“I think it’s you who should listen,” he said quietly. “If you want to keep your newfound fortune, you’ll tell Lafontaine the truth: Dupont is trying. Understood?”
The pathetic creature had the audacity to look confused. “What?”
Before he could clarify, the door opened again. This time, two Directeurs in Arts Humain ruby colors stepped in.
“Dupont.” It was not a question.
“Yes?”
“Souverain Lafontaine requests your presence.”
Lafontaine didn’t make requests, and he rarely called upon Nik while he was at work. Something had happened.
Nik ripped off the gloves and tossed them at Chambon’s feet before turning away.
“Dupont,” Chambon called.
Nik didn’t answer.
“Dupont!”
The panic in Chambon’s shrill voice as he chased after him would have been enough excitement for the day.
But it couldn’t overcome the thrill of facing Lafontaine.
3ELARA
The door to Gaetan’s Boulangerie slammed, taking the smell of ash and Elara’s hopes for the future with it.
For a long moment, she couldn’t force herself to move.
It’s how your mother ended up dead.
Gaetan might have been right. Elara wasn’t satisfied with the way things were, and she craved a new tomorrow like she craved decadent, mind-bending treats. And sure, she might’ve ended up in the wrong company a time or two, but it wasn’t the reason her mother was gone. That honor went to an entirely different, foolish belief.
The telltale whispers of a curious crowd surrounded her.
You know who she is, right?
Corinne’s girl.
I would’ve thought she’d learned her lesson.
“Well, I haven’t.” Elara spun around. “I’m a Rousseau; what do you expect?”
She’d thrown the name out in spite, but she hadn’t expected the crowd to physically recoil from it. Any pity she’d seen was replaced with fear.
“Move!” The crowd parted for her. “Show’s over.”
If it weren’t for her last name, the crowd would’ve heralded her a hero. Powerful magie wasn’t something the Restes saw often, and when someone managed to beat the odds and learn it, they gathered like moths to the flame.
But not for Elara.
Not for a Rousseau.
Even if she managed to make a life across the Joyaux, it would haunt her there too. Most civilians didn’t know all the rebels, but they certainly kept the ringleader—Corinne Rousseau—in the front of their minds. Four years ago, she and her band of terrorists had risen up and, unsuccessfully, attacked the Senate, an austere marble eyesore atop the highest hill where it could be seen from every quarter. A building of power where the Counseil des Sept doled out laws and regulations.
Except their original target, the Souverains, hadn’t been in the meeting hall that night. Instead, the only people the rebels managed to kill were themselves, a few Senate guards, and a gathering of Directeurs who’d occupied the room instead.
