Chapter 15 #2
It was a faded drawing of a café. The design was rudimentary at best. Not a single window or brick was drawn to scale, and the colors were offputtingly bright despite the sketch’s age. The margins were filled with doodles and quickly jotted-down notes for desserts to sell and events to plan.
“Whenever she felt hopeless, she’d add something new to Café Divin.”
“She wanted to be a Directeur,” Nik said.
“Except no one in the Restes ever rises higher than Professionnelle.”
Except Gaetan now. Thanks to Elara, he would be the first Directeur in decades to beat the system. In a few hours, when the Restes heard the news from the flyers, there would be celebration and hope. It would be a conduit for change.
But for now, Nik was here, with Elara.
He read the notes in the margins.
Tutoring.
Patio for artists.
Instruments inside for musicians.
No magie needed.
“Café Divin could be a place to welcome anyone who wants to learn,” she explained.
“Baking, painting, music, art. It could be a refuge.” Her voice grew sad, a rare emotion for her.
Except now he knew the bravado was a cover.
This moment? This vulnerability? It was all for him.
“I just wish my mother could’ve made it happen. ”
Nik wanted those things too.
Which meant he and Corinne Rousseau had, at one point, been fighting for the same thing. Except Nik wouldn’t have to murder to get what he wanted.
“It’s a nice dream,” he heard himself saying. “But we live in a cruel world where art—a part of a person’s very soul—determines power, fame, and fortune. Except it isn’t based on merit or dedication. It’s based on usefulness and wealth and what you can bring to the Sociétés.”
“Then let me show them what I can do,” she begged. “Let me keep going how I want to compete.”
He raked a hand through his curls, then across his face. “You’re not the only one stuck in this mess.”
He should’ve left it there and found a way to direct the conversation back to safer ground.
But she was inches away, and all that intense focus was on him.
Lafontaine would call him a fool, but he …
he wasn’t here right now. Damn Chantal and her suggestions.
Hours ago, he wouldn’t have considered it, but now? Nik wanted to tell her.
“My mother died when I was fifteen,” he said, voice shaking.
“What happened to her?” she asked.
He could tell her. The truth would twist her up inside until she was crushed with guilt. A few days ago, he would’ve done it without mercy. But the reality was that she couldn’t be blamed for her mother’s actions.
“I like to think of who she used to be,” he said. “She was quiet, yet somehow bold. The room never stopped for her, but it didn’t stop people from shifting around her. It was magie, how she could turn even the meanest drunk into a kitten.”
The first time she’d tempered a bar fight had terrified and awed Nik.
“She loved gardening, even practiced it long enough in secret to breed a new species of lavender. A hybrid strong enough to truly calm the nerves. Almost to a meditative state.”
Elara looked to her cup. “The tea. The window boxes.”
He nodded. “I learned enough to keep the plant alive.”
“She sounds wonderful.”
“She was. She was also stubborn, and like someone else I know, she was never satisfied. I just wish I had her talent.”
“For flowers?”
“For magie.”
Understanding shocked her face.
Horror flushed through Nik’s veins. The words had simply slipped out. He’d become too comfortable, and now she knew how weak he really was. How pathetic.
“It’s not easy,” she said.
His head shot up. There wasn’t a hint of pity in her gaze.
“Do you know how many loaves of bread I had to make before I could even manage to make someone feel happier? Three hundred.” She snorted. “It took an entire year of making the same damn recipe again and again to get it right.”
There was nothing in his life he could imagine repeating obsessively in order to perfect. Well, almost nothing.
“I’ve come to terms with it.” He shrugged. “Lafontaine taught me that power doesn’t always have to be from magie.”
“That’s progressive of him.”
“He’s one of the few Souverains trying to make this city better. He has a plan to change the whole system, El … Elouise.”
He longed to say her name. Her real name, but doing so would risk destroying this careful bridge they’d built tonight.
Chantal was partly right. Elara didn’t deserve to know the truth, but maybe if he fed her parts, she would stop fighting him, and they could finally work together.
He pressed on. “He wants to make it so everyone—regardless of magie—has a Société and a skill. When children are old enough to learn, they’ll be inducted into a trade where they’ll be sheltered, clothed, and fed.
” He couldn’t stop the excitement creeping into his voice.
In two weeks, everything he’d ever done would pay off.
“Why are you telling me this?”
“He can only accomplish this if you help vote him in as Grand Souverain. The title doesn’t exist yet, but with it he can make real progress.” He set his cup down and touched the drawing of Café Divin. “You need him as much as he needs you. If you become Souverain, you can support each other.”
She didn’t immediately recoil, which was a good start.
“What we’ve been doing isn’t working,” he added.
“Are you saying we should work together?” she asked.
“As much as it pains me to say it, yes.”
“Then I want full control of my bakes.” She held up her hand. “It’s the only thing I can control in this situation, and I’d do pretty damn well if you just quit mucking with my recipes. The crowd loved me.”
“They might inform the Counseil’s decisions, but they don’t make them.”
“Then help me sell my ideas to them. The magie can change, but the flavors are mine.”
“You still need to lie low. It’s down to five contestants now, and they’ll get rid of two more in the second round. Maybe don’t release an entire zoo or have plants eat the Counseil this time.”
Elara released a dramatic sigh. “Fine.”
Then she held out her palm.
“Your hands are sticky,” he grumbled.
“Little mess never hurt anyone.”
It was his turn to flush as they shook.
Neither of them let go until the clock chimed.
“I should go.”
“Do you want to help?”
Their voices overlapped.
“I’d be happy to teach you.” She motioned to the oven. “It might not be magie, but it’s a start.”
Nik stared at the half-prepared batter and the scattered ingredients. Food wasn’t comfort for him. It was a necessity, something to be consumed quickly before it could be stolen.
But when she looked at him with such openness, he couldn’t refuse. “Fine.”
She took a lump of material from the cupboards. “Wash your hands. Put this on.”
A patchwork monstrosity made of brilliant colors flew at him. It was large, rumpled like a blanket, with frills on the straps. An apron.
“No.” He tossed it back. “I agreed to cook, not to play dress-up. Find me something else.”
“There are only two, and that one doesn’t fit me.” She slapped it against his chest. The places where her fingertips touched his skin burned. “I’d hate to see you add another scar to your chest.”
Reluctantly, he yanked it over his head.
“Four cups to a saucepan.” She pushed cream toward him.
From this close, he could steal glances down at her, spotting the tattoo inside her robe again.
“What’s that?” he asked.
She pulled the folds closed. “Some mistakes are permanent.”
A gang? No. That wouldn’t account for the pink warming her cheeks. A lover?
He shook the thought away. It wasn’t his business.
Even as he measured with care, he still managed to spill cream on the counter.
She didn’t say a word, simply offered him a dish of butter. “Melt those together. Whisk constantly.”
The whisk was just as strange in his palm as a syringe. First, he stirred in circles, which didn’t feel right. He’d watched Elara plenty of times, so he should already know how to do it.
“Like this.” Elara whisked her own bowl.
He tightened his grip and followed. Flecks of hot milk sloshed over the edge, sizzling against the burner.
“Loosen up,” she said. “You look like you’re about to face a firing line.”
He tried, but the mixture thickened into ugly clumps. He wasn’t fast enough.
Loose enough.
Smart enough.
“Nikolas.”
The touch to his bicep was like a slap. One he’d endured many times. It sent him recoiling from the stove and her. His heart slammed against his ribs, and the room was closing in again. A deadly weight pressed upon his chest, suffocating his lungs.
“Nikolas.”
Elara was there, hands framing his face with gentleness he couldn’t resist. So help him, he nestled into her palms and allowed himself to breathe.
When his pulse evened out, he opened his eyes.
“You have to start somewhere.” She cleaned the pot, then measured out more cream and butter.
“We can always try again.”
Again.
He liked the sound of that. There were many things in his life Nik couldn’t take back or fix, but this wasn’t one. Tonight, here in this kitchen, with her, anything was possible. He could keep going until he succeeded at something.
He took the whisk.
Together, they started again.