Chapter 25 #2
The Restes had reason to celebrate. Gaetan, one of the quarter’s most treasured artisans, had achieved Directeur status barely a week ago, a feat no one had managed in over a hundred years.
And maybe … just maybe … they were celebrating her story too.
Orphaned at fourteen and brazen enough at eighteen to face the Counseil, she was nothing short of a Restes miracle.
The knob turned, the bell above the door chimed, and no one came to greet her.
Her stomach twisted.
“Gaetan?”
No answer.
She went to the darkened kitchen.
“Gaetan?”
She turned and found a thin spear of light slicing across the floor from Gaetan’s office.
“There you are,” she said. “I was worried you’d…”
He was slumped over his desk, an empty bottle in his grip. If it weren’t for the quiet snores rumbling from inside his folded arms, she would’ve panicked.
The room was messier than when she’d left. There were more wine bottles—hadn’t he quit drinking?—by his wastebasket, which was filled with papers, books, and his old Professionnelle uniforms.
“Ellie?”
Gaetan stared at her through glossy eyes.
It had been a week since she’d last seen him, but he looked shattered.
His new Directeur uniform was lighter in color, but it was as threadbare as an old rag and not at all the pristine coat Directeurs wore across the river.
His cheeks were blistered from drink, and his mustache had grown shabby.
Beneath his elbow was the cause of his grief: a piece of paper with alarmingly red writing.
Immediate Action Required: Foreclosure.
“This was your Directeur’s responsibility.” Elara shook the papers.
“I’m Directeur of this shop now,” he said, words slurring. “I inherited the building … and the bills.”
He went to wipe his face, only to remember the bottle in his hand. He upturned it, draining the last drops.
“You’re just going to drink?” she snapped. “You have to fight this.”
“I tried.” He leaned forward and nearly teetered out of his seat. “I appealed to the bank, but they refused. They said … said I was in charge now. It was my bakery, after all. Had my name on it and everything.”
Elara stared at the paper.
Gaetan’s Boulangerie.
It had been that way for decades.
“It was a trap,” she said. “Why the hell would they do this?”
“S’part of the game.” For a second, his eyes were fiercely clear. “That’s why I changed my mind. You haffta win this thing, kid.”
She clenched the notice to her chest. “I can’t. You were wrong. I’m nothing like my mother. I’m not idealistic, I’m not brave, I’m—”
“Learning.” He lifted her chin with his knuckles. “The Counseil and the people blowing smoke up their asses believe they know everything. But you? You’re figuring it out for yourself. A free thinker is a wonderful, dangerous thing, Ellie.”
“But I’ve made too many mistakes,” she whispered.
“You grew up fast and you grew up hard. Corinne caused that. But she also gave you something she never had—opportunity.” He pointed to the kitchen. “You know what’s outside those doors? Work. Endless work. Your mother got herself killed trying to give you room to create.”
Elara had only ever seen her mother as reckless, someone who let her anger get the best of her. Until last night, she’d never stopped to ask herself why her mother and the rebels had been so angry in the first place, and the answers had been all around her.
She thought the rebels were foolish for not wanting to play by the Counseil’s rules, for not trying harder instead of opting to burn everything down.
But the game had been rigged the whole time.
“Corinne chose a different path. Not better or worse. Just different,” Gaetan said.
Elara touched her chest, almost as if to call Fernand.
She’d been wrong about him too.
Because of her mother, he and a whole new generation were ready to fight.
Because of her mother, Elara had a life in which she could learn and practice freely.
Because of her mother, because of Elara, Lafontaine was terrified.
Someone so hungry for power could only care about themselves.
Nik believed he wanted to become Grand Souverain to save the Restes, but that was a lie.
If he’d wanted to help, he could’ve sent medicine and doctors.
He could’ve stood with Tremblay and Faucher last night. He didn’t care about peace or equality.
Then what did he really want?
And what would he do to people like Gaetan and Fernand in order to get it?
“My dear friends!” Lisette Plouffe chimed from inside the kitchen.
“Last night’s second contest will be spoken about for centuries to come.
A rebel’s daughter has beaten the odds and carved her way to the finals.
That’s right! Elouise Auclair is none other than Elara Rousseau, daughter of the insurrectionist Corinne Rousseau. ”
“Insurrectionist.” Elara snorted. “Fancy. Mom would’ve liked it.”
“She also would’ve loved your dish. Starvation magie?”
Elara shrugged. “Figured the Counseil needed a reality check.”
Outside, a group staggered by, singing at the top of their lungs, voices echoing off the bricks. Gaetan hummed along, waving his finger. He snatched the foreclosure from her grip and tucked it in his pocket.
“Help an old man up?”
Elara pulled him by the arm and shouldered his weight as he got his legs beneath him.
“Come on.”
They left, following the sound of revelry.
“Why are there so many people out?” she asked.
He flashed a grin that reminded her of the photograph tucked in her book at home. “They have something worth celebrating.”
“What?”
Gaetan turned down a narrow alley. The windows above were open, flooding more light and music into the oncoming night. A man sat on his sill with one leg thrown out as he leaned up, staring at the first glimpse of stars as he whistled. Carefree.
Gaetan stopped.
“You,” he said. “You spoke, Elara, and the people listened. They want change. Your mother tried, but maybe you can help show them a different way.”
There, upon the bricks in fresh, glistening paint, were familiar words.
I am unforgettable.
In an instant, Elara understood why Fernand had chosen her as the match to his flame. A fire could not burn without first igniting. It took friction, and friction could not be created unless there was resistance.
Elara had resisted the fact that her mother was both baker and rebel.
She’d resisted the same desperate desire to make real change in the Restes.
Now she’d resisted the Counseil, proving anyone could produce art.
I am unforgettable.
“No future is certain,” Gaetan said, gripping her shoulder with a tender squeeze, “but trust your heart. It’ll take you and all of us somewhere better.”
Elara stared up at him through bleary eyes. “Thank you.”
“I don’t do tears. Just go back before—”
She threw her arms around him and buried her head in his chest. The old ox took a moment, but he eventually caved, and she felt his strong grip tighten around her.
“Knock ’em dead, kid,” he muttered into her hair.