She didn’t know her heart could beat so loud until Souverain Lafontaine muttered a terse thank-you.
He turned over a crisp paper filled with very few words: Auclair’s acceptance into Arts Culinaires. “You are quite the mystery. We’ve checked with the board of Arts Culinaires’ Directeurs, and none recognize your name.”
“I doubt they remember everyone they’ve ever admitted.” The line she’d practiced with Fernand came easy. “Did you not find my name in the records?”
“Indeed we did.” Lafontaine’s fingers stroked the paper in thought. “How did your name come to be in the pool of Favored? A Restes Aspirant in the Objet d’Art? Quite uncommon.”
“That abysmal place across the river?” The comment came from someone in a brilliant yellow dress flapping an annoyingly loud fan. “The poor thing!”
Some snickered. Worse, others pitied her.
“Chef?” Lafontaine prompted.
She released her fists. “I was just as stunned when the coat arrived. Perhaps my Professionnelle recommended me to the board of Directeurs?”
“So you have formal training?” Souverain Tremblay of Arts Visuels asked.
“Enough to have earned my Aspirant colors.” She indicated her brown skirts. “Unfortunately, Professionnelle Prevel passed recently, and I was let go from my newest position.”
“Whatever for?”
“My innovation, Souverain.”
Fernand was ready near the doorway to the foyer.
Showtime.
Elara ascended the dais and laid her porcelain dish upon the table. Any other party would lean forward to inspect the sweet dessert. The Counseil were as statues, barely letting their eyes swoop down as she scooped the still-bubbling cherry and custard mixture onto individual plates. Elara made sure each Souverain had enough crunchy topping because texture was just as important as taste.
“What is this?” Souverain Gabriel asked.
“Clafoutis,” Elara replied. “Cherries marinated in—”
“You’re dishing it out like we’re hogs to a trough,” Souverain Cormier sneered.
She managed to smile through clenched teeth. “I intended to feed you like I would anyone else at my table. My apologies if such compassion isn’t custom here in Galerie.”
Gasps whispered around her, followed by the person in yellow muttering, “Oh, I like her.”
They were probably alone in that.
Elara placed each helping before the Souverains. “I present cherry clafoutis made with umber rum and almond crumble. Enjoy.”
She’d been wrong to think they’d tuck in. Instead, they ate as if forced, dipping the prongs of their forks into the liquid before begrudgingly going back for a granule of crumble.
That didn’t stop her from holding her breath.
Restes or not, food was food. They’d either love it or hate it, and the truth would be in their reactions. Even the most powerful people couldn’t deny their tongues. The Souverains’ eyes dilated, their nostrils flared, and their expressions took on that of children consuming their first taste of sugar—wonderment.
The simple truth of knowing they’d enjoyed it would have been enough, but they surprised her by taking more. It wasn’t the ravenous hunger of the Restes, but the slow, savoring enjoyment the rich could afford.
“A unique marriage of flavors,” Cormier said.
“And the textures are interesting to explore,” Faucher added.
All said as if they were performing for a packed audience rather than offering feedback.
Lafontaine, the only Souverain who let his wrinkles show, patted his mouth with a napkin. “And the magie?”
