An attendant appeared from the left wing. “Patrons, if you would follow me to the Grand Hall.”
Nik gave her a lasting glance before heading off with the other two Patrons.
Only two.
Elara’s competition had been reduced to Berina Savi and Hector Vidal, the best chefs in Anespérer. They stood together, talking quietly. Berina wore her contest armor, tight shoulders and not a smile to be seen. Hector continued to look chuffed that he was still here.
Elara approached, holding out her hand. “Good luck.”
Berina raised a brow, then took it. “May the best chef win.”
Hector kissed her knuckles. “I think the Counseil are in for a tough decision.”
“This way.” The attendant had returned to guide them to the massive double doors into the Grand Hall—the exact room the rebels had attacked. The place that marked the beginning of the end for her mother. And the start of something new.
Elara would finish the rebel’s plans—her own way.
The doors opened to unfathomable darkness. It swallowed all light from the hallway, leaving nothing for Elara to rely on.
Above, three lights shuttered to life, illuminating three cooking stations upon a circular stage.
Berina and Elara looked to Hector, giving him the first choice. He took the rightmost one.
Elara nodded for Berina to go next. She deserved it.
Berina took the left, leaving Elara in the center.
The stage was made of two massive metal circles. Elara stood with the other contestants on the innermost one where a railing separated them from their prep stations on the outside ring.
In the cavernous space, there was darkness and silence. If an audience joined them, she couldn’t tell.
“At your station,” a voice carried from all around, “you will find ingredients but no recipe. You have one minute to begin prepping.”
One minute? Until what?
“Your time starts now.”
She’d been given simple enough ingredients: chicken, carrots, sprouts. But she had to test for magie. The sprout was bitter at first, then mellowed into a magie that struck her tongue like lightning and made her nerves quake with intensity.
Elara fired up the skillet with butter and prepped the chicken with salt and pepper. Next, she would—
The floor groaned like a dying monster. Steam burst from small holes in the floor as whatever mechanism lay hidden beneath cranked into action.
The first shuddering movement made Elara tip, forcing her to grab the railing in order to stay on her feet. The inner circle turned counterclockwise, leaving her station behind.
Elara’s new station—Berina’s—had potatoes, butter, cheese, and garlic. The potatoes had been peeled, and the skillet was hot, but it wasn’t enough of a clue as to what she’d started. It could be any number of dishes.
“You have until the end of the interview to finish your recipes,” the voice declared. “Begin.”
Above, six more shutters opened, piercing the outer circle with more beams of light. Before Elara sat Souverain Faucher of Arts Spectacle, dressed in ceremonial white robes, the kind the Counseil wore for all official business. There were no golden threads to identify her Société because the donning of these robes meant the Souverains were supposed to act as a unified front. For the betterment of Anespérer.
“Good afternoon, Rousseau.”
“Souverain.”
“We’ll start simple,” she said. “What made you want to join Arts Culinaires?”
Elara thought for a moment. “Before you all knew her, my mother wanted to be a baker. She spent countless nights preparing her demonstration for the board of Directeurs. I’ve never seen anyone work that hard for anything. Ever.”
