Chapter 12
ELARA
The morning of the first contest dawned strawberry-icing pink before burning an angry red path through her bedroom. Elara didn’t often see sunrise from the comfort of blankets and pillows. For as long as she could remember, she’d always been up and in a kitchen by dawn.
She’d been encouraged to sleep in as preparation for—how did Blai put it?
—the living nightmare she was about to go through.
All week, she’d prepared not only to complete an awe-inspiring bake within two hours but also to entertain the Counseil and their guests while also keeping her cool while also …
while also … while also … The list of demands never ended.
Whatever. She’d just be grateful to make space from Nik, who’d spent the last few days breathing down her neck. He’d stormed into the kitchen red-faced and more demanding than ever.
Don’t glower.
Is this how you plan to keep your station?
A child could move quicker.
Elara had refused to cave to what was an obvious attempt to break her. Rather than throw boiling water at his face or exchange salt for sugar in his morning tea, she kept her head down and agreed to every single fucking demand.
Then the insults got personal.
You’ll be back in the Restes by next week if you can’t follow directions.
Life gave you a second chance, and this is the best you can do?
If you just had a mentor—
“Enough!” She’d slammed a pot, sloshing molten sugar everywhere. “I won’t let you talk to me like that!”
“Sooner or later, you’ll have to trust me! I am your Patron!”
“I don’t give a damn who you are.”
For some reason, that had shut him up, and he’d spent the remainder of the afternoon glowering at her from afar as she practiced the outdated dessert they’d agreed upon for the week’s end: ?le flottante. Worse, she would only demonstrate emotion manipulation magie. Child’s play.
The constraints and endless rules—smile, don’t flirt, keep your apron clean but not too clean, and most importantly come fourth or fifth, no higher—almost made her miss Fernand. It had been a week since the break-in at Lafontaine’s.
Where was he now? Had their risky scheme paid off?
A gentle knock scattered her thoughts, and Chantal poked her head in. “I figured it was my turn to bring breakfast.”
Elara sat up. “You cooked?”
“Boulangerie Pascal did.” Chantal deposited a tray onto the bed and poured them both a cup of café. “Time to compare and prove you’re better than the best pastry chef in Galerie.”
The pastries were beautifully puffed and golden with delicate, flaky layers. Chantal was obviously being kind. Except the pastries were lacking in flavor and the whole thing was a dry, crumbly mess.
“Blai’s gone ahead to get us seats,” Chantal added. “I’ll help you get ready.”
“Please don’t make me wear that awful thing.” Blai’s designed dress hung from the back of the door. It was just like the sketch. Terrible. Plain. Itchy.
Chantal grimaced. “Think of it as a costume. Like in all the greatest operas … Julian the Valiant. Elizabeta the Brave!”
“Operas don’t make it south.”
“Well.” Chantal patted the chair in front of the vanity. “We’ll go the moment you’re crowned Souverain.”
Elara studied her burnt fingertips.
Her plans hadn’t changed. She had no interest in becoming a leader. Even if she did win, what the hell would she do with all that power? Running a Société for an entire city was different than running a bakery.
“What’s wrong?” Chantal settled on the bed.
“This isn’t how I thought it would go,” Elara replied.
“What did you imagine?”
“I don’t know … I just didn’t expect so many rules. To be so … trapped.”
“If I’m honest, I hate it too.” She got up and patted the chair again. “Come. Let’s get ready.”
“Why do you listen to Nikolas?” Elara asked, settling in. “He’s an ass.”
“Ah, so that’s what your foul mood is about. Fair.” Chantal twisted Elara’s curls into smooth ringlets. “Nothing excuses his behavior, but he’s had a hard life. It’s not easy being Lafontaine’s—”
Elara glanced up. Chantal tried to recover, but it was too late.
She breathed out and said, “Being Lafontaine’s direct apprentice isn’t easy.”
“He … what?”
Chantal nodded. “Like every other Patron, he wants to prove himself to his Souverain. He thinks this is the best way.”
“Is it?”
This, she didn’t answer. She resumed pinning Elara’s hair and brushing her skin with a light layer of makeup. “Nik has a lot of pain, but it’s no excuse to make you feel anything less than what you are.”
“Which is?”
“Powerful.”
Elara flushed. “Blai and Nik are in it for power, but what about you? What do you get out of this?”
“I was the first ballerina in the Maran family. Did you know that?” Elara shook her head, and Chantal continued, “A long line of business moguls in Arts Nécessaire, and I broke it the day I entered Arts Spectacle. I had to work twice as hard to prove myself. Extra rehearsals, staying late, arriving early, private lessons, anything to get ahead. It was worth it when I became prima ballerina.”
She smiled as she dusted Elara’s cheeks with rouge.
“I became a role model, a doll they could parade around for publicity and I loved it. It made me push myself, to be better than the rest. I even conditioned myself for a new style of leap the instructors had designed specifically for me.”
It wasn’t difficult to imagine Chantal’s lithe body flying through the air, weaving magied spells across her captive audience.
“Did you learn it?” Elara asked.
“Of course! It was a spectacular opening night of a spectacular run. I was the best in the field, Anespérer’s darling, and the pride and joy of my family. Until the next opera season began.” Her voice darkened.
“One trick wasn’t enough,” Elara answered.
“The higher you climb, the narrower the ladder rungs become. They wanted more and more, again and again … until I broke. Just as they intended.”
The cane leaning in the corner became clear now. There were good mornings and bad, days when the rain settled in and she leaned upon it more. Her Société had done that to her.
“I’m so sorry, Chantal.”
“Don’t be.” She lowered the makeup brush. “It took me a long time to realize I’m not broken. They are. Maybe my new powerful Souverain friend will help me make a ballet studio that caters to all needs.”
“Chantal, I…”
“Being Souverain isn’t just about running Arts Culinaires and baking pretty things. You can make a difference.”
A knot bruised her throat. “How?”
Chantal nudged her chin to the side, forcing Elara to look at her face in the mirror. Chantal hadn’t covered her freckles but she’d applied a dark red lip. It was as if she’d highlighted all the aspects of her face that Elara loved—her nose, her dark brows, and her full cheeks.
“Think of why you started in the first place.”
The black carriage rounded the circular drive of Chateau des Visages, Souverain Faucher’s home.
Ribbons representing every Société waved along the road leading to the front gardens, where the other carriages were parked.
The trees sparkled with shimmering garlands, and flowers burst from glass spheres that floated through the air. Magie, Elara realized, was everywhere.
Outside was a world of wonderment.
Inside, Nikolas was a storm cloud. An antsy one that couldn’t stop fidgeting.
Was he nervous? Excited?
As soon as the carriage parked, Elara jolted toward the door only to be snagged by a sharply muttered wait.
“Remember,” he said, “no surprises, no mishaps, and no drawing attention to yourself.”
“And my mentor?” she asked.
He scratched his pant leg again, lips turning up sharply. “Someone I dug up. Pretend to like them.”
She mock saluted before springing from the carriage.
“Fourth or fifth place,” he called after her.
But she was already headed to a tent where little sandwiches and drinks had been prepared. The other chefs gathered in the shade, where they were deep in conversation.
Because they already knew one another.
Elara was an outsider.
A fraud.
No. She deserved to be here. Fernand got her the invitation, but her talent secured her place as one of the seven Favored. Elara had earned the right to eat fancy tarts and sip champagne like the rest of them.
She squared her shoulders and approached.
“Are we ready for today?” she asked.
The circle fell quiet. Some found sudden fascination with their drinks while others looked at one another for a hint as to how they should proceed with the Restes filth.
A woman with dark hair cut at the chin eventually said, “We’ll see, won’t we?”
“We were just discussing what we’d do if we made Souverain,” a man with a cloud of curly blond hair said. “What about you? What would be your first order of business?”
“Oh.” Her stomach tightened, but she passed it with a laugh. “I haven’t thought that far ahead. Free bread for the day?”
Some of them laughed, releasing the tension in her shoulders.
“Free bread?”
A woman with black hair plaited in a neat braid down her back canted her sharp chin. The golden rings pierced up her ears shimmered, matching the same gold on all their Favored chef coats. Berina Savi, her name tag read.
“You’re in the running to lead our Société, and your first act would be … bread?” She sneered.
“Berina.” A man Elara’s height, which was astonishingly short, stepped into the circle. She knew him immediately. “Let’s not be rude.”
Hector Vidal, one of the greatest chefs Anespérer had ever seen, was defending her. Elara remembered the first time her mother had sneaked home a slice of galette from his shop. They’d shared it together, picking each flavor and texture apart to find out what made it perfect.
He was older now than on the poster in her bedroom. His deep brown skin was still bright, but it bore heavy wrinkles—mostly around his mouth, which matched the smile that seemed to come so easily. His hair was cut close and mostly gray, and his hands—still strong—tremored a bit at his sides.
“None of this is a joke,” Berina snarled, turning on Elara again. “People would kill to take your place.”
The others were staring at her now.