“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.
26NIK
Nik stared at the ceiling, just as he’d done yesterday morning, a hand pressed to his cheek as if it might hold the warmth of Elara’s lips on his skin a little bit longer. That night in the garden had been so damn—
Foolish. A mistake.
Even if he came clean about… everything… he was sure even her kindness had limits.
Still, it was nice to close his eyes and recall the way her head felt on his shoulder, curls tickling his cheek.
No one had ever trusted him like that, and it was terrifying.
He’d hidden in his room with his sketch pad for the last two days to try and sort through his thoughts, which were a riot of half-baked ideas, incongruent lines, and shapes that defied physics. But they could work.
He could show them to her, prove he was on her side.
He forced himself into a fresh suit and went downstairs only to find Elara at the kitchen counter, back straight as Chantal interrogated her.
“How would you take Arts Culinaires in a different direction?” Chantal asked.
“Equality,” Elara replied. “I would focus money—”
“Funding.”
