Chapter 13 #2
When she tried to scream again, something was shoved into her mouth, and pain like her mother must have felt the night she died ripped through her. Rusty blades cut her cheeks and tongue until she retched again.
The vision cleared.
She was on the ground, back against the cabinets, sweating profusely from more than the summer sun. Gaetan knelt beside her, one hand pressed against her forehead.
“Easy, Ellie. Easy.”
“What happened?” she croaked.
“That … that … trou du cul drugged you.”
Elara clawed her way up to glare at the chef who’d given her the damned root.
“That son of a—”
“Not him,” Gaetan said.
Fiona smirked, wriggling her fingers in a teasing wave.
“Berina’s right. Some of us want to win.” She tipped her knife to the dais, where the clock was ticking. “Better get a move on.”
Nearly half their time was gone. Wasted.
Nikolas, Blai, Chantal … They’d all been right. In the Restes, people did what it took to survive, but they weren’t cruel. Here, people would do anything if it meant getting ahead.
Fuck that. Elara could fight back in her own way.
She pushed up her sleeves and picked up the root.
“Boil this monstrosity, then dehydrate it into a powder,” she said.
“Then what?”
She flipped to a new recipe. “We elevate Mama’s parfait.”
Together, they penned out a revised recipe using the new ingredients. Gaetan was the perfect partner because he didn’t let her run wild but he didn’t inhibit her vision either. When they found something they both agreed upon, they went to work.
Gaetan smashed the calmante seeds with a hammer until the insides broke free. This he turned into a purée using only three of the seeds, because four, he said, would render the Counseil unconscious.
Elara and Gaetan created their own beautiful rhythm until the contest faded away.
Oven on.
Roots smashed and dried from a low and slow bake.
Calmante whipped into a delicate mousse.
A gel made from sweet raspberries and warm, honeyed vanilla.
“This might not work,” she reminded Gaetan.
He never wavered. “We’ll know soon enough.”
They brought the layers together, alternating and chilling each in perfect ratios of mousse, gel, and crumble.
“Five minutes!” Faucher called.
Elara sealed seven identical chocolate spheres.
“One!”
Gaetan plated them with crumble.
“TIME!”
Elara squealed as she laid the last curl of caramel atop the final dish, then tossed herself into Gaetan’s arms. He caught her and twisted her around. It was the first time she’d felt free enough to hug him as she used to. The first time she’d heard him laugh in four years.
Over his shoulder, she laid eyes on Nikolas, who was … scowling? If he was angry their plan had gone awry, surely he would understand once she explained everything. Except he wasn’t looking at her. He was glaring at Gaetan.
Faucher’s voice bellowed, “You will be called up one at a time to present your creations. After, the top five will be announced in order of their performance. First up, Charles Renard.”
The curly-haired chef who’d thrown her the repulsive root approached with delicate-looking desserts already melting in the heat.
Elara didn’t hide her smile when he received scathing feedback and left sobbing all the way back to his station.
Bellamy, with the uncle in Arts Manufacturiers, did the same.
Manon Gavreau had opted for a summer tart and floated by with mild comments.
Fiona delighted them with some rare Cael pastry.
Berina and Hector also walked away with positive remarks.
Then it was her turn.
She and Gaetan presented their chocolate domes, which were decent. They were identical, shiny, and sat perfectly upon a sprinkle of crumble.
“What is it called?” Souverain Faucher asked.
Elara threw a glare back at Fiona. “Un Instant de Force.” A Moment of Strength.
“If you would.” Lafontaine motioned to the seventh plate.
Elara tucked in, cracking the chocolate shell to reveal the calmante mousse and raspberry, vanilla center.
She took a bite with the root crumble. Flavors and sensations burst through her mouth—none of them pain.
The texture was delicately smooth, the magie warm and inviting.
The calmante amplified her vision again, but this time it wasn’t unpleasant.
It was soothing and made way for the burst of power in her veins from the root.
“Enjoy,” she said, voice soft.
The Counseil tucked in quicker than they had any other dish.
At first, nothing happened.
Then Faucher stood, head bowed as if in pain.
If Elara hurt the Counseil, there’d be no recovering. The police would put a bullet straight through her and Gaetan’s hearts.
Suddenly, Faucher threw her head back and … sang.
The notes trilled high into the blue sky. From nowhere, ash and smoke burst in great plumes that descended upon the crowd, plummeting everything into darkness.
Then there was chaos.
Strangled shouts echoed all around her, followed by piercing, wet screams. Metal sang against metal like swords and armor clashing.
“Gaetan!” Elara reached for him only to find air.
A light burst upon the horizon, clearing the area in an aftershock of wind.
The arena was gone, and Elara stood in the center of a battlefield surrounded by soldiers. Faucher, no longer dressed in white, raised a broadsword high as more soldiers cascaded over a hill.
“Watch out!” someone shouted too late.
Pain ripped through Elara’s arm. She screamed and clamped down on the wound. Blood wept between her fingers, warm and sticky. Too real to be magie. Her boots slipped against the mud, and she crashed onto the ground just as a sword raised above her head.
Hands grabbed her, pulling her back to reality.
The battlefield was gone. The sky clear. The chefs were huddled with their mentors, and the crowd beyond the hedge cowered for their lives.
Gaetan grabbed both her shoulders. “What was that?”
“No idea,” she whispered.
It was supposed to amplify their magie, but only by a fraction thanks to the calmante seed. Unless she’d been wrong or … put too much emotion into it. Shit.
The gash in her arm ached. The gash. In her arm. It was bleeding … it was real.
Faucher collapsed into her chair, face bloomed with manic delight. “Absolutely wonderful! That was the final battle of Elizabeta the Brave! More real than any stage production could conjure. Bravo!”
The Counseil were silent.
No one said a word. Not about the flavor. Not about the magie.
“Dismissed,” Lafontaine said.
Elara looked back to Nikolas, whose scowl hadn’t shifted.
She’d messed up. Terribly.
“That’s it?” Gaetan huffed. “All that, and you can’t even offer feedback?”
Elara stomped his foot. “Forgive him, Souverains. He—”
“The crumble was powerful, but the flavor was lacking,” Lafontaine cut in. “The raspberry gel was nothing inspiring.”
Gaetan tightened his fists, but Elara tugged him back to their station, where he wrapped a kitchen towel around her wound.
“Those bastards have no taste,” Gaetan muttered. “No wonder progress is impossible in this city.”
Elara’s laugh was cut off by a hiss as he cinched the knot tight.
“What did we do?” Gaetan asked.
“The root amplifies magie. I tried to dampen its power with the calmante seed, but it wasn’t enough. It was…”
“Magnifique.” He squeezed her hands. “I meant what I said about your mother. For the life she’d been given, she was amazing.” He leaned in. “But you weren’t given her life, no? You were given your own.”
Elara blinked up at him.
As the weight of his words settled, the Counseil’s final plates were cleared, and the chefs gathered before the dais for judgment.
This was fine. If she lost, she’d walk away proud she’d risen above Fiona’s treachery. Losing also meant Gaetan was kept from the limelight, even if it meant losing his job.
“We have seen and tasted some culinary wonders this afternoon.” Faucher’s voice was considerably weaker.
“This is turning out to be a contest beyond our imagining. In first place, we have someone who showed a Souverain’s cunning and an artist’s tenacity.
Someone who was ready to win no matter the cost.”
Elara shot Fiona a glare. She winked back.
“Our victor for the day is…”
She took Gaetan’s hand. “I’m so sor—”
“Elouise Auclair.”