Chapter 11
NIK
“I can’t take it anymore.”
Nik’s office door slammed, rattling the books and trinkets upon his shelves. Blai flopped into the overstuffed chair near the window, threw their legs over the arm, and buried their face in a daisy-yellow scarf.
“She’s insufferable!”
“Still no progress?” Nik asked.
“Two days, Nik! Two days and she still can’t go five minutes without cursing, fumbling, or barging her way through the kitchen like some flea-bitten ox!”
Elouise’s compliance with their plan did not equate to startling success.
She tried but couldn’t bake anything simple. One illusionary tart involving snakes had been bad enough to make Chantal crawl on top of the kitchen counter, and another had caused Blai to burst into tears—something about seeing a beloved sister again.
She was too powerful.
To top it off, she questioned everything.
Why do I have to wear an apron under my chef coat?
Why can’t I ignore the Counseil?
Why are you so damn interested in what they think?
Nik had stormed from the kitchen after that, determined to dig up a mentor who might be able to knock her down a step.
He laid down the Arts Culinaires dossier and rubbed his face. Even with his eyes closed, her fierce gaze stared back, the constellation of her freckles burned into his memory.
What started as a plan to find her a mentor in the Restes had evolved into a search of a different kind. Something had been scratching his thoughts since the night he’d been trapped in the carriage with her, and it had only grown since then.
At the Exposé, she’d mentioned how Professionnelle Prevel had died recently, and it was true enough, instantaneously penned with magie only a few months ago in the Arts Culinaires ledger. On that same ledger, Elouise Auclair’s name sat—one of its newest additions.
As far as documents declared, she existed. Barely. Every bit of information was filled in just enough to satisfy requirements, but not enough to satisfy Nik.
He’d written to the board of Directeurs for Arts Culinaires, inquiring about her admittance, and they’d written back a sharp reply:
Check the ledgers.
Their laziness was in Auclair’s favor.
The name, one of the most common in the city and clearly a fake, meant clear. Light. She was anything but.
“She still hasn’t opened up?” Nik asked.
“Even Chantal can’t drag the past out of her.” Blai laid their head back to soak up the sun. “The girl is intent on remaining a ghost.”
He should leave it alone. Elouise had slipped beneath the Counseil’s notice, and her paperwork appeared legitimate. She was at least trying, and failing, to adhere to their plan. Despite them not knowing a thing about her, she was perfect. Obedient.
Too obedient.
“She’s running from something,” he said.
“We all are,” Blai mumbled. “She can bring snacks to our monthly club meetings.”
Nik pushed his chair back and began pacing the well-worn track behind his desk until the sound of a door and clear voices called him to the window.
Below, Elouise stormed into the shared garden between the houses and flopped into the grass, the summer sun beating down on her sweat-sheened face.
Her black hair was a wild tangle, her apron covered in filth, and she was—
Stroking blades of grass, eyes widened in wonder. She melted, frazzled edges giving way to perfect softness. Nik couldn’t look away as she broke a blade off to stare at it closer.
Nik had done the same thing the night his father gifted him this place. The house had been too big and too empty for his comfort, so he’d retreated to the garden, where he lavished in the greenery.
“We’ll take care of what she’s running from,” he heard himself say.
Blai peered over the sill.
“How will you do that?” they asked.
Nik shrugged. “Money. Blackmail. The usual.”
Below, Chantal stepped into view, watching Elouise for a long moment. Nik waited for her to use the cane to nudge her up. Instead, she lowered herself to the ground and fell backward. They lay like that for a moment, talking. Then giggling.
“Some problems,” Blai muttered, “like poor orphaned boys, can be solved that way. Others, like running from a past that could kill you at any moment, can’t.”
Because that was Blai’s existence. They gave up their passion in exchange for safety in a new country. If their real name ever got out; if they ever dared to return? They’d die.
“I doubt her past is so dramatic.”
Chantal and Elouise absorbed the sun while in gentle conversation. Elouise laughed, and a moment later, Nik heard the sweet sound again. Why was it so easy for Chantal to earn the girl’s trust?
Nik turned back to his desk and frowned at the amount of parchment and ledgers he still had to go through.
“You’ll need to cross the river to find out.”
Across the rooftops, a small strip of the Joyaux gleamed.
When he was a child, the name had never made sense to him.
All he knew were the murky depths that served as the Restes’s only water source—both food and sewage.
When he’d crossed the river four years ago to filtration and automatic taps, he’d vowed not to return unless he had a way to save the Restes.
From this view, it really was a stream of gemstones, each wave refracting the light.
Elouise and Chantal got up and disappeared back into the house. A moment later, there was a calm rush of water and the quiet clink of dishes as she started practicing again.
If she could keep going, so could he.
“Blai,” he said. “I’ll need a disguise.”
Nik had braced himself for unruly crowds and people huddled on stoops. The last time he’d visited, even before the bombing and the bloody aftermath, the Restes had been a hub of constant activity. Now street corners were manned by police rather than buskers trying to earn a som.
The Restes had never been a dangerous place, just one where you needed to stay alert.
They might be afraid of each other, afraid of another uprising, but the Restes were also afraid of the confines the Counseil had been forced to issue: curfews, identity checks across the bridges, search and seizure.
It was the price paid to keep the rest of the city safe.
The Restes was sick, and only he and his father could provide the cure.
When Lafontaine was ready, he would share the news of Lisette Plouffe’s treason and murder at the hands of the very rebels she helped.
The ensuing panic would cascade their plan into motion.
The Counseil would realize they needed someone to protect them, and who better than the greatest doctor in the city?
But to set any of this in motion and succeed, Nik had to verify who Elouise really was and keep her safe from whatever it was she was trying to escape.
Except, his plan wasn’t working. Two bakeries later, he still had no clue if Elouise Auclair even existed. There were only so many in the southern quarters, and he was quickly running out of leads. It sent him farther downriver.
Despite the heat hammering from the stones, a chill raced down his spine.
The tourists staying in artsy Le C?ur had no idea this side of Anespérer existed, let alone how cruel the winters under the bridges could be.
Ice clung from the arches, and you had to huddle close to the middle to avoid being impaled come morning.
And frost had a way of creeping through every tattered hole in your sweater, scraping skin sharper than any scalpel.
He rolled his shoulders back, shedding the memory as he came to the next bakery.
“—join me in wishing a hearty congratulations to our seven Favored officially entered into the Objet d’Art!”
A beautifully rendered sketch of Lisette Plouffe cheered from a poster plastered to the brick wall.
The paper was magied to withstand the elements, but that hadn’t stopped someone from marking her face: x’s over the eyes, fangs for teeth.
It was impressive considering the artist’s magie matched her grand gestures.
“They herald from all parts of our beautiful city, including a rare Restes gem. I’ve been told she’s a natural talent.”
The morbidity of a dead woman’s sketch relaying gossip as if she were still alive was almost too much for Nik. Almost. She was a traitor and deserved this humiliation.
“I’m getting ahead of myself! Let’s recap the wondrous Exposé of talent witnessed at Souverain Lafontaine’s chateau. First, a Professionnelle from Belleplace dazzled with…”
Despite the urge to wait around for what the crone had to say about Elouise, Nik refocused on the task at hand.
Gaetan’s Boulangerie was half the size of the others and twice as dingy, but it had the longest line, which stretched around the block.
Mothers hugged their children to their hips, workers rubbed grime from their faces, and a few Aspirants from Arts Nécessaire or Arts Manufacturiers stayed quietly to themselves.
Even if their uniforms were as faded as the Restes’s bleached clothes, they were different. Better off.
Nik excused himself up the line and into the building. People parted for his fresh cream chef’s coat and squared shoulders.
“Hey!” a wiry man behind the counter snapped. “These people have been waiting half the morning. Get to the back like the rest.”
Nik offered an apologetic smile. “I’m not here for a purchase. I wish to speak to the head baker.”
“We’re a bit busy for that.”
“I understand, but it’s about business in Le C?ur.”
That caught the grouch’s attention. His eyes narrowed before he shuffled away to the back.
The people exploded with complaints.
“My apologies,” Nik said. “It’ll take just a moment.”
The boulangerie was barely more than a place to make and sell bread.
There were chairs and tables, but very few customers sat to read their papers or gnaw on their baguettes.
The lighting was too dim for that. It wasn’t for lack of windows.
It was because one was covered in ash, the wood around the glass charred and sooty.
“You wanted to see me?” a gruff voice said.
“Yes, I’m looking for—”