Chapter 22
ELARA
Elara didn’t remember crawling into the corner.
In fact, she hadn’t been aware of a lot of things while her mother’s ghost berated her for being a coward and a wretched daughter.
For being a traitor to her only family and the place she called home.
Elara hadn’t heard the fallout in the audience, nor had she seen when Lafontaine and Nik left the Counseil box.
She buried her head, awaiting the police who would come and drag her away just as they had Colin. At least she wouldn’t have to see Nik’s disappointment up close.
The clock ticked above the Counseil, who glowered down at her amid a small army of guards that had doubled during Elara’s panic. She heard boots all around her, thundering through the maze only to stop somewhere close.
Why?
Because she was entertainment. They wanted to play with their food first.
Chantal had tried to warn her.
Nik too, in his own way.
Elara hadn’t listened.
Worthless.
Coward.
Selfish.
She refused to play anymore. Burning the tattoo had been her only chance at even a sliver of hope for success, and it had failed miserably.
“I quit.”
The crowd jeered. A cup of wine shattered against the glass mirror. The puddle of red pooled just above her head.
The Counseil didn’t move. Even as Lafontaine joined them again, Nik still absent.
“Do you hear me?” she asked louder. “I—”
A shadow loomed in the mirror, and she covered her head.
“I’m done. Please. Don’t do this.”
“I didn’t take you for a quitter,” the figure said.
Elara’s head snapped up. She knew that silhouette all too well—the curl of hair at the neck, one hand dipped in the pocket of a sharp suit, a slight arrogant tilt to his chin.
“I can’t do this anymore,” she said.
“Yes, you can.” Nik’s voice was stern but not unkind. His shadow crouched beside her. “You’re stronger than that.”
She glanced up at the clock. Less than two hours to go.
“I’m already too far behind.”
“Someone once told me it’s never too late to try again.”
She pressed her cheek against the gold glass, wishing for his warmth instead.
He froze in a way she would’ve teased the real Nik for. Then, slowly, he reached out as if he could touch her cheek and brush the tears from her lashes. As if he actually wanted to despite her betrayal.
As she nuzzled toward his palm, she caught sight of the other mirrors: blank. Nik wasn’t duplicated around the room. He only appeared in the one, his body an outline rather than a full apparition, which meant …
“Nik?” she whispered.
“Get up,” he ordered. “Finish strong, and don’t let them win.”
He was gone, leaving Elara to stare at her own reflection. Her makeup was ruined, her hair a frizzy mess, and her skin pale. She’d never allowed herself to look so … broken. Not even in the days after Mama’s murder.
It took every ounce of strength she had to claw her way back to the station and stand. She wrapped a rag around her burnt hand, hissing as the coarse fabric chafed the open layers of skin and muscle.
There was no time to fuss over it.
She needed to improvise.
Everything felt clumsy at first, but her body and mind eventually synchronized. The tart crust was rough, but it would do. The vegetables might be a bit irregular, but they’d soften and taste just fine.
The truth was out, and the weight of carrying that secret over the last few weeks vanished as she worked. The crowd disappeared, their hushed insults silenced.
Whether she liked it or not, there was no going back to Elouise Auclair. But that didn’t mean everything she’d done until this point was wasted.
Elara was a Rousseau, but she was not her mother. Elara had been a child. Her mother had made the mistake, and she’d more than paid for it—with her life and the destruction of her good name.
Elara would prove it to them.
If this were to be her final meal, she’d make it the best yet.
She doubled her pace to catch up. The sauce thickened as the vegetables roasted. An herb-infused pie crust came together, the perfect vessel of flavor. In minutes, her station was a riot of colors and smells, and she didn’t look up once.
All that was left was the magie.
As much as it hurt, she closed her eyes and forced herself to think of home.
Not just her cramped Arts Culinaires tenement, but the broken apartment her mother had rented on the south end.
Where her mother had pulled herself from ruin as a Reste with no Société to become one of the most celebrated people in the quarter.
All while raising a baby alone because the father had been a tourist, someone here and then gone.
Everything her mother did had been on her own.
Until she met others like herself. People who were trying for a better life.
Long ago, the Counseil had deemed the poor as Restes: leftovers. They were scraps to be thrown away.
Except a Reste knew the best part of a stew was the end, the bit you could cook down into a thickened mixture and wrap in flaky crust for tomorrow’s meal.
Nothing went to waste because survival depended upon it.
A Reste understood the value of simple ingredients. Of each other.
With a clear heart, she added oil, salt, and herbs to the saucepan and let her mind drift to the magie that would make this truly special.
She added the warmth of her mother’s smile, followed by a pinch of those passionate rallies behind closed doors. Fists thrown in the air. Elara’s first crusty baguette.
A Senate on fire.
“TIME!”
Elara set her finished meal to the side and slumped against the counter. The mirrors were empty, and she was alone in a crowded arena that was now eerily silent. Eager faces peered over the ledges, and in their eyes, she saw what Nik had promised: a hunger to see her fall.
The Counseil visited her station last. This time, they were surrounded by a dozen guards. Two shuffled Elara away from the station, making her well aware they wouldn’t hesitate to end her if she so much as flinched.
“This is ridiculous!” Gabriel waved a silver-gloved hand at the guards. “Take her away.”
“You do not make the decisions for the rest of us!” Faucher snapped. “Back away from her this instant.”
“She is a war criminal!” Cormier cried.
“Her mother was,” Tremblay added. “What would become of this city if we were to arrest everyone based on their lineage?”
“We’d be more civilized,” Gabriel snarled.
Elara felt the hair rise on her neck, but she remained rooted to the spot.
It was Faucher and Tremblay who stepped toward her station first. They both considered the food Elara had prepared.
“We allowed you to finish cooking because we believe in a full performance,” Faucher said. “And perform you did.”
“While lying about your identity is clearly a violation of the Objet d’Art,” Tremblay added, meeting Elara’s gaze with more kindness than she expected, “it is understandable in this circumstance.”
The crowd whispered feverishly, but Elara stared ahead, unable to believe she wasn’t being carted away already.
Faucher continued, “The Restes has long been neglected, and we cannot let one incident in history allow us to bite the hand that feeds.”
The crowd hated that.
It was Lafontaine who addressed her next, his face full of rage. “We are currently looking into your background to determine if you yourself were or are privy to illegal activities.”
“I’m not,” she managed to say.
“If that is true, you will be permitted to continue. If you are worthy of it.”
They stepped back into a line, six Souverains surrounded by a dozen guards.
Elara cautiously stepped forward. “I present Une Ville Divisée.”
Cormier rolled his eyes. “A Divided City. How precious.”
“Let her speak,” Perrault warned this time.
Elara nodded gratefully.
Upon her station there were three creations: seven spun-sugar spheres filled with smoke, a massive savory tart, and a smaller circular tart no bigger than her palm. Elara took one of the spheres from her table.
“Inside,” she said, turning it so the smoke caught the light, “is the power to remind you of what you truly desire. One breath, and you’ll feel invigorated. Voracious, even.”
She pressed her lips to the glass, then sucked. The sugar melted, releasing air into her lungs. Eyes closed, she let the feeling wash through her until determination pounded her veins.
She breathed, smoke billowing from her lips onto her dish, rushing between stacks of vegetables into a twisting channel that split the savory tart into two opposing sides.
“Oh my.” Perrault leaned down, pressing a purple monocle to one eye. “It’s Anespérer.”
“Correct, Souverain.” Elara pointed with her serving knife to the north.
“I wanted to turn the humble vegetable soup into a tart. Simple, but perfect in its execution. However, I’ve elevated the components for your fine tastes.
Here, in the Galerie and Belleplace neighborhoods, you’ll find succulent ingredients.
Aubergines, peppers, and shallots marinated in aged balsamic topped with magie-smoked salt. ”
“The magie?” Lafontaine asked, a brittle edge to his voice.
“A surprise,” she replied.
“We’ve had enough of those,” Cormier snarked.
Elara ignored him, cutting seven equal slices.
She prepared herself for the first bite.
Buttery crust melted upon her tongue, followed by the sharp pierce of balsamic over delicate vegetables. It wrapped her in comfort: warm hugs, sunrises through kitchen windows, and … lavender tea.
Elara shoved that away for later.
Briny salt coated her tongue, stealing away the soft magie. Then it took more. And more. And more.
She flashed a smile. “Enjoy.”
The Counseil ate as they had at the Exposé, as if her poverty were something they could catch through food.
She watched as inquisitive delight turned to horror. That same cavern expanded in their bellies, reducing their senses to that all-consuming emptiness. They doubled over, clutching their sides to try and stave off the pain gnawing through every nerve.
Starvation.
Hunger like this clouded the mind and dulled the senses. It hollowed your heart and destroyed your pride. It turned good people into murderers and drove a gentle woman to burning the Senate.
Elara watched them buckle against her station.
“What is this?” Gabriel snarled.
“What have you done?” Lafontaine spat.
“You may not recognize it, but what you’re feeling is starvation,” she answered evenly.
“It takes days for the human body to feel this way, but I’ve packed each bite with enough desire to bring even the most satisfied to their knees.
” She turned her plate idly, examining the beautiful slice.
“One bite will make you dizzy. A second gives a headache. Any more, and you might waste away.”
“Why are you unaffected?” Gabriel wheezed.
“I am.” Elara finally let herself collapse, hands scrambling for purchase on the counter. Sweat broke upon her brow, and a headache overtook her. “I’m more familiar with the feeling than any of you. It’s been my constant companion for eighteen years.”
The guards closed in.
Faucher stopped them again. “Wait!”
Elara didn’t take it for granted. She stuck six spoons into the smaller tart as she said, “I wanted to show you what drove me here. What made me desperate enough to risk your wrath if I failed.”
It was time.
With a deep breath, she said, “My name is Elara Rousseau.”
The collar of her coat clamped down on her throat like a vise. It tore against her flesh, tightening and tightening until she couldn’t breathe. Something inside her skin popped, and the world spun.
The coat had been made for only one Favored, Elouise Auclair, and it would kill anyone else who tried to steal it.
She staggered, crashing into one of the mirrored walls hard enough for it to crack.
No matter how much she scraped, the buttons wouldn’t loosen.
The edges of her vision began to darken, but through the haze the fragments of mirror glimmered around her feet like stars.
In the shards, her reflection gaped up at her.
Her mother’s freckles darkened against her paling cheeks.
Her mother’s black hair shadowing her from the light.
The coat hadn’t been made for Elouise Auclair.
It had been made for her. She was the Favored.
Elara had fought her way to the second round despite the odds. She deserved to be here, wearing this coat.
Cool air rushed down her throat and into her lungs. She gulped it greedily. Against her breast, the gilded threads rearranged themselves: Elara Rousseau.
The Counseil were still doubled over in hunger, but they stared. Bewildered.
“What my mother did was unforgivable,” she continued through heavy breaths, “and I can’t take any of it back. Just as whoever orphaned me can’t take back slitting her throat. You punish us, but we’ve already punished ourselves. The Restes just hopes to move forward.”
Elara turned her eyes up to the audience. Loathsome as they were, they were part of this city, part of the people she needed to make amends to. They’d been lied to, manipulated into believing every Reste was as monstrous as the Counseil had made her mother and the rebels out to be.
“The Restes are capable of great things, and we can help make this city something special if we’re given the basic rights the rest of you are afforded.
Education. Freedom to discover. Food. We are more than some faceless mob.
Restes carry this city on their broken backs, and it’s time you understood that.
We are unforgettable. I am unforgettable. ”
No applause this time.
Fuck them.
It didn’t matter.
She turned to the Counseil and pushed the smaller tart forward.
“What is that?” Gabriel spat.
“The cure,” she replied, taking a bite. “It will reverse the effects.”
The Souverains descended upon the tray like snarling dogs. When they staggered back, satiated, their white clothes were ruined, and they didn’t dare look at one another.
“What was the magie?” Lafontaine hissed.
Elara regarded the empty pan with a smile.
“Food. Simple and pure. Food, dear Counseil, is the only antidote to hunger.”