Chapter 13
ELARA
“Gaetan?”
He wasn’t supposed to be here. No one from her past was ever supposed to be in her life again, yet here he was in the freshest-looking Professionnelle uniform she’d ever seen on him. And his eyes, aside from a little redness, were entirely clear. And he smelled … clean.
“What are you doing here?” she whispered.
“I heard you needed help.”
“From who?”
“Curly-headed chef from Le C?ur. Said his name was Escoffier. At first, he said he was wanting to hire you, then he said he was your Patron. Well, Elouise Auclair’s Patron.”
There were only a handful of Professionnelle bakers in the Restes. Had Nikolas accidentally selected Gaetan, unaware of their connection?
Elara found Nik watching her over a glass of wine. His frosty eyes gave nothing away.
Gaetan was a staple of the Restes, a man people looked to for comfort and stability. Perhaps that was part of Nikolas’s plan, too. He wanted the Restes to rise, and what better way to prove that than having someone like Gaetan rise with them?
“Does he … Did you…”
Someone would hear. Either the contestants or the Counseil. She couldn’t trust that they wouldn’t have eyes and ears everywhere.
Gaetan touched her shoulder, leaning in to make them look as if they were having a moment like all the other chefs. Maybe they were. It seemed unlikely considering she’d almost burned down his bakery the last time she’d seen him.
“Restes stick together.”
Her lip wobbled, but she nodded.
“Thank you.”
This had to be a horrible coincidence.
Still, Gaetan Arnaud didn’t have the luxury of a name change.
He might’ve walked away from the rebellion before the bombing, but he’d been an accomplice until the week before.
The Counseil wouldn’t have mercy on him if they figured out his past. And if they did?
It’d be a quick trip to discovering her own.
They’d both be thrown in prison … Or worse.
Gaetan slapped the table. “Let’s get to it!”
Elara took out her recipe book. “You quit drinking.”
“I was reminded there are reasons to be sober. Let’s win this.”
He was too chipper. Too eager to dance to the Counseil’s tune.
“Gaetan … What did they tell you? About winning and losing today?”
“I rank up if you win first place today.”
A ringing echoed in her ears.
“And if I lose?”
He grimaced. “Don’t worry about it.”
“And if I lose?” she pressed.
“I lose my position.”
The ringing grew until the world tilted.
Gaetan would get everything he’d ever wanted if she defied Nikolas and won.
No more piled-up bills, no more scraping by.
He would own Gaetan’s Boulangerie in more than just name.
He would become a real baker and not some puppet on the end of a Directeur’s string.
“What if I place in the middle?” she whispered.
“I stay where I’m at.”
Fourth or fifth place, then. She had no other choice. She wondered, then, if perhaps it wasn’t a coincidence Gaetan was here—if Nik knew who he was to Elara. Was this all a ruse to manipulate her into placing lower in the contest?
Not like she had a chance of beating Anespérer’s greatest chefs and bakers. Mama’s recipes were good, but they could only carry her so far. Fernand had been right. There was no hope of winning.
Souverain Faucher’s voice carried across the garden.
“In five minutes, we’ll begin. Chefs, you’ll find an overabundance of staple items at your stations.
Flour, eggs, salt, sugar. But here”—she motioned to a table placed near the dais at the center of the labyrinth—“you’ll find a limited amount of rare, powerful ingredients. ”
A servant removed the cover, revealing a few jars and baskets with spices and produce. She recognized only a handful of ingredients; among them she singled out glace mint and blister bark, perfect for the dull magie Nik wanted her to perform.
“You will have five minutes to discuss which two ingredients you will work with.” The vines atop the crest of the dais shifted, revealing a clock. “After, your assistants will rush forward to claim your ingredients. Begin.”
The rest of the chefs started immediately, chattering and brainstorming together like old friends.
“What are we choosing, Ellie?” Gaetan asked. “I see some ripe—”
“We’ll make ?les flottantes,” she said flatly, flipping to a page in her recipe book with little floating islands of meringue on lakes of custard. “The meringue will be made with glace mint and the custard warmed by blister bark.”
Gaetan snorted. “The last time I made ?les flottantes, I was your age. It’s outdated.”
“It’s classic.”
“It’s old.” He tapped the book. “Your mother was damn good, but—”
“Say another word about her, and I’ll forfeit,” she hissed, glaring up at the dais, where the Souverains were blissfully ignorant.
A terse, quiet moment passed between them before Gaetan spoke again.
“Reconsider this dessert. Illusionary magie is an amateur’s game. You’ve been doing that since you were ten! What happened to the girl so desperate to prove herself?”
She’d been crushed by this week. Broken by every rule, social stigma, or harsh reality doled out by the Counseil and their upper elite. She also wanted to keep Gaetan out of the Counseil’s targets.
“TIME!” Faucher shouted.
The other contestants readied their partners to run.
“You have two hours to create something truly spectacular.”
The air went still.
No breeze.
“GO!”
Gaetan offered one last look before he took off, barreling forward, broad shoulders blocking anyone who tried to duck around him. However, he wasn’t ready for the assistants to descend upon the table like dogs to scraps. They scratched, punched, and bit until their coats were splattered with blood.
Elara’s jaw dropped. Fiona took her hand in a tight grip.
“It’s barbaric,” she whispered.
Gaetan disappeared under a heap of bodies. Elara tried to move forward, but Fiona pulled her back, shaking her head. The assistants were meant for this job. Not them.
By the time Gaetan returned, one eye was beginning to swell, and he had scratches all along his arms and face.
And he had only one ingredient. A small basket of nuts she didn’t recognize.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
“A little dustup. That’s all.” He frowned at the basket. “I couldn’t get two.”
But they needed two if they wanted to fit the brief.
“What are these?”
“Calmante seed. They’re damn near impossible to open, but they heighten the senses. Not enough to taste colors or anything, but they’re a bit of a trip.”
Great. The last thing she needed was to drug the Counseil.
“Where did the rest of the ingredients go?” she asked.
From the piled-up tables down the line, the answer was clear. Several chefs had three or four ingredients to choose from while Berina had half the fucking table scattered on her station, her assistant standing guard to keep everyone else away.
“Hey!” Elara snarled. “What the hell is your problem?”
“Some of us want to win.” She didn’t even look away as she measured flour into a bowl. “Clearly, I’m not the only one.”
Only Fiona had the two allotted ingredients.
“Restes,” the curly-haired chef called.
Elara looked up in time to catch a gnarled root of some sort.
“Some of us want a fair fight.” He glanced at Berina before going back to his work.
No one looked up again.
Elara studied the ugly vegetable. It would have to do, because she refused to slit someone’s throat over produce.
“What’s this?” She held up the root.
“Never seen it before,” Gaetan muttered.
Then there was only one way to find out. She sliced a tiny hunk, popped it into her mouth, and chewed.
Her Anespérerian palate was not ready for the fire that scorched across her tongue.
Fire was a mild way of putting it. It felt like she’d chewed on a pincushion with a thousand needles prickling her tongue and cheeks.
She leaned over the counter, waiting for it to subside.
It never did. Even after spitting it onto the gravel, she felt dizzy from pain.
“Easy, kid.” Gaetan was there with a towel at her mouth. “You’re bleeding.”
Sure enough, it was blotted in red.
“What the hell is that thing?” she muttered.
“No idea, but we can’t use it.”
“We have to,” Elara argued. It had to be up there for a reason. “Let me try again.”
This time, she sautéed a piece until it was tender and the edges crisp. The pain was just as bad as before, but something had changed. Beneath the sick roiling in her belly and the blisters blossoming across her tongue, something called to her.
A whispered promise.
She retched onto the gravel before she could latch on to the idea.
“Here.” Fiona knelt beside her, holding a mint-green liquid. “It’s scorpion root, and the burning won’t stop until you find a way to cool it.”
Elara took the glass with a whispered thanks and threw the liquid back.
As promised, it rushed like ice over the swollen contours of her mouth. She imagined steam coming from her ears and wondered if they could all hear the telltale hiss of ice in a pan. Eyes closed, she let the sensation take over.
Frost spread down, down, down into her belly and farther to her legs and her toes. It caused every nerve in her body to dance and spark like starlight in the winter sky.
“Better?” Fiona’s voice came from far away.
Elara giggled. “Perfect.”
The garden and the chefs came back to her, and they were dancing. They moved to a beautiful rhythm as they twisted around each other, dropping ingredients into pots and cutting with a beat Elara tried to mimic with her fingers on the table. One, two. One, two. One, two, two.
When Berina scowled over at her, the crispness of winter fell away. Berina was angry. All the chefs were. Dark circles cupped their eyes, and they snarled at her with fanged teeth.
Elara wrenched away only to face six fearsome gargoyles upon the dais. Their sharp wings spread as blood dripped from their talons. Their victims lay at their feet. Elara recognized all of them.
When she saw her mother in the last gargoyle’s mouth, she screamed.
“Elouise!”
She scrambled toward her, but someone caught her middle.
“Elouise!”