Chapter 8
NIK
“I will be her Patron.”
Nik repeated the claim if for no other reason than to disrupt the crushing silence.
They laughed.
This time, it was horrible, malicious laughter from every corner of the dining room. Their beautiful, smug faces twisted in vicious glee. Beside him, Favored Seventeen—Elouise Auclair—scrunched her brows at him.
“An Aspirant Patron,” Souverain Gabriel murmured.
“Do you know the term for two contradictory words spoken in conjunction?” Souverain Perrault leaned forward. “An oxymoron.”
Nik’s temper flared to the tune of their laughter.
“It’s nonsensical,” Souverain Tremblay added. “You’re but an Aspirant yourself.”
The crowd murmured their agreement for the ill-made match. He was Arts Humains’ most doomed Aspirant. He and Auclair’s partnership would be humiliation for their entertainment.
Elouise took in every word, her stance shrinking at the attention.
A moment ago, she’d been the liveliest thing Nik had seen in years.
She’d sauntered in with soft curves swaying, bright eyes filled with wonder, and a charming, red-lipped smile that sent heat down his spine. Now she looked ready to run.
Across the room, a flash of Blai’s fan caught his eye.
They were right. Favored Seventeen was perfect in every way. Skilled, theatrical, and beautiful. She would capture the crowd’s heart as well as their curiosity.
Sell it, Blai mouthed.
Right. Nik forced himself to look away from the girl and up to the Counseil. This was a story, and all he had to do was convince his father she was the perfect leading lady.
“Then someone else come forward,” Nik challenged.
He turned, tucking his shaking hands into his pocket.
“Someone else offer their Patronage.”
For once, Nik was in control. The crowd did exactly as he wanted, exchanging quiet looks as if daring one another to meet his challenge.
He waited.
Oh, he waited. Letting the moment drag on until the truth was painfully obvious.
“No one?” He scoffed. “All night, we’ve endured a parade of chefs with enough accolades and prestigious apprenticeships to put us to sleep, yet none of them could drag any real emotion from the Counseil.” He pointed to Elouise. “Except for her.”
She looked down.
“She made the austere Counseil des Sept laugh,” he continued. “I’d forgotten they could do that.”
The Counseil were unresponsive.
Nik faced the crowd again. “You were ready to go to war for the other Favored, but you’ll let this one go because … why? Because she’s from the Restes?”
He turned back to the Counseil. “That I find nonsensical.”
Nik had spent his first apprenticeship in the theatre, so he knew applause generally came after a performance.
They offered him nothing.
“He’s got a point,” Tremblay finally said. “I haven’t heard Faucher’s donkey chortle in some time.”
“Excuse me!” Faucher swatted her.
“You said you wanted entertainment,” Nik added. “What is more thrilling than watching two Restes Aspirants fight through the Objet d’Art together?”
As expected, Elouise snapped her eyes to him, filled first with shock, then apprehension. But he swore, buried deep, there was a glimmer of trust only they could share. It was the hesitant relief in finding an ally among an ocean of sharks.
“It’s not the Counseil you must convince, Dupont.” Lafontaine leaned forward, a warning, a message. “It is your Favored.”
On the surface, he meant Elouise. Patrons had to prove they were perfect for their desired chef by flaunting their money and status.
Underneath, Lafontaine meant himself. He was Nik’s true favored.
If—when—Elouise won, Nik would become part of Lafontaine’s inner circle, and he would be that much closer to proving he was capable, that he could be trusted.
He faced Elouise and spoke the words he would want to hear, the same Lafontaine wanted to hear.
“This room doesn’t see you for what you really are,” he said.
“And what is that?” she asked quietly.
“Opportunity knocking,” Nik answered. “You and I both know these people don’t know real work.”
She flashed a brief smile amid the offended scoffs.
Reminding himself it was all an act, he took her hands and turned them over.
They were small, so much smaller than his own, but they were scarred from a life she’d probably fought hard to escape, a life Nik never wanted to know again.
“You’re covered in burns and cuts, there’s flour in your hair, and I saw the way you watched the Counseil as they ate.
It didn’t matter if they accepted you or not. All you cared about was the art.”
Passion. Desire. Drive. All the things that would make Lafontaine the perfect person to save this city. All the traits Nik would prove he had as well. Someday.
Warm air brushed his cheeks as Elouise exhaled. On the outside, they were likely a vision of intimacy only Restes orphans could re-create. For Nik, it was a jarring contradiction between wanting to pull away and wipe his sweaty palms or clench her tighter to convince her of his lies.
Elouise stared at their palms, and she trembled like a leaf. Blai was right about her. The story would tell itself, and she would be the perfect pawn.
“Let me help them see you.” He dipped his chin to meet her eyes. “See us.”
It stole his breath when she finally looked at him. Nik had grown so used to staring into lifeless pupils, milk white and empty. It was the only part of the dead he found comforting—they couldn’t look back. They couldn’t see through him.
Elouise was living, breathing, and responsible for his future, and she was looking at him for a lifeline. This girl, as weak as an ill-carved stitch, held his future in her warm hands.
“Fine.”
Her voice was hard as she pulled away.
Nik didn’t have a moment to rejoice before Lafontaine barked orders.
“Then it’s settled,” he declared. “Elouise Auclair will be entered into the Objet d’Art under the Patronage of Nikolas Dupont, Aspirant of Arts Humains.
” He faced Nik, eyes cold and detached. “Favored are to be kept sequestered from the public eye for the duration of the contest. During this time, you are to offer any support you can in the form of lodgings, practice, presentations, and other requirements set forth by the Counseil.”
The rest happened so cleanly, so quickly it was damn near medical.
A servant rushed forward with a silver domed tray.
He removed the lid to reveal one of the black envelopes reserved for the Patrons.
It was heavy and crisp and his name appeared upon the front in delicate white cursive.
Beneath it, Elouise’s name followed with brilliant loops, threads of letters overlapping.
“This magied parchment will reveal information to you and your chef throughout the contest.”
Two officers broke through the crowd, ready to escort them out. Elara flinched, drawing close enough that her skirts brushed his trousers.
Nik stepped between them.
“Expect guidelines for the first round in the morning. For better or worse, Dupont,” Lafontaine said, fingers steepled beneath his chin, “your fates are tied.”
It was the final warning before the police herded them through the crowd and into the empty foyer.
Elouise jerked away from their touch, then buried her hands in her apron, making herself as small as possible, though the effect was more like a child throwing a temper tantrum.
“They’re taking us to a carriage,” he explained.
She didn’t respond as they were guided down a short hallway to a section of wall. If Nik were here on his own, he would’ve pulled the sconce himself, but the less she and anyone else knew of his ties to Lafontaine, the better.
The wall parted, shifting aside noiselessly to reveal the darkened hallway of a servants’ passage. Nik followed the first officer down, and he was grateful to hear Elouise’s shuffling steps behind.
Eventually, they exited through the eastern garden door, where the summer heat broke upon him like a wall. Three black carriages waited in the drive: one for each of the remaining Favored.
Nik offered his hand to help her up into their carriage but was grateful when Elouise hauled herself in.
He followed after and didn’t breathe until they were past the gates of Lafontaine’s estate.
“Well,” he said, opening his eyes. “That was—”
Something cold and sharp pressed against his throat. Elouise was leaning across the gap, a knife glinting in her closed fist.
“What the fuck do you want with me?”