck to their boots?”
She laughed and shook her head. “Where’s the fun in that? No, I’ll teach you how to redirect the conversation so you can insult them in front of all their friends without them knowing.”
“Perfect.” Elara grinned.
The timer rang on the oven.
“Though Nik told me your performance last night will have you in the spotlight for some time.” Chantal plucked a turnover from Elara’s passing tray.
“I still can’t tell if they loved it or hated it.”
“Tell me about it. I once put them to sleep with a solo. Now, why do you want to become the next Souverain of Arts Culinaires?”
Elara returned to slicing shallots for the tarts. “That won’t be happening.”
“Because you don’t believe it will?”
“Because I don’t want it.”
Chantal was quiet. “Then why in the world are you here?”
Elara arranged the vegetables in even layers: potatoes, onions, and mushrooms. “I want someone to pick me for an apprenticeship so I can become a Directeur and go back to the Restes and open a shop. That’s it.”
Chantal sucked jam from her finger. “You have an opportunity to become one of the most powerful artists in the city, a leader who could dictate new laws for the Restes and all of Arts Culinaires. A woman who could open doors that were previously closed, and all you want is … a bakery?”
It sounded silly when she put it like that. But it was the best she could hope for. It was more than she’d thought possible a week ago.
Besides, she was a baker, not a leader.
“A sensible choice if you ask me,” a new voice called from the doorway.
Again, it was not Nikolas but another beautiful member of Arts Spectacle.
“You were there last night,” she said.
“Indeed I was.” They held out an artfully manicured hand. “Blai Lozano. Costume designer and makeup artist. You may have heard of me?”
Elara had not.
They scoffed. “For a native of a city built on art, you severely lack culture.”
“I’m sorry,” Elara sniped. “I must have confused you for all the other costume designers in the Restes. My bad.”
They sneered and clutched the frills of their yellow robe tighter against their throat as they took in the wretched mess across the counters.
“Are you feeding an army?” they asked.
Chantal strode between them to sit at the table near the window. “Forgive Blai. Vasomarians don’t quite understand how prickly we Anespérerians can be.”
“Were you sent to acquire an apprenticeship?” Elara asked.
Blai grabbed a mug and helped themselves to a pastry. “No. I sent myself.”
People coming from other countries to be trained by one of the famed seven Sociétés was becoming more common by the month.
Anespérer was an isolated city-state, which meant the Counseil and their Directeurs could only claim so much power and money onshore.
Offshore? They could entice new talent, train them, and send them back to their countries to open businesses in the name of their Souverain.
It gave them status and money, which were just as good as power.
“Then why are you both here helping me?” Elara asked.
They glanced at each other before Blai replied, “Chantal will help you survive elite society, and I’ll ensure you look the part.”
She perked up. “A new wardrobe?”
“Among other things.” They pulled a sketch pad from a random shelf and a bit of charcoal from a cluttered drawer and went to work. “Picture this.”
Oh, she could. Blai had been one of the most fashionable guests last night. What would they dream up for her? Lace collars? Tall boots? Embroidered corsets?
Elara leaned forward, eagerly following every swoop and mark.
No angular shoulder pads. No gravity-defying trains. No scandalous breasts clad in gauzy material.
It was her exact dress, except cleaner and with a brown vest.
It was … disgustingly plain.
Blai’s charcoal moved to the top of her head.
“If you so much as add a bonnet, I’ll poison your next meal,” she threatened. “What is this?”
“A costume,” they declared, as if it weren’t obvious. “You’re playing a part. The Exposé was all about the Souverains’ choice. From here on out, you’ll be performing for larger crowds eager for a good story.”
“Win the crowd,” Chantal added, “win the Souverains. Even if you slip up, they’d have to think twice about getting rid of you if the audience loves you.”
“And that means looking like this? Like a fool? This is exactly how they picture people from the Restes looking.”
“Less dingy, I’d say,” Blai shot back.
“More humiliating.”
Blai turned to Chantal. “Help me.”
“I refuse.” Her nose wrinkled as she pushed the drawing aside. “This is wretched.”