Because Souverain Baptiste Lafontaine, like all the other Souverains, could afford to leave rarities like this collecting dust.
Elara might not get to work with ingredients this fine again, but she wouldneverreturn to the Restes, even if it meant sleeping on the streets. Even if it meant taking out the trash for a restaurant in Belleplace or Le Cœur. Elara would make something of herself.
Tonight would be a toast to her new future, wherever it took her.
She snatched the umber rum and the cherries.
She took sugar and cinnamon; she grabbed almonds and flour.
At her station, she meticulously picked through each ingredient, finding only the best. No more half-rotten fruit or spoiled milk.
She pitted and sliced the cherries, leaving them to soak in a bowl of umber rum. And, because the rules saidnothingabout feasting on her own product, Elara poured herself a glass.
It warmed her insides, burning molten hot all the way to her toes until she felt alive. Crackling with energy that made her recipe blur by. She sliced the almonds and put them in a pot with the cherry pits to boil in more umber rum. It would help draw out the almond flavor, and a hint of cyanide that she could twist into a harmless magie.
Long after the umber rum wore off, Elara was still buzzing. She danced around, whisking and pouring, humming and tasting.
Gaetan’s bakery had been the familiarity she wanted, but this? This was freedom.
With more than half her time to go, she mixed the cherries with the custard and popped it into the oven. But why stop when everything was possible? What was clafoutis without chantilly cream? And why couldn’t that cream be salted caramel?
All her life, Elara had been limited. If it wasn’t money, it was time; if it wasn’t time, it was her rank; if it wasn’t her rank, it was her neighborhood. Experimenting with recipes meant sacrificing a day’s wage for ingredients, which left little room for error. A wasted cake was wasted money. Too often she’d been forced to stomach burnt cookies, and soggy pastries that roiled her belly for days after.
Here, Elara lost herself to the different flavors of cream: caramel, apricot, sage. She even swirled some together, finding a perfect marriage of caramel and sage. It was robust, herbaceous, with the perfect sweetness that made her laugh.
And laugh.
And laugh.
The Counseil wouldn’t remember her after tonight. She would fade away like the other rebels.
But tonight was for Elouise Auclair.
“Favored Seventeen on the pass!”
This time she answered with gusto. “Coming!”
Fernand met her at the double doors. His eyes narrowed on the large dish of custard, still bubbling cherry red, then drifted to the piping bag filled with swirled cream.
“This is it?” he asked.
“Simplicity can make a dish more powerful.” She stacked seven plates with seven spoons onto the cart.
“Of course, but”—he lowered his voice—“nothing is ever simple with you.”
“Don’t you forget that.” She winked.
It was enough to stall him for the moment she needed to snatch the cart and push it toward the door.
“I’ll take it from here.”
6NIK
The lights inside Souverain Lafontaine’s dining room lifted, followed by another round of timid applause. Some of the most prestigious Directeurs and Professionnelles from every Société were gathered at the Exposé. They chattered politely in their like-colored pods: yellows, blues, purples, reds, greens, beiges, and silvers.
Nik sat near the back, apart from the other Arts Humains, where he’d lurked all night, idly sipping champagne and nibbling the canapés that circulated.
Favored Sixteen, a young Professionnelle chef in a cream-colored suit, bowed to them, then to the Counseil des Sept established at a long table in the front of the room. He was the ideal candidate with his infectious joy and boyish smile. The crowd already buzzed with Patrons ready to vie for his attention. Nik inched forward, eager to be the first to offer when the Souverains accepted him as one of the seven finalists.
