Chapter 49
ELARA
The moment Elara was aware of something other than the dark, she clung to it.
A few times already she’d tried to follow little hints of life to the surface: a press of fingers on her forehead, the quiet shuffle of a page, a murmured conversation.
All in vain. This time, she heard a pouted it’s my turn, and she wrapped herself around every syllable until she could feel her toes, her fingers, and the ache in her spine from lying still so long.
The first thing she saw was a familiar sage-green ceiling printed with flowers.
The second was a beautiful face covered in vibrant makeup.
The world threatened to darken, but she refused to be swallowed again.
“Good morning,” Blai said.
The sound split her head open.
“Sorry,” they whispered. “The doctors said you’d be in a lot of pain if … when you woke up.”
Pain wasn’t a strong enough word. It felt as if she’d housed a fire inside her rib cage and now there was nothing left but ash and smoldering embers.
She’d actually felt the poison scouring through her nerves like dogs on the hunt. It had sought out any morsel of magie and feasted. Unlike the tattoo, which had muffled her memories, this tried to destroy them.
Elara thought of her mother. Corinne Rousseau. Dark hair. Kind smile. Laugh like a horse. She’d taught her how to make her first pie crust, and she’d died fighting for the Restes. She died because Lafontaine killed her.
Good. Old and recent memories were still there.
She tried baking next. What did it take to make the perfect crust? Frozen butter. Flour. Water. A dash of salt. Laminated to flaky perfection and baked to a delicate golden brown.
She tried the recipe again, in detail this time.
“Two cups flour … No … One and a half cups…” She squinted hard. “How much butter?”
Fabric gently brushed her cheeks where she must’ve been crying.
“They said it could come back,” Blai said gently. “With time and practice.”
“And my magie?” she whispered.
They heaved a sigh. “Do you want the truth or something to make you feel better?”
“The truth.”
“There’s no telling if you’ll be able to perform magie until you try. The doctors think it might be like not practicing for a while. The skill isn’t gone. You just need to brush off the dust.”
Elara turned her cheek to the window as another tear slid down her face.
It had taken her whole life to own her magie, and Lafontaine had destroyed it in a matter of seconds.
Blai got up and returned with a glass of water that Elara downed before asking for more. At three glasses, she felt sick, not sated. What the hell had the serum done to her?
“What happened to the Restes?” she asked.
Outside the window, the skies were blue with an encouraging lack of smoke. Birds called from the gardens and there were voices chattering below.
No bullets.
No screams.
“You did it,” Blai answered.
“Did what?”
“Oh, you know.” They waved their palm dismissively. “Stopped a war, caused governmental reform. Nothing special.”
The words wouldn’t sink in.
“I’m tired of this room.” Blai laid a dress on the bed. “Do you feel up to a walk?”
“Please.” Elara gingerly crawled from the bed. She had to lean heavily against the posts to remain upright, but she was standing. “Where to?”
Belleplace was the same. The Joyaux was the same. But The Market was entirely new.
Given the lack of blood and bodies, the finale had been some time ago. Days? Weeks?
The stations had been cleared away, the horrendous execution device dismantled, and new opportunities had taken their places. A red tent had a fleet of doctors to tend to the wounded and sick. They changed bandages, checked on coughs, and provided medicines.
Not a single som was paid.
Beneath a green tent, families collected baskets of food and clothing.
A purple tent offered official paperwork many had gone decades without: birth certificates and work orders.
A silver tent sent out shipments of wood, nails, and metal. People brought barrels to fill with bricks only to wheel them away down the street toward the collapsed buildings.
The beige Arts Culinaires tent offered hot meals. Berina and Hector were among the chefs ladling out food and talking with the Restes people.
“How long have I been out?” she asked.
“Two weeks.” Blai shrugged. “Fernand thinks the progress is slow, but he’ll learn to temper his expectations if he wants to remain on the new Assembly.”
“Assembly?”
“Assembly of Peoples.” Blai grimaced. “The name is wretched, but apparently that’s unimportant right now.”
They turned to her. “Want to see?”
Elara was shocked when they arrived at Gaetan’s Boulangerie.
She wasn’t sure if she could step even a foot inside after … after everything.
“They chose this place for ease of access, and because Tremblay needed to be reminded of all this quarter has lost.”
Blai opened the door and stepped in.
The dining area was filled with life. The tables had been shoved together in the center to serve as a massive meeting desk in which all participants could see one another.
People, some she recognized, crowded together, shoulders pressed tight as they argued.
“We don’t want your handouts,” Fernand snarled. “We want equal share and support like the rest of your damned citizens!”
“And what does that look like on our part?” shouted Tremblay. She was surrounded by a small host of people who exuded money. “The factories can’t run without workers, and without the factories, Anespérer will be ruined!”
“The people want to work,” Nicollette hissed. “But they’ll only work for a fair wage.”
“Which Gabriel oversaw! Not me!”
“Which is why we created this Assembly. We make new rules!” Fernand shouted louder. “Why have we gone round and round on this?”
“Because you’re impatient, hero.” Blai touched his shoulder like a lover, then pushed him down into a seat. “Everyone. We have a guest.”
They all turned. Who was everyone—
A blur of saffron yellow smacked into her, squeezing until she couldn’t breathe.
“I’m so glad you’re here,” Chantal whispered. “These people are insufferable. Even I don’t have the patience.”
Elara laughed. “If you can’t do it, no one can.”
“We’ve met every day for two weeks, but we’d make more progress if someone could open his mouth without insulting people.”
“I’ll play nice when these crooks pay up,” Fernand shot back. “I need a break.” He got up and approached, elbow out for Elara to take. “Come with me?”
Blai mouthed please.
Elara nodded. “Of course.”
As they walked, Fernand explained all that had happened while she’d been out. Nik had magied the flyers and Plouffe’s banner to reveal copies of Lafontaine’s formula, which doctors later verified as the poison in the food as well as the syringe he’d plunged into her heart.
Lafontaine had been arrested. Souverain Gabriel had fled.
Now they were beginning reparations, starting with the formation of the Assembly of Peoples. Equal representation from all quarters.
According to Fernand, it was taking forever.
“You’ve done more for the Restes in two weeks than anyone has in a century,” she said. “Art takes patience.”
“I’m not an artist.”
“That’s not true.” She motioned to the construction around them.
People who waved and cheered him—not her.
In fact, the words she’d shouted at the second contest were beginning to melt away.
Soon, she would be a footnote in the greater changes of this city.
Fernand was the kind of person who would carry them forward.
“Art isn’t always something you can hang in a gallery or a shop window.
It’s the ability to look inward, to wrestle with the darkest parts of yourself, then express those feelings in the hopes others resonate with them. ”
Pain of what she’d lost flickered in her chest, but she shoved it away.
“You have a gift with people. You make them listen.”
“I make them heard,” he corrected her.
“That’s exactly what I’m talking about. You’ll change this city, Fernand. Just be patient with the process.”
A lamp flickered overhead. The stalls were closing down, supplies were being stored for tomorrow, and people were returning home or to the bars for the night.
Then there was music.
Laughter.
Joy.
Fernand made her face him. “You’re sad.”
“I know I did the right thing,” she confessed, “and I don’t regret a single moment, but…” She extended her palms. Magie had been hers. No matter the rules or roadblocks, magie had always belonged to her.
Fernand threaded his fingers with hers.
“Let me show you something.”
He walked with her, careful to take their steps slow when she needed to catch her breath.
It was down their second turn she found the courage to ask, “Where’s Nik?”
Fernand’s grip tightened for a second. “Tremblay asked to deal with him directly.”
“She arrested him?” It shouldn’t surprise her. He’d been complicit in his father’s attempt to rig the Objet d’Art, and he’d … Well, he hadn’t known much of anything else. The plot to poison the Restes had belonged only to Lafontaine.
He’d given up the rebels to his father, but that wasn’t illegal no matter how much it hurt.
“Not quite,” Fernand said. “I’m sure you’ll see him soon enough. He demanded to check on you every day.”
“Every day?” she asked.
Fernand rolled his eyes. “Wouldn’t take no for an answer.”
The thought warmed her even though she should hate him.
“You ready?” Fernand asked as he took her down one final, familiar bend. It was a crooked, forgotten alley to a run-down, abandoned store.
Except it wasn’t anymore.
Café Divin was real.
The boards had been stripped from the windows, and warm light flooded across the cobblestones.
The building’s exterior was covered in scaffolding, but she could see part of it had already been painted a dark plum.
The tables and chairs were outside in the process of being refinished in red stain.
The canopy above the door was brilliant yellow with fringed tassels.
It wasn’t ready yet, but it would be soon.
Every inch of it was exactly as Nik had promised in his blueprints. Room for poets to meet outside, a cozy dining hall for conversation, and a rooftop community garden.
He’d done this … for her.
It was her shop.
Her dream
Her home.