Chapter 25
ELARA
Elara shoved the meringue onto the table with the other failed desserts.
Last night, she’d created a tart powerful enough to bring the entire Counseil to their knees, reclaimed her name in front of a mercurial audience, and avoided jail, all while suffering from third-degree burns.
Today, whipped eggs and sugar defeated her.
She was trapped in her own head.
She, Elara Rousseau, was a finalist in the Objet d’Art for Souverain of Arts Culinaires, while a year ago, she’d had to grovel for acceptance into the Société.
Had the Counseil kept her to maintain peace?
Or was it a trap? It felt as if nothing in her life was certain anymore—not even the previous thoughts of her mother.
Across the room, the black envelope chimed.
She dropped into a seat near the window, letting the sun coat her skin. She could ignore the letter. If she didn’t open it, she couldn’t compete. End of story.
Except the ringing grew louder and louder and—
“Fine!”
She snapped it open.
CONGRATULATIONS, CHEF ELARA ROUSSEAU!
The appearance of her true name in swirling script brought a surprising surge of warmth to her chest.
Out of thousands of chefs, seven were chosen. Now only three remain. The city holds its breath, eager to discover who will become the next Souverain of Arts Culinaires.
To help the Counseil determine who has the intelligence, courage, and loyalty to stand with them, an interview will be hosted at the heart of Anespérer at the Senate in two days.
While this will not serve as an elimination round, the Counseil will weigh the interview as equally as your final performance.
Regards,
THE COUNSEIL DES SEPT
The Senate. The place where her mother attempted to wipe out the entire Counseil. Elara had never stepped foot there. She imagined crumbling marble walls and a smoldering crater deep in the earth where the Souverains used to gather.
The venue didn’t frighten her. Neither did the Counseil. She’d confessed everything last night, and there was nothing else for them to dig up about her or her mother.
Except she hadn’t confessed everything …
Fernand’s stolen paper crinkled in her pocket.
With her name in the open, it wouldn’t take them long to learn how involved she’d been with Fernand and that he was a Restes scoundrel who defied the rules at every turn.
Her meeting with him had been secret. But how secret?
Plenty of people had recognized her there.
And the Lisette Plouffe flyers wouldn’t hold back the juicy story of a hidden identity among the Favored.
They hated her. If the police pushed hard enough, they wouldn’t hesitate to sell her out.
And Fernand would be destroyed alongside her.
The interview had to be perfect. Elara didn’t want to become Souverain, but it might be the best way to stop Lafontaine from becoming Grand Souverain, from having any more power over the Restes.
Fernand’s desperation to understand the note, his claims of working with Plouffe …
It all seemed ridiculous. Unless it was true.
Suddenly, the timer ticking away at the bottom of the letter frightened her.
One day, twenty-three hours, thirty-four minutes.
And already half the day was gone.
She had to practice.
As she attempted another set of meringues, she imagined the questions they might ask.
How do you feel about your mother’s attack on the Senate? Easy. While the violence was extreme, it should’ve told the Counseil their citizens in the Restes were unhappy.
What will you do as Souverain? She would find a way to give everyone a chance to learn a skill, and she would start with cooking and baking.
Elara would be honest.
Last night’s speech had been just as surprising for her. Being in the Objet d’Art had awoken something in her that had been buried deep, and it all came to a head after being forced to feel so small by the Counseil.
Like everyone else, she’d been manipulated her entire life to focus only on the destruction her mother had caused rather than question the reason for her anger.
And Elara had been selfish to ignore every cry of help from the Restes.
In an effort to get ahead, she’d turned her nose up at people being snatched from the streets, refused to acknowledge the harsh Counseil rule needed to change, and used a disgust for violence as a reason to not even try.
When she’d spat those words at the Counseil, she’d let out all the things the Objet d’Art had brought to light: the reservation of education for the rich, the duplicity of violence across the river while Souverains worried about the greenery of their lawns, and the use of dreams to inspire false hope and obedience.
Elara didn’t want to be Souverain. She wasn’t a politician.
But what the hell else was she supposed to do now?
There was only one person she trusted to answer that.
Elara snatched some baskets from the cabinets and began packing away all the failed pastries.
“Where are you headed?” Chantal asked from the doorway. “Wait!”
She snatched a mint chocolate cake from the tower and hummed with delight as she waltzed around the kitchen, buttery skirts fluttering.
“I need some inspiration,” Elara answered. “And I don’t want these to go to waste. Do you think Blai can magie me a disguise?”
“Why would you need that? Your secret’s out.”
“I’m supposed to be secluded, remember?”
Chantal snorted. “You think the other Favored have been abiding by that rule?”
“They haven’t?”
“Of course not.” Chantal took a basket and headed down the hallway.
Elara snatched the other parcel and bolted after her, wrestling with her skirts as she ran—directly into something warm and hard. Her feet tangled beneath her, and she yelped, bracing to hit the floor.
Arms banded around her waist, tugging her close before gravity could even take effect.
She was out of breath.
Nik was frozen, eyes widened with boyish shock. Everything about him was boyish this morning, from the dark curls that refused to be tamed by pomade to the way his lips kept bobbing for words. The same lips she’d wanted to kiss last night.
“Good afternoon,” she said quietly.
“Afternoon. Where are you two headed?”
“I…” Elara had no idea what to say to that. He wouldn’t like the truth, but she didn’t want to lie to him.
“We’re getting some air,” Chantal said, popping her head back into the door. “Want to—Oh!”
They both snapped out of the spell that had wrapped itself around them. Nik released her and took three giant steps toward the kitchen. Elara mirrored him, rushing right out the front door.
Despite the clout that might follow her name, Elara still chose to take her hidden entrance into the Restes.
The last thing she needed was to give the Counseil more ammunition when they inevitably came for her.
If they learned she’d been here today, they’d use it against her. Or worse, the people she loved.
Chantal fared the treacherous route better than Blai. She leapt the stream and balanced by her toes on the slender ledge, twirling into the narrow alley between the tenements with a flourish of skirts.
“So,” she said, “are we going to talk about it? You and Nik?”
“Nope.” Elara hated how easy it was to flush. She never felt this way with Fernand. “There is absolutely nothing to talk about.”
“Of course.” The grin on her face said she didn’t believe a word of it. Her expression faded as she stopped before the husk of a building, the bricks cracked and the roof collapsed. From a few windows, faces peeked out.
“They live here?”
Elara nodded. “It’s that or in the open where the guards will harass them.”
“What happened to this place?”
“These are some of the oldest buildings in the Restes. The Directeur landlords don’t keep up with maintenance, saying it’s the tenants who need to pay for the upkeep.” She shook her head. “But they don’t have enough money to feed their families, let alone gut an entire building.”
Chantal’s mouth thinned into a grim line. “That’s barbaric.”
“Just as barbaric as forcing a ballerina to break.”
Elara laid her basket upon the stoop and turned away, soul lifting as she heard the creak of a door and the delighted hums of bellies being filled.
As they neared The Market, Elara’s pace slowed to the sound of something foreign.
There was … music. It trilled from bars and joined raucous laughter filling the air. Tables crowded the open spaces, and people sat around them, chattering and toasting. Children raced between stands, ribbons whipping in the air above their heads.
“Watch out!” a kid screamed, racing past.
Others followed, sloshing paint from their buckets.
Paint. Fellowship. Hope. In the Restes.
“This is what I want for Arts Spectacle,” Chantal said, watching the children with bright eyes.
“I want a place where dancers come in every shape, size, and color. Where painters might bake, and doctors are free to play music.” She turned back to Elara.
“I don’t want to live in a city ruled by the whims of seven people who’ve forgotten what art is really about. ”
Because where the children gathered, they weren’t just dancing. They were braiding their ribbons together, ducking and weaving their bodies over and under until the colors formed an intricate pattern.
Elara was here for herself.
But she was here for these children too.
She needed to get her shit together. In two days, her convictions had to be strong enough to survive the Counseil’s interrogation of an interview.
“I have to meet someone,” Elara said, taking off before Chantal could call out.
The windows inside Gaetan’s Boulangerie were dim, the chairs upturned early for the night. Hand-painted signs of congratulations hung in the windows and emptied wine bottles towered from the garbage cans.