She sank into the space opposite Fernand. As if a table between them would stop the urge to touch him, to remember exactly what it felt like to be loved by him.
“What happened to Colin?” she asked. “Jeanine is beside herself.”
“Fool got it in his head he could perform illegal magie in the open.” Fernand shrugged.
“Wonder where he got that idea.”
“Why can’t someone create art without a license?” He took a long drag and at least had the decency to exhale away from her. “If you ask me, he’s a hero.”
“Heroes die in stories, Fernand.”
“Sometimes that’s necessary.” He ran his fingers absently around the rim of his glass. “Speaking of heroes, I heard you almost burned down Gaetan’s today. One hell of a job interview.”
“How’d you know it was an interview?”
“If I said I was keeping tabs on you, would you find it sweet?”
“More like overbearing and obsessive.”
He laughed, and it was music. “I look out for my neighborhood. Especially anyone who’s fired over such a ridiculous reason as a contest to become Souverain.”
Elara rolled her eyes. “Everyone’s fired up about a contest we won’t even get to see.”
Because there was no record in the history of Anespérer that any round of the previous Objet d’Arts were held in the Restes Quarter. They were, and always would be, forgotten.
“But you were a threat.” He smirked.
“Now you’re just trying to butter me up.” It was working. Her cheeks felt hot and tight. “What’s the real reason you asked me here?”
“You could’ve ignored me; you always do. What changed?”
“Desperate times call for desperate measures.”
She watched a shimmer of mirth die in his brown eyes.
“Come with me.” He offered his hand.
Elara didn’t take it, choosing to follow behind as they threaded through bodies in the crowd. It was all too familiar, like a nightmare shecouldn’t shake. Thundering music. Oppressive heat. The press of dancers and the smell of perfume as she found herself, once again, heading back to the hallway.
They entered the meeting hall Fernand had named the Cradle because it would be the birthplace of a new revolution. Elara had helped pick the round table and richly dyed curtains that suffocated all noise in and out. The bar cart was still stocked, though with more expensive liquors than they used to afford, and there were traces of false hope everywhere: a map of Anespérer covered in strategy marks, a knife buried in the Senate, wads of soms donated to the cause.
On the table was a large white parcel.
Only seven people in the city were permitted to possess anything this shade.
Sevenverypowerful people.
Dread roiled her belly, but she reminded herself she was here to turn whatever scheme he had for her in her favor. Not his.
“I need a chef,” he said.
Elara smirked. “Tired of eating stale bread like everyone else?”
“Not for me. I’m talking about Objet d’Art.”
“What is it with everyone and this contest?”
“It gives people hope.” He cast his hands through the air, painting the same picture the Counseil des Sept crafted with their obnoxious Lisette Plouffe posters. “Imagine a poor Aspirant from the Restes winning it all.”
