Elara wasn’t awake. She couldn’t be, because Blai, someone who’d warned her against sticking her neck out for others, was here, helping a rebel and his cause.
Chantal took the pitcher from Nicolette. “Let me.”
“What do you know about burns?” Nicolette snapped.
“I’ve seen my fair share of theatre fires and stage accidents.” She held out a hand. “Chantal Maran, at your service.”
Nicolette’s face blanched. “TheChantal Maran?”
“One and the same.”
They went to work, giving Elara and Fernand freedom to step away. The boy-like fear he’d shown earlier was gone, the hardened face of a general plastered on once more.
She gripped his elbow. “If you didn’t start this, who did?”
“I know you’ve been a little busy playing chef to notice, but things in the Restes have gone to shit.” He wiped his hands on a rag and tossed it aside, turning to prowl through the dance hall to the back rooms.
“I know that.” She followed on his heel.
He slammed the door to the Cradle open. It was busier than last time, the table cluttered with maps, extra rations… weapons. Empty chairs surrounded the center table, where a map had been pinned to the top with knives. A circle had been traced around The Market.
“Why are you angry?” Elara asked. “Isn’t this what you wanted?”
He tore his ruined shirt over his head. “If you’re asking that, you don’t know me as well as I thought.”
Elara flushed at his stinging words more than his glistening skin. She did know Fernand. Better than most people. She’d just been too stubborn to see it all this time.
Fernand was rage and vengeance incarnate, but he was also calculated and compassionate. He would never put his quarter in danger if he could avoid it. She’d been so wrong in reducing him to an angry boy who lashed out without a plan. Regardless of how things went, he tried his best to protect his people. His neighbors. Her.
Elara knew she needed to apologize, but there wasn’t time.
“How did news about Gaetan spread so fast?” she asked.
“Blai only gave us a few minutes warning before this thing”—Fernand tossed his head at a Lisette Plouffe poster laid out beneath the map—“started rearranging the narrative. They pinned Plouffe’s murder on him, declared you a stooge.”
“They don’t have a shred of proof.”
“Of course they don’t. Because none of it’s true.”
“Please.” She stepped forward. “You need to save him.”
“Sure. I’ll just make an appeal at court first thing in the morning.” He grabbed a bottle of liquor and splashed it on his burnt hands. “Shit!”
Elara fought the urge to help him. That wasn’t her place anymore. “If anyone can get him out, it’s you. You’re good at this kind of thing. You got those papers for me—”
“Because I had a connection. Look what happened to her.” He sloshed down a swallow, then grabbed a rumpled shirt from the pile.
“Who really killed her?” Elara asked.
His face fell in disbelief. “You have no idea, do you?”
She felt like a child beneath his stare.
“Oh, Elara.” His tone was laced with so much pity she wanted to smack him. “You were offered a patronage by Lafontaine’s direct apprentice, and, let me guess, he promised you’d win as long as you played their game. For what price?”
Elara bit her tongue.
He sneered. “Did you at least show the paper to Dupont?”
