“You don’t understand.” Nik leaned his elbows on his knees, glaring into the dark hedges. “He will destroy you and everything you love if it means getting what he wants.”
Elara frowned in confusion. “Doesn’t he want peace?”
Nik’s jaw feathered. “I thought he did.”
It was wrong to think of Fernand, but what he had said was, miraculously, starting to make sense. Lafontaine was up to something, he’d said, and whatever it was had been bad enough to send Souverain Plouffe to the rebels for help.
Had Nik been lied to yet again by the man he admired the most? If so, she didn’t want to be the one to shatter his hope. Not now. She wanted tonight to remain just like this, with her hand still tingling from thewarmth of his touch. They could shelter each other from the oncoming storm if only for a few hours.
Across the way, Madame Charlotte roused herself and pounced down, out of sight.
Elara took that as a sign to leave. “Good—”
“My drinking partner is gone.” Nik raised his bottle. “Care to stay?”
The knots in her belly released immediately, and Elara knew she was in trouble because she desperately wanted to stay. To laugh and drink and be near him.
Nik’s relationship with Lafontaine was destroyed, yet he was still here. With her. He’d brought her back from the brink of destruction, not because he needed her for some scheme.
Because he liked her.
She took the wine. “How do you know so much about Madame Charlotte?”
He laughed. “I was a veterinary assistant for a few weeks, and Madame Charlotte was rushed in one afternoon. She was panting and sweating, and she refused to move.”
“Poor thing! What was wrong with her?”
“Turns out she ate an entire block of cheese, and needed a bit of help. The doctor felt her swollen stomach and gave one good push to… um… release the pressure.”
They both laughed until they were reduced to giggles, passing the wine back and forth.
At some point in the evening, while Nik told her stories from his varied apprenticeships, Elara laid her cheek on his shoulder.
And she swore he laid his head upon hers before her eyes closed.
25ELARA
Elara shoved the meringue onto the table with the other failed desserts.
Last night, she’d created a tart powerful enough to bring the entire Counseil to their knees, reclaimed her name in front of a mercurial audience,andavoided jail, all while suffering from third-degree burns.
Today, whipped eggs and sugar defeated her.
She was trapped in her own head.
She, Elara Rousseau, was a finalist in the Objet d’Art for Souverain of Arts Culinaires, while a year ago, she’d had to grovel for acceptance into the Société. Had the Counseil kept her to maintain peace? Or was it a trap? It felt as if nothing in her life was certain anymore—not even the previous thoughts of her mother.
Across the room, the black envelope chimed.
She dropped into a seat near the window, letting the sun coat her skin. She could ignore the letter. If she didn’t open it, she couldn’t compete. End of story.
Except the ringing grew louder and louder and—
“Fine!”
She snapped it open.
CONGRATULATIONS, CHEFELARAROUSSEAU!
