“Fernand would never harm me. He’s not like that.”
“But he doesn’t seem like the type to go out of his way to save you either.”
That truth stung deep. Fernand wasn’t above sacrificing anything—or anyone—for his plans. Which worked in her favor because helping her meant keeping his secrets safe.
It soothed some of the guilt from last night, when she’d assured Nik not to worry, that she had a plan. He’d been agitated, restless even. He’d spent most of the past few days in his office, concocting new ways of helping her dodge whatever truth-telling magie the Counseil would throw at her. She endured tests—tinctures, creams, patches—to try and soothe his nerves and keep from telling him about the deal with Fernand.
When he suggested injections, she caved and told him a vague version of the truth: A friend could hide her memories. In the end, she’dbargained with him. If it didn’t work, he had her full permission to take whatever measures necessary to keep their plan safe.
Their plan. Because, true to his word, Nik acted as a partner. During the day, he let her create and gave constructive feedback. At night? Well, those midnight meetings had become the highlight of her day. She melted into the comfort of sipping tea and baking with him.
Blai leaned against the doorframe. “If this doesn’t work, what will you do?”
“I won’t have much of a choice. I quit or I…” There was no second option. Shecouldn’tlet the Counseil figure out who she was. It would destroy everything. It would destroy Nik.
And she’d come to like him. It was only during their nightly rendezvous that Nik allowed himself to relax, if but a fraction. Those times, it felt as if she was talking to the real Nik, the boy with charcoal under his nails who couldn’t stop talking when it came to art and architecture.
She’d learned a lot about him this week. After he came to Belleplace, he’d found blueprints fascinating and spent most of his time in the city archives; he liked to keep his house in order only because it helped keep his mind clear; he hated the color red.
If he learned she wasactuallyworking with a known rebel? Those nights would disappear. He would never open up to her again.
“It wasn’t supposed to be this complicated,” she muttered.
“That’s life as an artist.” Blai touched her shoulder.
Life was simpler when all she’d wanted was to focus on herself. Now she couldn’t get the image of Nik’s mouth wrapped around a spoon out of her head.
She was saved from those destructive thoughts by Fernand.
“Well?” Elara asked. “What do you have?”
“I guess we’ve moved beyond pleasantries.” He nodded at Blai. “Lozano.”
“Hero,” Blai shot back.
“If we’re jumping right in.” Fernand offered the folder beneath his arm. “I want to address my business first.”
The papers were stamped with the Arts Humains insignia, and several more were signed by Lafontaine himself.
“This is what you stole,” she said. “At the Exposé.”
“Yes, and it proves Lafontaine is up to something.”
“How?”
“I was working with Lisette.”
She looked up sharply. “Plouffe? How? When?”
“A few weeks before she died. She told me Lafontaine was planning something, and it needed to be stopped.”
“And rather than go to the police or tell the rest of the Counseil, she told you?” Elara laughed, but his face didn’t change. “No. No. See, this is what you do, Fernand. You reel people in with half-truths.”
“It’s true! All of it! How do you think I got that coat? Those papers?”
No. It didn’t make sense.
Lisette Plouffe was a Souverain. She would never be caught undermining her own power.
