“I quit.”
The crowd jeered. A cup of wine shattered against the glass mirror. The puddle of red pooled just above her head.
The Counseil didn’t move. Even as Lafontaine joined them again, Nik still absent.
“Do you hear me?” she asked louder. “I—”
A shadow loomed in the mirror, and she covered her head.
“I’m done. Please. Don’t do this.”
“I didn’t take you for a quitter,” the figure said.
Elara’s head snapped up. She knew that silhouette all too well—the curl of hair at the neck, one hand dipped in the pocket of a sharp suit, a slight arrogant tilt to his chin.
“I can’t do this anymore,” she said.
“Yes, you can.” Nik’s voice was stern but not unkind. His shadow crouched beside her. “You’re stronger than that.”
She glanced up at the clock. Less than two hours to go.
“I’m already too far behind.”
“Someone once told me it’s never too late to try again.”
She pressed her cheek against the gold glass, wishing for his warmth instead.
He froze in a way she would’ve teased the real Nik for. Then, slowly, he reached out as if he could touch her cheek and brush the tears from her lashes. As if he actually wanted to despite her betrayal.
As she nuzzled toward his palm, she caught sight of the other mirrors: blank. Nik wasn’t duplicated around the room. He only appeared in the one, his body an outline rather than a full apparition, which meant…
“Nik?” she whispered.
“Get up,” he ordered. “Finish strong, and don’t let them win.”
He was gone, leaving Elara to stare at her own reflection. Hermakeup was ruined, her hair a frizzy mess, and her skin pale. She’d never allowed herself to look so… broken. Not even in the days after Mama’s murder.
It took every ounce of strength she had to claw her way back to the station and stand. She wrapped a rag around her burnt hand, hissing as the coarse fabric chafed the open layers of skin and muscle.
There was no time to fuss over it.
She needed to improvise.
Everything felt clumsy at first, but her body and mind eventually synchronized. The tart crust was rough, but it would do. The vegetables might be a bit irregular, but they’d soften and taste just fine.
The truth was out, and the weight of carrying that secret over the last few weeks vanished as she worked. The crowd disappeared, their hushed insults silenced.
Whether she liked it or not, there was no going back to Elouise Auclair. But that didn’t mean everything she’d done until this point was wasted.
Elara was a Rousseau, but she wasnother mother. Elara had been a child. Her mother had made the mistake, and she’d more than paid for it—with her life and the destruction of her good name.
Elara would prove it to them.
If this were to be her final meal, she’d make it the best yet.
She doubled her pace to catch up. The sauce thickened as the vegetables roasted. An herb-infused pie crust came together, the perfect vessel of flavor. In minutes, her station was a riot of colors and smells, and she didn’t look up once.
All that was left was the magie.
