As Elara wrote, every letter felt like a death sentence pushing Rousseau further and further into the grave.
11NIK
“I can’t take it anymore.”
Nik’s office door slammed, rattling the books and trinkets upon his shelves. Blai flopped into the overstuffed chair near the window, threw their legs over the arm, and buried their face in a daisy-yellow scarf.
“She’s insufferable!”
“Still no progress?” Nik asked.
“Two days, Nik! Two days and she still can’t go five minutes without cursing, fumbling, or barging her way through the kitchen like some flea-bitten ox!”
Elouise’s compliance with their plandid notequate to startling success.
She tried but couldn’t bake anything simple. One illusionary tart involving snakes had been bad enough to make Chantal crawl on top of the kitchen counter, and another had caused Blai to burst into tears—something about seeing a beloved sister again.
She was too powerful.
To top it off, she questionedeverything.
Why do I have to wear an apron under my chef coat?
Why can’t I ignore the Counseil?
Why are you so damn interested in what they think?
Nik had stormed from the kitchen after that, determined to dig up a mentor who might be able to knock her down a step.
He laid down the Arts Culinaires dossier and rubbed his face. Evenwith his eyes closed, her fierce gaze stared back, the constellation of her freckles burned into his memory.
What started as a plan to find her a mentor in the Restes had evolved into a search of a different kind. Something had been scratching his thoughts since the night he’d been trapped in the carriage with her, and it had only grown since then.
At the Exposé, she’d mentioned how Professionnelle Prevel had died recently, and it was true enough, instantaneously penned with magie only a few months ago in the Arts Culinaires ledger. On that same ledger, Elouise Auclair’s name sat—one of its newest additions.
As far as documents declared, she existed. Barely. Every bit of information was filled in just enough to satisfy requirements, but not enough to satisfy Nik.
He’d written to the board of Directeurs for Arts Culinaires, inquiring about her admittance, and they’d written back a sharp reply:
Check the ledgers.
Their laziness was in Auclair’s favor.
The name, one of the most common in the city and clearly a fake, meantclear.Light.She was anything but.
“She still hasn’t opened up?” Nik asked.
“Even Chantal can’t drag the past out of her.” Blai laid their head back to soak up the sun. “The girl is intent on remaining a ghost.”
He should leave it alone. Elouise had slipped beneath the Counseil’s notice, and her paperwork appeared legitimate. She was at least trying, and failing, to adhere to their plan. Despite them not knowing a thing about her, she was perfect. Obedient.
Too obedient.
“She’s running from something,” he said.
“We all are,” Blai mumbled. “She can bring snacks to our monthly club meetings.”
Nik pushed his chair back and began pacing the well-worn track behind his desk until the sound of a door and clear voices called him to the window. Below, Elouise stormed into the shared garden between the houses and flopped into the grass, the summer sun beating down on her sweat-sheened face. Her black hair was a wild tangle, her apron covered in filth, and she was—
