Chapter 7
ELARA
Color.
It exploded from every corner. Elara had never seen such vibrant shades, had hardly known they could come in as many brilliant hues.
Nowhere, not even among the servants, was there a trace of bleached fabric.
Everything was brighter, bigger, louder. Effervescent green dresses with billowing, gauzy fabrics. Blues like the ocean in long silk trains. Lemony blouses with billowing sleeves of glitter. All of it shimmered with life and magie.
The closer she looked, the dizzier she got.
A woman’s dress was art. It covered her in writhing vines because they were vines.
A man in a silver jacket, opened to reveal his sculpted chest, leaned in and plucked a ripe berry from the end of one of the vines and ate it.
When his eyes caught Elara’s, he made sure to lick his fingers.
This was another world.
The kitchen door shut, trapping Elara inside it.
Begging in the streets would be better than standing in the center of a room filled with such wasteful decadence.
Especially when people dressed in actual food glared at her as if she were a disease.
Elara had needed those strawberries barely a week ago—would’ve given her last soms to have them—and they were a fashion statement?
Holding tight to that anger, she refocused on the mission. Distract the Counseil, lose with grace, then get the hell out.
She pushed the cart forward, making the long trek toward the dais.
Elara had never seen the Souverains before. Not in person. They never visited the Restes before the uprising, and they sure as hell steered clear after. Only their likenesses had been captured on propaganda plastered to brick walls.
The real subjects were haunting.
While each Souverain was different in skin color and size, they were all …
perfect. Not a blemish or scar, not a blush or a dark shadow beneath their eyes.
It was if some delicate hand had sculpted each of them from the purest stone and polished their features to ethereal smoothness.
Some, like Souverain Gabriel of Arts Manufacturiers, looked ageless despite their white hair, but the eyes gave them away.
Each of them looked down at her with indifference, gargoyles upon a parapet.
Of time and beyond it. One of the people and nothing like them.
A final seat at the end remained open: a somber prize.
Elara approached.
“Please state your name clearly for the Counseil,” Souverain Lafontaine called.
Elara’s mouth dried. She couldn’t fail. In order to help her mother’s recipes live on, she needed to let her name go.
“I … I am Elouise Auclair.”
She didn’t know her heart could beat so loud until Souverain Lafontaine muttered a terse thank-you.
He turned over a crisp paper filled with very few words: Auclair’s acceptance into Arts Culinaires. “You are quite the mystery. We’ve checked with the board of Arts Culinaires’ Directeurs, and none recognize your name.”
“I doubt they remember everyone they’ve ever admitted.” The line she’d practiced with Fernand came easy. “Did you not find my name in the records?”
“Indeed we did.” Lafontaine’s fingers stroked the paper in thought. “How did your name come to be in the pool of Favored? A Restes Aspirant in the Objet d’Art? Quite uncommon.”
“That abysmal place across the river?” The comment came from someone in a brilliant yellow dress flapping an annoyingly loud fan. “The poor thing!”
Some snickered. Worse, others pitied her.
“Chef?” Lafontaine prompted.
She released her fists. “I was just as stunned when the coat arrived. Perhaps my Professionnelle recommended me to the board of Directeurs?”
“So you have formal training?” Souverain Tremblay of Arts Visuels asked.
“Enough to have earned my Aspirant colors.” She indicated her brown skirts. “Unfortunately, Professionnelle Prevel passed recently, and I was let go from my newest position.”
“Whatever for?”
“My innovation, Souverain.”
Fernand was ready near the doorway to the foyer.
Showtime.
Elara ascended the dais and laid her porcelain dish upon the table.
Any other party would lean forward to inspect the sweet dessert.
The Counseil were as statues, barely letting their eyes swoop down as she scooped the still-bubbling cherry and custard mixture onto individual plates.
Elara made sure each Souverain had enough crunchy topping because texture was just as important as taste.
“What is this?” Souverain Gabriel asked.
“Clafoutis,” Elara replied. “Cherries marinated in—”
“You’re dishing it out like we’re hogs to a trough,” Souverain Cormier sneered.
She managed to smile through clenched teeth. “I intended to feed you like I would anyone else at my table. My apologies if such compassion isn’t custom here in Galerie.”
Gasps whispered around her, followed by the person in yellow muttering, “Oh, I like her.”
They were probably alone in that.
Elara placed each helping before the Souverains. “I present cherry clafoutis made with umber rum and almond crumble. Enjoy.”
She’d been wrong to think they’d tuck in. Instead, they ate as if forced, dipping the prongs of their forks into the liquid before begrudgingly going back for a granule of crumble.
That didn’t stop her from holding her breath.
Restes or not, food was food. They’d either love it or hate it, and the truth would be in their reactions.
Even the most powerful people couldn’t deny their tongues.
The Souverains’ eyes dilated, their nostrils flared, and their expressions took on that of children consuming their first taste of sugar—wonderment.
The simple truth of knowing they’d enjoyed it would have been enough, but they surprised her by taking more. It wasn’t the ravenous hunger of the Restes, but the slow, savoring enjoyment the rich could afford.
“A unique marriage of flavors,” Cormier said.
“And the textures are interesting to explore,” Faucher added.
All said as if they were performing for a packed audience rather than offering feedback.
Lafontaine, the only Souverain who let his wrinkles show, patted his mouth with a napkin. “And the magie?”
Elara couldn’t contain her smile when the audience burst into giggles.
“You tell me, Souverain,” she replied.
He turned his head down the line and recoiled.
Six different Elaras stared back at her, each stretched or narrowed to fit the original owner’s body.
Their faces, though, were entirely her, from the smattering of freckles on her nose and cheeks to the little scar at her eyebrow from when she’d sloshed a drop of hot oil on herself.
Perfectly imperfect, just the way she liked it.
One of the Elaras glared into the crowd. The moment they locked eyes with someone else, Elara’s dark hair extended into beautiful scarlet locks, her full cheeks caved inward, and her eyes sparkled brilliant hazel.
“My goodness!”
The chaos began.
The Souverains broke into cackles, taking turns to gaze at one another, changing their forms. They found ways to entertain themselves, winking, flirting, and picking at hard-to-reach body parts.
As planned, the audience moved in, eager to be the next face the Counseil impersonated. Curious servants collected from other rooms, and the police gravitated closer to protect the Counseil.
Fernand saluted from the darkened foyer and darted upstairs, out of sight.
Done. All he had to do was get out without being caught.
When Elara turned back to the revelry, she felt …
different. With her part of the deal finished, she could enjoy this moment.
For all their pomp and authority, the Counseil were laughing like children.
Deep belly laughter and rolling giggles as they played and delighted in the magie, eating more bites to keep their games going.
This was what Elara wanted to do for the rest of her life.
She wanted to bring the joy of food to everyone.
Tonight, she could start that journey again with a clean slate—her job for Fernand now complete.
Hell, someone here could invest in her. Offer her an apprenticeship on her way out.
It was more than she’d ever allowed herself to hope for before.
“Amusing,” Lafontaine said.
Elara choked back a gasp.
He wasn’t himself.
He was a boy with dark hair slicked back, perfectly controlled save for the little curls at the base of his neck. His nose was wider and cheekbones fuller, with eyes like shards of glass. Striking. Elara could think of no other word to describe him.
She turned back to find the original boy in the crowd, and warmth flooded her body.
All that intensity in those blue eyes was narrowed on her.
Not the powerful Souverains.
Not the chattering aristocracy.
Her.
His brow ticked, eyes darting over her shoulder. She spun back to Lafontaine, who was himself again.
“Unfortunately,” Elara said, “the effect doesn’t last long.”
“While your trick is amusing, we cannot ignore the potential of this magie,” Lafontaine murmured to his colleagues, who hummed in response, all the joy replaced by business.
Elara waited for someone else to speak.
Anyone else.
Time to make a graceful exit.
She did her best to look dismayed as she collected the plates. “Thank you for the opportunity—”
Lafontaine stabbed his fork onto the porcelain, pinning it to the table. His face was close enough to see the age he refused to hide, the little scar at his hairline, a blemish on his cheek.
“That was not a dismissal.”
She didn’t let go. “Excuse me?”
But they’d already forgotten her. The Souverains returned to their hushed conversation, which was some kind of sign for the crowd to begin their own deliberations. Elara spun, foolishly searching for the boy who’d truly acknowledged her presence.
He was gone.
None of this should be happening. It was all wrong.
“Congratulations, Chef Auclair,” Lafontaine declared. “You’ve been selected to move on in the Objet d’Art.”
No one hid their outraged commentary.
Her?
A Restes in our kitchens?
She doesn’t stand a chance.
“I-I’m sorry?” Elara stammered.
“Whatever innovation your previous mentor didn’t see in you is our gain,” Lafontaine said, like it was a secret she was supposed to interpret. “We look forward to more of your creativity.”
“I … I…”
Her chest beneath the tattoo burned, pulling her attention away.
Get out of there, Fernand’s voice warned. Get out.
She knew she should. If she wanted to survive, she should run and run fast.
The other part that wanted to see how long this dream could last longed to stay.
“I am flattered,” she managed to say. “But I couldn’t possibly—”
“Nonsense,” Souverain Tremblay snapped. “You’d bring welcome entertainment to this stuffy affair.”
Souverain Faucher of Arts Spectacle stood, gold chains glimmering as she spread her arms wide to the crowd. “Elouise Auclair will be among our Favored. Let those who wish to bid for Patronage step forward.”
This wasn’t happening. Couldn’t be happening.
No one moved.
No one so much as breathed.
Get out of there! Now! The tattoo burned almost as much as her shame in thinking this could have ever worked.
Elara curtsied, as low as she could this time. “I’m sorry to have wasted your—”
A chair scraped the floor behind her.
“I will be her Patron.”