The technology was fairly new, having only been invented in the lasttwo decades by Arts Visuels, which meant they were expensive. Most houses sported them in gilded frames on mantels, yet this one was shoved away to be forgotten.
Within the frame, a small crowd smiled joyously back at him. The majority of the party, who grew increasingly familiar the longer Nik looked, would seem to have nothing in common with the two people in the center. How could they, when the two wore their brown Aspirant Arts Culinaires uniforms with pride?
Gaetan was a few years younger, his beard less whitened by age—or stress—and he stood proudly beside a woman whom the city could never forget. Nik never would. She and so many others in the frame haunted his nightmares. He’d never known her personally, but her black hair and freckles were unmistakable because she’d passed them down to the little girl clinging to her skirts.
The same girl who’d crashed into Nik’s life like a storm.
Blai had been entirely wrong.
Elouise Auclair wasn’t some poor Restes girl with an unfortunate past.
She was the daughter of Corinne Rousseau—a rebel and a murderer.
12ELARA
The morning of the first contest dawned strawberry-icing pink before burning an angry red path through her bedroom. Elara didn’t often see sunrise from the comfort of blankets and pillows. For as long as she could remember, she’d always been up and in a kitchen by dawn.
She’d been encouraged to sleep in as preparation for—how did Blai put it?—the living nightmare she was about to go through. All week, she’d prepared not only to complete an awe-inspiring bake within two hours but also to entertain the Counseil and their guests while also keeping her cool while also… while also… while also… The list of demands never ended.
Whatever. She’d just be grateful to make space from Nik, who’d spent the last few days breathing down her neck. He’d stormed into the kitchen red-faced and more demanding than ever.
Don’t glower.
Is this how you plan to keep your station?
A child could move quicker.
Elara had refused to cave to what was an obvious attempt to break her. Rather than throw boiling water at his face or exchange salt for sugar in his morning tea, she kept her head down and agreed to every single fucking demand.
Then the insults got personal.
You’ll be back in the Restes by next week if you can’t follow directions.
Life gave you a second chance, and this is the best you can do?
If you just had a mentor—
“Enough!” She’d slammed a pot, sloshing molten sugar everywhere. “I won’t let you talk to me like that!”
“Sooner or later, you’ll have to trust me! I am your Patron!”
“I don’t give a damn who you are.”
For some reason, that had shut him up, and he’d spent the remainder of the afternoon glowering at her from afar as she practiced the outdated dessert they’d agreed upon for the week’s end: île flottante. Worse, she would only demonstrate emotion manipulation magie. Child’s play.
The constraints and endless rules—smile, don’t flirt, keep your apron clean but not too clean, and most importantly come fourth or fifth, no higher—almostmade her miss Fernand. It had been a week since the break-in at Lafontaine’s.
Where was he now? Had their risky scheme paid off?
A gentle knock scattered her thoughts, and Chantal poked her head in. “I figured it was my turn to bring breakfast.”
Elara sat up. “You cooked?”
“Boulangerie Pascal did.” Chantal deposited a tray onto the bed and poured them both a cup of café. “Time to compare and prove you’re better than the best pastry chef in Galerie.”
The pastries were beautifully puffed and golden with delicate, flaky layers. Chantal was obviously being kind. Except the pastries were lacking in flavor and the whole thing was a dry, crumbly mess.
“Blai’s gone ahead to get us seats,” Chantal added. “I’ll help you get ready.”
