Hector and Berina had their hundred dishes ready, and servants in green approached.
“Souverains!” Elara stepped forward. “Counseil!”
The heat of a thousand eyes burned down her neck.
None burned hotter than Lafontaine’s icy stare.
“Chef Rousseau,” he said through his teeth, “what can we assist you with?”
She moved into the empty space between the caravan and the cooking stations. By now, she wasn’t unused to the spotlight, but this was different. Attention was power, and she needed as much of it as she could gather.
“Considering this monumental occasion, I have a suggestion. While I’m sure my friends from the Restes appreciate being put first for once”—they grumbled and jeered—“I think it would show a lack of manners if we let our guests eat last.”
Faucher beamed. “Such a polite girl.”
“Unnecessary,” Lafontaine said.
“Please.” Elara motioned to her station. “Consider me your humble host. I would like to serve you anunforgettablemeal.”
She stared Lafontaine down, the word not having been lost on him or the audience.
He ground his teeth. “While the offer is kind, I don’t think—”
“Oh, come, Baptiste!” Perrault descended the trolley. “Chef Rousseau makes a valuable point. We should break breadwithour people.”
Tremblay and Faucher followed. Cormier reluctantly came next.
Gabriel stared at Lafontaine, who finally followed them.
Elara would break him, and she knew exactly where to push.
And how to rile the audience in her favor.
“Gentlemen,” Elara murmured.
Nik and Fernand scurried behind her, shoving dishes to the side and cleaning the table until it reflected the overhead lights. Elara arranged the components in order, focusing on her art as much as the message she was about to deliver. She didn’t have a bomb, nor did she have herhands in deep pockets. What she had was food, and she would prove it meant more than anything else.
“This evening,” Elara began, “you will journey through a simple yet priceless experience in which each dish has been elevated for your elegant tastes while staying true to my Restes roots. I present Dame Anespérer.”
Elara sized up her canvas… and began.
Elara had designed the night as a way to prove artists couldn’t be contained in boxes. If Blai could become an expert with words and makeup, what was to stop a chef from painting? Poets sang, and dancers painted. Blacksmiths made music, and tailors baked bread. Anyone could be anything.
Elara chose to be a painter, a dancer, and a storyteller all in one.
She scattered the charred arugula as a foundation, followed by candied chestnuts, and a selection of vegetables sauteed to perfection.
“We begin with the greenery of the city’s farmers, with fresh flowers just beginning to bloom.”
Fernand followed with a bowl of purée, slashing it against the surface like paint. He was wild, splattering brilliant red sauce in unpredictable patterns that gave the painting a violent edge.
Elara added turnips and potatoes that had been sautéed in browned butter and braised in white wine, creating cloudlike formations to represent lazy Anespérerian summers.
Nik laid her crisp palmiers amid the sky, dripping bouillabaisse like rain upon the expanding field.
They wove together in a beautiful pattern until the painting unfurled. Elara lost herself, falling quiet as she gave in to the call coursing through her veins.
This was Elara’s truth. From this day forward, she would create without remorse. No one would ever hold her back again, not even herself. She could be both kind and firm, brave and reserved, baker and rebel.
