Besides, maybe he was right. She couldn’t afford to draw the same attention she had last night. Attention meant interest, and interest meant questions. And she didn’t need to win.
“Fine,” she muttered and returned to the letter.
However, the Counseil continued,we won’t leave you to face this monumental task on your own. You are welcome to invite a mentor from your past to assist you. This mentor will be able to speak to your abilities as well as attest to how far you’ve come.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
Sweat beaded at her neck, slicked her palms, pooled in her back. She stared at the words, pretending to still be reading because she couldn’t let them see her panic. Elara Rousseau had a mentor, but Auclair? She was no one from nothing.
The two least impressive Favored chefs will be eliminated. Best of luck!
“We have time,” Nikolas said, rereading the letter before finally looking up. “Spend today making a list of ingredients you’ll need for whatever you want to create. The magie must be catching yet simple. Aim for fourth.”
“Fifth is better,” Blai suggested. “Better to be the bottom after last night’s dish.”
“It’s too risky,” Chantal said. “She could be eliminated. I doubt the chefs will enter that contest and play nice. Artists never do.”
“Fourth or fifth is acceptable.” Nikolas decided. “Simple magie, and I’ll work on the rest. Who is your mentor?”
“There’s no one,” Elara muttered.
“What?”
“I don’t have a mentor.”
Nikolas scoffed. “Everyone has a mentor if they’re in a Société.”
Heat blistered around her neck. Rousseau or Auclair, it didn’t matter. Her mentor, hermother, would always be Corinne Rousseau, and she would always be gone and too complicated to talk about. Sometimes, Elara wondered if it would be easier to forget she’d ever existed at all.
“The brief doesn’t say I have to have one,” she argued.
“It’ll be terribly difficult to do it alone,” Chantal said gently.
“I can manage.”
Blai added, “The others will be at an advantage.”
“I said I can manage.” Her voice was brittle as the restlessness that had crawled beneath her skin begged to be let out.
“Then leave.” Nikolas stepped into her space, forcing her to look up into his icy glare. “Go back to the Restes and die in obscurity like everyone else.”
“Nikolas Dupont,” Chantal snapped.
He didn’t move, and neither did Elara. At least this felt familiar, the thrumming of her heart in her ears, the itch to fight and be met with the pressure to work harder, try harder, think harder. Nikolas would push her, and he was a fool if he thought she wouldn’t push back.
Up close, he was as handsome as ever, but the cracks were showing. The stress sinking in. He didn’t just want this; heneededit. His breath, lavender and mint, feathered across her cheeks, and his fingers twitched, close enough she could feel their heat.
“You’re an ass,” she hissed.
“An ass who will help you win.”
Unfortunately, she believed him. Which was why she lowered her shoulders with a breath, and gave in.
“Fine. But I really don’t have anyone,” she said. “My mentor is dead, and I barely had a job before this.”
Half-truths. Half-lies.
“I’ll hire someone, then.” He slid her a piece of paper. “Make a list of ingredients you’ll need, and I’ll have them by this afternoon.”
