Chapter 1 #2
Plouffe went on, “Right now, magied chef coats are making their way to twenty lucky chefs who’ve been chosen to compete for a place as one of seven finalists in Objet d’Art. Three grueling trials will help the Counseil des Sept choose the next Souverain of Arts Culinaires.”
“Don’t they only choose the upper ranks?” the greasy head chef asked.
“Aspirants have competed before!” piped up the girl returning to her baguettes. “Souverain Lafontaine was an Aspirant during the last Objet d’Art.”
“Sixty years ago.” Elara rolled her eyes. “This right here is what they want from us. Witless hope.”
It was the most dangerous weapon the Counseil des Sept used against the Restes.
Some people held on to hope that they could fix the Sociétés by following the rules and earning their place of power.
When hope died, they turned to violence, which never worked.
Elara’s mother might agree if she hadn’t bled out on the cobblestones years ago.
The Objet d’Art was just another way to dangle that hope. Whenever one of their self-serving Souverains finally croaked, a contest was held rather than a funeral. Through celebration and unhealthy, cutthroat competition, they decided the replacement Souverain. Anyone could rise, they said. Lies.
Gaetan clapped her shoulder. “If you’re done sucking all the joy out of the air, I think you owe me a demonstration.”
“Gaetan,” the head baker said. “We don’t have—”
“No harm in seeing what talent is out there.”
Given the looks between them, Elara felt a prickle of guilt.
Gaetan wasn’t giving her a chance because he wanted to test her talent.
He was giving her a chance because of their history.
Beyond her mother, he was the first person who took her interest in the kitchen seriously, and when her mother became preoccupied, he’d stepped up to guide her education.
When everything blew apart, they’d gone their separate directions.
This was an apology.
“Right.” She whipped an apron from the hook. “Can I have a look at your pantry?”
His eyes darkened.
She swept past him. “I don’t need much. Besides, I know my way around. That should make it easy for me to start work sooner.”
The barren shelves brought her to a halt.
In a pantry large enough to feed the whole quarter, the shelves were bare. Two sacks of stale flour, a few vials of half-used spices, and a dozen eggs. The icebox wasn’t much better. Butter, milk, and cheese, but not enough to last the week.
She could work with it.
“I can whip something up that you and your customers will love.”
“Ellie…” Gaetan rubbed his mustache.
She dismissed him with a wave. “I won’t take much, and I guarantee it’ll be the thing you need to turn this place around.”
“My bakery is doing just fine,” he grumbled.
It wasn’t his. Not really. It might have his name on it, but as a Professionnelle, Gaetan—like everyone else in a Société—was beholden to a superior.
Across the Joyaux River, some Directeur owned this bakery and at least half a dozen others.
Those Directeurs operated under the observation of supreme power: the Souverains.
Gaetan was nothing more than a glorified manager. He baked the bread, repaired the roof, and paid the bills, but the Directeur could replace him, at any moment, with some other Professionnelle and send him packing.
Elara had no interest in claiming power, but becoming a Directeur meant she could open her own bakery. She wouldn’t have to scrape for a job, because her last name wouldn’t matter. Owning her own business would give her the tools to be happy. For once.
Gaetan was the first step to climbing her way up.
In a pan she combined milk, sugar, and butter.
She rushed back to the pantry, scanning and skimming.
Choux pastry wasn’t enough. It had to sing.
It had to pop. It had to … aha! She found a small vial tucked near the back, almost hidden except for the scant pinch of shimmering embers.
Blister bark was one of the rarest ingredients, and this was a measly portion, but she could draw the magie out.
The granules dissipated into the steaming liquid. To this, she added flour and stirred with a wooden spoon until it came together into a thick dough.
Upon adding the eggs, she began to work her magie.
As an Aspirant, she shouldn’t be able to create anything worthwhile, but she’d had a great teacher. The key, her mother had taught her, was to imagine what you wanted that first bite to feel like. Powerful intention mixed with powerful emotions yielded powerful magie.
Mama had been more than some baker working the line.
She’d accomplished what few Restes ever could: Professionnelle status—the middle tier of Arts Culinaires.
Where Aspirants, like Elara, followed recipes for months on end, Professionnelles could create.
Mama had been able to imbue tarts with memories, and infuse truth-telling magie into pillowy madeleines.
Elara’s mother had the ability to carry people away from their troubles.
And there were plenty of troubles in the Restes.
Once the dough was cool enough, she poured it into a paper cone and squeezed even dollops onto a tray. With another sprinkle of sugar, she tossed the tray into the oven and started piping another set.
For the first time in two weeks, she felt perfectly at ease.
Until Lisette Plouffe started her speech again.
“The time has come to host…”
Except this time Elara’s thoughts snagged on the words glimmering at the bottom of the poster.
OBJET D’ART CONTEST
Across Anespérer, twenty chefs will be invited to Maison de Guérison, where they will have one chance to impress the Counseil des Sept and earn a coveted spot as one of the seven finalists in Objet d’Art.
Through three rigorous trials, finalists will have to display awe-inspiring talent, cutting-edge magie, and unshakable nerve if they want a chance at becoming the next Souverain des Arts Culinaires.
Invitations arriving soon.
Will you be one of the Favored?
Elara knew the truth: No Reste would ever be chosen.
But her previous boss … Had he thought, even for a moment, that she might have a chance of receiving one of those chef coats? Of being whisked away across the river to dine with the upper class and compete for a position the Counseil had no intention of giving to a Reste?
The rapid pulse of her heart doubled, not with the joy of creation but the fury of injustice.
The timing was too perfect to be coincidence.
Plouffe had died, she’d been kicked out the door, and the flyers had gone up.
You couldn’t be a Favored if you weren’t working for Arts Culinaires, and you couldn’t maintain your status in a Société if you couldn’t keep a job.
Elara snorted.
Had she really been fired because her boss was threatened by her? What a fool.