Chapter 38
ELARA
This time, Elara rode alone in the carriage.
She went over her plan again.
Fernand had warned her to stay away from the finale, which meant he had something catastrophic planned.
If he and his people had escaped …
Elara needed to remain alert. If he was there, she’d know, and she could stop him.
Her only goal was to win over the Restes crowd, and she could do that by proving she’d defend them as Souverain. Tonight, Lafontaine would learn he couldn’t control her every move. Only some of them.
Whatever happened, only one thing remained true.
Whoever won the people’s support was the real victor.
The carriage rumbled to a stop around the corner from The Market. Outside, Hector and Berina were already waiting, their Patrons out of sight.
“There she is,” Hector said. “Our final finalist. Everything changes for one of us tonight.”
Berina rubbed her palms against her coat, fingers tracing the embroidered hems. Was it the finest thing she owned as well?
Did touching every fiber remind her how another Objet d’Art for Arts Culinaires would never happen in her lifetime?
They’d have to wait until the winner croaked in fifty years or so and that’s if medicine didn’t advance to keep them alive longer.
Elara snorted. When Berina looked at her, she asked, “Why does it take becoming Souverain for people to accept your recipes?” She looked to Hector. “To deem you worthy of remembering? Does it have to be this way?”
“According to those who make the rules,” Hector said, “yes.”
“One of us will make the rules tomorrow,” Elara pushed back. “We can change it.”
On cue, a massive white caravan pulled beside them. From the intricate, swirling patterns of gemstones on the side, it was clear who was safe inside. Not even a window allowed the Counseil to see out, or the Restes in. So much for being of the people.
Elara snorted. “Spineless bastards.”
Hector and Berina looked horrified.
“This way,” an officer in a padded suit called. Armor.
All of them were covered head to toe in it, with batons, pistols, and shackles at their sides. They were afraid.
Good.
Elara wore her smirk proudly as she followed Berina and Hector around the corner and into The Market.
It was unrecognizable. The dingy stalls had been cleared away, the cobblestones freshly washed, and the rubble of the burned building shoveled aside.
Thousands of golden bulbs hung from tangled weaves of stringed lights that stretched from the corners of the surrounding buildings.
Flowers that had definitely not been there before bloomed with alluring, mind-altering fragrances from vast buckets every few feet.
An entertainer breathed fire into shapes, giving them life with a wink.
Elara watched as a kitten made of flame scampered through a crowd of children before disappearing in a puff of smoke.
A few tents had been arranged, offering goods for purchase: tools, clothes, produce.
Necessary things. Things they should already be promised but were forced to spend their final soms on because this opportunity might never come again.
On the wall of the building opposite the Joyaux, a massive canvas of Lisette Plouffe waved and smiled at the crowd.
“Welcome! Welcome all, to the finale of the Objet d’Art!”
The police led Elara and the others through The Market, struggling to keep the crowd back once they noticed her. Children pressed against the barrier and cried out. The older generations gave her stoic nods and touched their hearts.
Somewhere, a chant filled the air.
“Unforgettable! Unforgettable! Unforgettable!”
“They love you,” Berina said, and Elara swore she heard appreciation in her flat tone.
“They didn’t used to,” she replied.
They entered a cleared-out area in the center of The Market. The three stations were nestled right against one another with little room to move or hide their mistakes. Elara turned, finding the crowd only a few meters back.
Personal. Just as Lafontaine wanted it.
The caravan sped through, horses careening to a halt, where they were kept idle as the side of the cart unfolded.
Inside, the Souverains sat in fine chairs made of gemstones matching their Sociétés: ruby, amethyst, obsidian, emerald, topaz, sapphire, and diamond upon the empty throne for Arts Culinaires.
It was the most flagrant display of their power yet, a warning as much as a symbol of hope to the Restes audience.
“It has been too long since we’ve visited the southern quarter,” Faucher cried. She refused to call them what they’d been named by a Counseil long ago, a reminder that Faucher might support Elara, but she did not support the Restes.
“We are delighted to see your shining faces!” Perrault added.
“An honor,” Gabriel muttered.
No one made a sound.
The Counseil wouldn’t get easy applause here.
Tremblay cleared her throat. “We’ve brought the finale of Objet d’Art to you! Not only because the Souverain will represent you, but because one contestant already does.”
Again, no one cheered, but they did look at Elara. Some brave soul cried her name and another echoed with unforgettable.
“Favored, step forward,” Lafontaine ordered.
They stood before the Counseil in a line.
“Berina Savi of Le C?ur.”
She bowed.
“Hector Vidal of Galerie.”
He blew kisses.
“And Elara Rousseau of the Restes.”
Her plan began now.
Elara turned her back on the Counseil to face the crowd. In one swift move, she tore the chef’s coat away and dropped it onto the filthy cobblestones. The weight off her chest was instant. It was as if she hadn’t been allowed to breathe right for the past few weeks and now she was free.
Beneath, she wore a dress of the richest material she’d made Lafontaine waste his soms on.
The folds of the skirt caught the summer breeze, shimmering in the lamplight.
Every thread was alive, ready to shift to her will.
It was made of delicate, beige lace, a magied material that flexed to her body and screamed aristocratic fashion.
Or it would have … if she hadn’t ruined it.
The servant, on Lafontaine’s orders, had gotten her everything she needed for the contest … including a sack of lye. Elara had spent most of the afternoon dunking the fabric in the bath, breaking the magied material down until it finally bleached.
She’d been delighted to destroy one more beautiful thing.
She wasn’t Arts Culinaires’ or Lafontaine’s puppet. Not tonight.
She was a Reste from the Restes.
The crowd broke their silence and roared their approval. The police held the line. Chants followed her as she spun a circle back to the Counseil. She did not bow.
This was her home.
Lafontaine turned an ugly shade of red, unable to speak.
Faucher took over for him. “Honored guests, we welcome you this evening to witness the crowning achievement of Anespérer’s greatest chefs. These are the most brilliant culinary minds of our time—talented with flavors, techniques, and magie to tantalize the very soul.”
Cormier addressed them next. “Chefs, this is your final attempt to dazzle us. Creativity, artistic prowess, and above all, potential must be seen tonight. You will design three courses to prove, without a shadow of doubt, you are worthy of the title Souverain. First, your dishes will be served to those who matter most: the people.”
Ah. That’s why the stations took up so much space. Two ovens, eight burners, and an icebox each meant they needed to feed an army.
“One hundred portions each,” Gabriel added. “So we may feed every guest present.”
“We understand this is a monumental task, so we’ve provided each of you with two randomly selected assistants.” Lafontaine motioned.
Through the crowd six figures in beige coats appeared, dispersing evenly to the stations.
“You have six hours,” Perrault said. “Begin.”
Elara calmly laid her mother’s—her—book on the table and opened it to the recipes she’d created this afternoon.
“I’m most comfortable with dessert,” she said, “so I’ll take lead on that. I’ll also need to swing between the dishes to ensure the magie is perfect.”
“Rousseau.”
“I won’t be doing a traditional plating experience tonight, which means all these individual components need to be ready and on the pass at the same time. Tonight is about precision.” She tapped her pen for effect.
“Rousseau!”
She whirled on the familiar voice, heart fracturing when she was met by an unrecognizable face. Was this her fate? To look for him everywhere? It’d be a lie to say she hadn’t scanned the crowd, desperate to find his unruly hair, sharp nose, and …
She shook her head. “We have work to do.”
“I know.” The assistant grabbed her hand, but only for a moment. It was enough to have Elara glaring him down at the impertinence—only to find bright blue eyes begging for forgiveness.
“No.”
It couldn’t be.
There was no way.
“What are you doing here?” she whispered.
“I made a promise,” Nik replied quietly, “and I intend to keep it.”