A tart, she’d decided, would be the easiest way to sneak through this round.
She measured. Flour. Butter. Water. Salt.
She worked. Knead. Fold. Repeat.
It failed. Forming a mess not worth saving.
Breathe, Nik had taught her.Just breathe.
The hands above ticked down. She didn’t have time.
She tossed the dough in the bin and started once more.
The second attempt made her curse.
The third made her eyes burn with tears.
Before she started again, a mechanical whirring silenced the room.
Up above, light glimmered off panels of glass being lowered like a lid upon the maze. Once they hissed into place, a few panels flickered to life like the flyers in the Restes. Except they didn’t reflect drawings.
They depicted the chefs below.
In one panel, Hector chopped vegetables and shoved them into a pot. In the corner, a shadow of a man lingered. Another pane of glass showed him in detail: dark-skinned and wearing an expensive Arts Manufacturier’s suit.
“You are a waste,” he snarled at Hector. “Of time. Energy. Money. I’ve given you the best tutors and the finest ingredients, and what do you do on your entrance performance? You choke!”
More screens illuminated, revealing Hector from all angles. Giving the audience a clear view into his pain.
“Say it,” the man pressed. “Admit what you are.”
“I’m worthless,” Hector muttered, but his magnified voice echoed around the chamber.
“Say it again. Correctly this time!”
“I am worthless, sir.”
The image changed to a woman this time, paired with Fiona, who looked near to tears.
“This isnotabout what you want. This is about your country.” The woman motioned to the table. “You’re not a real chef. You never will be.”
Perhaps Fiona wasn’t lying when she said all she wanted to do was bake. Maybe she thought becoming Souverain would allow her that chance.
The mirrors changed again, revealing more contestant nightmares.
Elara’s walls were empty. Was that good? Or was the tattoo preventing her own demons from surfacing? If so, the Counseil would notice, and she’d be caught anyway.
The clock overhead chimed. One hour gone. Three remaining and she had nothing. Not even a crust.
Maybe if she started easier, cutting vegetables, she could figure out the rest.
“Sloppy.”
“Tell me about it,” she mumbled, then jumped when she realized the voice was in her station.
Gaetan stared back at her. His ruddy face was too gnarled with cruelty to have been pulled from her memory. But the disappointment in his eyes? That was real.
“It’s not the recipe’s fault,” he continued. “You made this choice, Ellie. You keep making all the wrong choices.”
