Chapter 27
ELARA
Anespérer tore herself apart … for the people.
That’s what the memorial suggested anyway.
A marble woman sat upon a bench facing guests entering the Senate’s grand lobby.
Her fingers pried into her chest, splintering her ribs apart to reveal a riot of colorful paint and lush plant life.
A hammer on one hip and a syringe at the other said all disciplines were welcome here.
That anyone could partake in these wonders of Anespérer.
Elara read the words beneath.
So that we remember art and magie belong to all.
An explosion cracked the sky, forcing her to duck into Nik’s side. Screams followed, horrifying, guttural death cries amid mass panic and the crumbling of stone.
No one else around her reacted.
The Senate walls didn’t fall.
It was all in her mind.
“Magie,” Nik murmured.
Elara faced the woman again, beautiful in contrast to the horrors of the bombing.
Elara straightened, making distance between herself and Nik once more.
She hadn’t seen him since giving him the note, and she had no way of knowing what he’d done with it. If he’d kept it or given it to Lafontaine. She had to believe he wouldn’t turn her in. Not after the garden. Not after everything.
Her first glimpse of him had been this morning as he crept up the stairs in yesterday’s clothes. Where had he been all night?
It didn’t matter. Her preoccupation with boys was what had gotten her in this mess in the first place. Spying for Fernand, playing the part for Nik.
She had to focus.
“Ready for today?” Nik asked.
“Ready as I can be.”
An attendant appeared from the left wing. “Patrons, if you would follow me to the Grand Hall.”
Nik gave her a lasting glance before heading off with the other two Patrons.
Only two.
Elara’s competition had been reduced to Berina Savi and Hector Vidal, the best chefs in Anespérer. They stood together, talking quietly. Berina wore her contest armor, tight shoulders and not a smile to be seen. Hector continued to look chuffed that he was still here.
Elara approached, holding out her hand. “Good luck.”
Berina raised a brow, then took it. “May the best chef win.”
Hector kissed her knuckles. “I think the Counseil are in for a tough decision.”
“This way.” The attendant had returned to guide them to the massive double doors into the Grand Hall—the exact room the rebels had attacked. The place that marked the beginning of the end for her mother. And the start of something new.
Elara would finish the rebel’s plans—her own way.
The doors opened to unfathomable darkness. It swallowed all light from the hallway, leaving nothing for Elara to rely on.
Above, three lights shuttered to life, illuminating three cooking stations upon a circular stage.
Berina and Elara looked to Hector, giving him the first choice. He took the rightmost one.
Elara nodded for Berina to go next. She deserved it.
Berina took the left, leaving Elara in the center.
The stage was made of two massive metal circles. Elara stood with the other contestants on the innermost one where a railing separated them from their prep stations on the outside ring.
In the cavernous space, there was darkness and silence. If an audience joined them, she couldn’t tell.
“At your station,” a voice carried from all around, “you will find ingredients but no recipe. You have one minute to begin prepping.”
One minute? Until what?
“Your time starts now.”
She’d been given simple enough ingredients: chicken, carrots, sprouts. But she had to test for magie. The sprout was bitter at first, then mellowed into a magie that struck her tongue like lightning and made her nerves quake with intensity.
Elara fired up the skillet with butter and prepped the chicken with salt and pepper. Next, she would—
The floor groaned like a dying monster. Steam burst from small holes in the floor as whatever mechanism lay hidden beneath cranked into action.
The first shuddering movement made Elara tip, forcing her to grab the railing in order to stay on her feet. The inner circle turned counterclockwise, leaving her station behind.
Elara’s new station—Berina’s—had potatoes, butter, cheese, and garlic. The potatoes had been peeled, and the skillet was hot, but it wasn’t enough of a clue as to what she’d started. It could be any number of dishes.
“You have until the end of the interview to finish your recipes,” the voice declared. “Begin.”
Above, six more shutters opened, piercing the outer circle with more beams of light.
Before Elara sat Souverain Faucher of Arts Spectacle, dressed in ceremonial white robes, the kind the Counseil wore for all official business.
There were no golden threads to identify her Société because the donning of these robes meant the Souverains were supposed to act as a unified front. For the betterment of Anespérer.
“Good afternoon, Rousseau.”
“Souverain.”
“We’ll start simple,” she said. “What made you want to join Arts Culinaires?”
Elara thought for a moment. “Before you all knew her, my mother wanted to be a baker. She spent countless nights preparing her demonstration for the board of Directeurs. I’ve never seen anyone work that hard for anything. Ever.”
Faucher smiled, and it gave Elara hope she was on the right track. “Is that the kind of effort you’ll bring as Souverain?”
“You can ask my Patron,” she replied. “I don’t do anything in half measures.”
A bit of laughter came from the dark. A crowd was watching.
The gears roared back to life, spinning her to an entirely new station with a half-mixed batter, diced strawberries, and cream, partially whipped.
Quickly, she went to work as best she could to identify Hector’s intentions and keep going.
Souverain Cormier of Arts Nécessaire sat before her. “While I am not yet convinced of your loyalty to this Counseil, my colleagues have beseeched me to maintain an open mind.”
“I’m grateful,” Elara replied.
“Given your Restes background, how would you balance your love for them with your duties as Souverain?”
“They’re one and the same,” Elara said, greasing a set of canelé tins for the batter. “Your duty as Souverain is to extend the reach of Arts Nécessaire, no? Why not do so in the Restes where fresh produce is impossible to find? Why not recruit talented farmers there?”
“They lack the skill,” he spat.
“Because you refuse to educate them.”
The stage spun again. Elara was back to her station, which was no longer coq au vin. It was a broth of some sort.
Hector answered questions this round, his voice amplified around the room.
Then Berina.
On her next round, she faced Souverain Tremblay of Arts Visuels, another Souverain who had voted for her.
The next round of questions was safer.
What’s your greatest strength?
What’s your greatest weakness?
Why would you be best suited for Souverain?
By the end of her rotation, she’d lost track of all the dishes.
Back at her original station, she found a bubbling stew and the chicken roasting in the oven. What the hell was happening?
To her right, Hector cursed. “Who burned my caramel!”
“And you added broth to this?” Berina snapped back.
Elara could save her dish. If she took the chicken out now, she could—
The stage spun.
Souverain Gabriel of Arts Manufacturiers dove right in. “In our investigation, we learned Corinne Rousseau was not your only mentor. Gaetan Arnaud of the first competition also tutored you.”
“Yes,” she replied evenly. “He taught me as a child while my mother was working.”
“Working … or planning to destroy the city?”
Elara shrugged, figuring levity was best. Everyone already knew the truth. “Both.”
She came face-to-face with Lafontaine.
“What changes would you suggest for Arts Culinaires?”
A suspiciously easy question. “I would increase access to education,” she replied, whipping the cream that surely didn’t belong with canelés, but maybe Hector had a plan. “With it, the Restes Quarter could see better opportunities beyond backbreaking labor.”
“Honorable jobs,” Lafontaine replied.
“Then I would love to see you try them, Souverain.”
The audience gasped, reminding her this was very much a public interview, and she was likely no longer their favorite contestant. Also, this was Lafontaine. Nik said he would strike back. She had to tread carefully.
Except Lafontaine grinned like a predator. “There’s a bit of that fire we’ve come to love. Tell me, did that come from your mother or Gaetan Arnaud?”
Elara frowned. “Both. Why?”
But the stage spun before she could get her answer.
Souverain Cormier regarded her strangely this time, lips pulled tight. “You’ve answered two questions linking your mother with Arnaud.”
“He was her mentor.”
“According to our reports, they spent more than the workday together.”
This was wrong. What were they playing at?
“They were friends.” She looked around at Berina and Hector working quickly, waiting their turn.
Relentlessly, the stage spun, questions coming faster and faster until she was dizzy and the room smelled of smoke and mismatched flavors. At least Berina and Hector were faring no better.
She faced Gabriel again. Where was Faucher? Tremblay? Perrault? And why weren’t they asking Berina and Hector any more questions?
“You say Arnaud taught you to bake as well,” Gabriel pressed. “When did he have time to do that?”
“I don’t understand.”
“It’s a simple question. When did he teach you? Surely, he didn’t have time to run a bakery and teach a toddler at the same time?”
“He made time,” she snapped.
This wasn’t right. They were digging, and Elara knew better than to answer. If the Counseil had some kind of lead, they’d interrogate her until she gave them the answer they wanted.
The stage spun, and Lafontaine braced his chin on his gnarled knuckles.
“You’re being heralded as a hero in the Restes.”
“I was made aware of that.”
“Unforgettable,” he said wistfully. “Such an interesting sentiment for people to latch on to. What is it they wish people to remember?”
Elara clenched her teeth. “That they exist.”
“And these words came from you, a rebel’s daughter thrust into the spotlight.”
Stay silent, Fernand had coached her once when the guards came through The Market the month after her mother died. Give them nothing to hang you with.
Lafontaine might be looking at her, but he was speaking to the audience. Given their silence, given the lack of utensils clanking at the other stations—they were all listening.
“Who would go to any length to ensure one of their own infiltrated our numbers? Turn an innocent girl into a pawn for his schemes?”
Panic swallowed her as she realized, too late, what his game was.
“Stop it.” Whispering did no good. Her voice was everywhere.
Lafontaine reached out to stroke her cheek. She was frozen with fear, stuck between fighting or running. If she did either, it would only add tinder to whatever fire he wanted to stoke.
His voice flooded with sympathy as his cold thumb stroked her blistering face. “You’ve been manipulated your entire life, my dear girl.”
She would’ve bit his fingers off if she could.
“I know the truth is hard to swallow. But it will set you free. I will set you free.”
Lafontaine stood as the rumble of the mechanized stage died.
“Out of respect for the festivities of the Objet d’Art, I struggled to find an opportune time to convey to you all the devastating truth about the passing of our great Souverain Lisette Plouffe.”
What did she … no. Oh no.
“According to the most recent autopsy, it is my sound conclusion that Plouffe did not die of natural causes.”
The room gave a collective gasp. Frenzied chatter spread like wildfire, just as Lafontaine had planned.
“She was murdered.”
Chaos. From the darkness, people stirred like angry wasps, swarming closer to the stage and the Counseil’s light.
“Elara Rousseau is not guilty. She is but a victim, bent to the whims of an evil force threatening to rise in Anespérer again. How did you truly enter this contest?”
He was looking at her.
Elara gaped.
She turned to the crowd for Chantal. Blai. Nik. Someone to help her.
“I … I don’t know. The coat just arrived.”
Lafontaine nodded sympathetically. “Convenient that it should arrive on the doorstep of Corinne Rousseau’s daughter directly after the death of her Souverain.”
Lafontaine raised his arms, and light spread through the room, enough to ease the panic. People were huddled together, clinging to their families as if they were actually in any danger.
It didn’t matter if they were.
Lafontaine had made them believe the threat was real.
“The rebels have returned.”
Someone screamed, and the people pressed closer to the stage, looking to the Counseil des Sept for safety.
Elara was going to be sick.
“But I bring balm to this wound. Justice.” Lafontaine pointed toward the front doors, which burst open.
Elara’s knees gave out as she crashed to the stage.
It took two guards to drag Gaetan forward.
He stumbled against the heavy chains on his ankles and wrists, the clanking filling the silence between her thundering heartbeats.
The great symbol of peace in the Restes was broken.
They’d dappled him with bruises and cuts that wept down his brawny arms. His beard was matted with spittle and old blood. They’d ruined him. Destroyed him.
Elara broke her silence with a plea. “He’s innocent.”
“He has led you to believe that,” Lafontaine replied. “Who but Corinne’s right-hand man could see this plan through? He burrowed his way into your heart so you wouldn’t notice his schemes. In a recent raid of an old rebel’s home, we found this.”
He held up a photograph.
Elara didn’t need to see it. Unlike the one Nik had given her, Lafontaine’s was whole. Where did he get it? There’d only been enough copies for the rebels to have them.
“This photograph depicts Gaetan Arnaud standing with Corinne Rousseau and ten other known rebels!”
The crowd cried for blood.
Murderer!
Hang him!
“He had nothing to do with it!” Elara cried, finding her feet now. “Please. He didn’t have anything to do with the bombing.”
“Lies. He hid while your mother was hunted down, biding his time for another opportunity to destroy everything this city holds dear.”
Elara almost fell to her knees before Lafontaine. “No. You can’t do this.”
“The only answer to treason is death.”