16. Elara
ELARA
There were reminders of last night everywhere: leftover madeleines and custard, dirty mugs in the sink, a delicate silver scar down her forearm. It had all been real and not some brief, lovely dream.
The house looked different this morning now that she knew the story of the lavender outside her window and the leaves painted on her walls.
Elara stood in the gardens, admiring the purple bursting from every window.
It was all an homage to Nikolas’s mother—a woman who made magie in the Restes. That kind of passion and power belonged somewhere it could flourish. Was that why she’d died? She’d been planted in the wrong soil? Was that why Nikolas moved across the river to try and find a home with Lafontaine?
The name held more weight than before.
You need him as much as he needs you.
That couldn’t possibly be true. He was Souverain Baptiste Lafontaine, one of the seven most powerful people in the city. He could do anything.
Except convince the Counseil to relinquish their control and allow fairness into their Sociétés.
“Someone was busy last night.”
Elara whipped around to find Blai staring at her from the kitchen doorway. From their stony expression, they were not teasing.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Elara nudged inside to grab a cookie.
“Then what are these?”
“Breakfast.” She took a bite. “Goes great with custard.”
“I bet they do.”
Elara choked.
“We don’t need distractions.” Blai dipped one into their café and nodded to the counter. “You’ve got a couple of notes there.”
“I am not distracted by anything but your nosiness.”
Except she’d somehow missed the folded letters. Nikolas must’ve left them while she was in the garden. Had he eaten some of their leftovers? Did he regret opening up to her last night? Did he still feel the burn of her skin just as she felt his?
One was the black contest note, and she dreaded opening it.
She picked the plain one first. Her false name had been penned with such painstaking care, the curls and swoops as delicate as if her name had been meant for no other purpose than to be written by—nope.
No. Elara knew better than to let some handsome face carry her sensibilities right out the window.
Besides, the name was proof she wasn’t ready to trust him with her identity, let alone anything else.
Elouise,
I have Arts Humains business to attend to. I will uphold our agreement. Take today to design a few recipes as well as their magie. Have Blai and Chantal help revise until I return tonight. We’ll make a decision then.
Remember, no trampling the Counseil with a herd of wild zebra or whatever it is you plan to do.
Nik
Her eyes warmed on his name. And was that a joke?
Tonight. She clung to the word; it meant Nikolas—Nik—didn’t regret it. If anything, he wanted to meet again.
“Ahem.” Blai’s brow ticked.
“Fine. Fine.” She closed the note and stuffed it in her apron. Then she opened the cursed black envelope.
She read aloud:
ROUND TWO: DESOLATION
“Sounds lovely,” Blai murmured. “Go on.”
After a stunning first round, the Counseil has decided it’s time to peel back the layers to see what you really have to offer.
In six days, you will prepare an unforgettable, classic savory dish …
with a twist. Your final product must not resemble the original recipe.
You must present it in a dish the world has never seen before.
“Interesting,” she murmured. “A dish that is only its components.”
She had to give it to the Counseil. It was inventive and exciting.
She read on.
And your dinner won’t be the only thing deconstructed.
Each of you will face a personal challenge in which you will come face-to-face with your worst demons. Which of you will survive after your truths are laid bare?
The two most undesirable chefs will be let go. Any attempt to cheat will result in your immediate dismissal.
Until then,
THE COUNSEIL DES SEPT
Blai was silent.
She was silent.
As with the first, a timer ticked away at the bottom. Six days, eight hours, twenty-nine minutes.
The time was meaningless. She couldn’t go through with it anyway.
Which of you will survive after your truths are laid bare?
… survive after your truths are laid bare …
… truths are laid bare …
… truths …
“Elouise.” Blai’s voice was laced with concern. “What is it?”
She couldn’t tell them. It would’ve been easier if she thought Nik had chosen Gaetan as a message, but he hadn’t.
He wasn’t foolish enough to endanger their plan.
Not like that. If she said anything, they’d all be in danger.
She had to drop out. Leave before she could see the shock of her treachery on Nik’s face.
“I can’t do this.” She collapsed. “They can’t know anything about me.”
“If I can escape a country that wants to hang me from a parapet, you can navigate whatever you’re running from.”
“Not even you can dress this up.”
“I wasn’t one of the greatest Vasomarian playwrights for nothing. Let me try.”
“Try what?” Chantal appeared in the doorway, and Elara wanted to crawl away to some hovel if it meant sparing her disappointment.
“Elouise needs a cover for the next round.” Blai handed over the envelope.
Even Chantal paled as she read it.
“We’ll face it together,” she said. “Let us help.”
They both stared at her, willing to do whatever it took to make this work. Without blinking, they’d taken her in, laughed with her, and treated her as another one of Nik’s wounded birds. She wasn’t foolish. They both had something to gain from it.
“You’ll hate me,” she whispered.
“Let me be the judge of that,” Chantal shot back.
The ferocity in her eyes was enough to convince Elara that this time might be different.
“My name is Elara Rousseau.”
Chantal’s jaw went tight.
Blai shrugged. “Is that supposed to mean something?”
“Oh no,” Chantal whispered.
“What?” Blai asked.
“I just wanted a fresh start,” Elara whispered.
“I know.” Chantal’s eyes softened. “You took a big risk.”
“Someone explain,” Blai snapped again.
“My mother was a leader during the rebellion.”
Blai blinked at her once. Twice. A third time. Then they laughed and slapped their face with both hands before releasing a long string of Vasomarian that Elara could only suspect would be insulting if she understood it.
“You don’t have to work with me anymore,” she said quickly. “I can run away now, and no one else has to know.”
“Does Nik know?” Chantal asked sharply.
Elara shook her head. “No. He can never know. Please.”
“Of course he can never know!” Blai shouted. “He’s wrapped around the finger of the man your mother tried to kill! The man funding this whole charade.”
“What?”
“What he means,” Chantal said, “is Lafontaine funds Nik, and Nik serves as your Patron. If Lafontaine found out, this would all be ruined.”
Blai rubbed their temples. “What the hell are we going to do?”
“I thought you were the greatest Vasomarian playwright?” Chantal shot back.
“One of the greatest, thank you.”
“There’s nothing we can do,” Elara said. “They’ll figure out who I am, my cover will be blown, and you all will go down with me.”
“You’re not dropping out,” Chantal ordered.
Elara watched the timer tick away.
Six days, eight hours, twenty-six minutes.
“I could bake something to help me lie,” she suggested. “I could eat it beforehand.”
“The second round is historically the worst for exposing contestants and their weaknesses.” Chantal grimaced. “When people started to magie their way out, the Counseil put a stop to it. They’ll know to look for that.”
Elara tossed the envelope down. “Then I’d rather be dismissed than discovered.”
Chantal studied her for a long moment. “What if … you let it happen?”
“What?” Elara and Blai shot back.
“Let them reveal you,” she explained, as if it weren’t a death sentence. “Show them who you really are and why you’re in the contest.”
“Sure. Then we can all hold hands when they drag us to the dungeons,” Blai shot back.
Chantal looked confused. “Her mother blew up the Senate. Why would she be punished?”
Chantal had been through so much it was sometimes hard to forget that she didn’t understand what it was like in the Restes.
“The Counseil won’t care,” Elara explained. “Once they realize who I am, they’ll call for blood. They always do.”
“She’s right,” Blai finally said, their gaze out the window and attention far away. “They say they only want justice, but no punishment is ever enough.”
“It’s why they guard the bridges so heavily. Why they arrest anyone for breathing the wrong way.” Elara slumped in a chair by the window. “Why everyone looks at me like I’m half-feral.”
“You kind of are,” Blai muttered.
“Then what do we do?” Chantal pressed.
There’d never been a situation Elara couldn’t claw herself out of.
With her mother gone and her name ruined, she’d groveled before the board of Directeurs to be allowed into Arts Culinaires.
She’d isolated herself from Fernand and the only family she’d ever known.
Now she’d won the first round of the Objet d’Art all on her own.
It was her mother who plagued her.
Sometimes, she wished she could remove her entirely.
Which gave her an idea.
One she was almost too proud to make. Almost.
She pried open the top buttons of her blouse and pressed the tattoo with her cold fingertips.
“What are you doing?” Blai asked.
“Getting help.”
Fernand.
Nothing.
I know you can hear me.
Still nothing.
Don’t be an ass.
Then heat burst beneath her touch as the flame caught fire. A not-so-gentle thought ricocheted through her head.
What?
At least he’d answered.
étoiles. Two hours.
Silence. Then. Fine.
Elara wished she felt more relieved. She also wished Fernand wasn’t her only option—again. She wished for a lot of things.
But this was the best she could do.
She looked up at Blai. “I’m going to need—”
“I know, I know. A costume.”
“Remind me again why you dragged me here in this heat?” Blai grumbled.
“You volunteered.”
“Ah. A momentary lapse of sanity on my part, then.”