The appearance of her true name in swirling script brought a surprising surge of warmth to her chest.
Out of thousands of chefs, seven were chosen. Now only three remain. The city holds its breath, eager to discover who will become the next Souverain of Arts Culinaires.
To help the Counseil determine who has the intelligence, courage, and loyalty to stand with them, an interview will be hosted at the heart of Anespérer at the Senate in two days.
While this will not serve as an elimination round, the Counseil will weigh the interview as equally as your final performance.
Regards,
THECOUNSEIL DESSEPT
The Senate. The place where her mother attempted to wipe out the entire Counseil. Elara had never stepped foot there. She imagined crumbling marble walls and a smoldering crater deep in the earth where the Souverains used to gather.
The venue didn’t frighten her. Neither did the Counseil. She’d confessed everything last night, and there was nothing else for them to dig up about her or her mother.
Except she hadn’t confessed everything…
Fernand’s stolen paper crinkled in her pocket.
With her name in the open, it wouldn’t take them long to learn how involved she’d been with Fernand and that he was a Restes scoundrel who defied the rules at every turn. Her meeting with him had been secret. But how secret? Plenty of people had recognized her there. And the Lisette Plouffe flyers wouldn’t hold back the juicy story of a hidden identity among the Favored.
They hated her. If the police pushed hard enough, they wouldn’t hesitate to sell her out.
And Fernand would be destroyed alongside her.
The interview had to be perfect. Elara didn’t want to become Souverain, but it might be the best way to stop Lafontaine from becoming Grand Souverain, from having any more power over the Restes. Fernand’s desperation to understand the note, his claims of working with Plouffe… It all seemed ridiculous. Unless it was true.
Suddenly, the timer ticking away at the bottom of the letter frightened her.
One day, twenty-three hours, thirty-four minutes.
And already half the day was gone.
She had to practice.
As she attempted another set of meringues, she imagined the questions they might ask.
How do you feel about your mother’s attack on the Senate?Easy. While the violence was extreme, it should’ve told the Counseil their citizens in the Restes were unhappy.
What will you do as Souverain?She would find a way to give everyone a chance to learn a skill, and she would start with cooking and baking.
Elara would be honest.
Last night’s speech had been just as surprising for her. Being in the Objet d’Art had awoken something in her that had been buried deep, and it all came to a head after being forced to feel so small by the Counseil.
Like everyone else, she’d been manipulated her entire life to focus only on the destruction her mother had caused rather than question the reason for her anger. And Elara had been selfish to ignore every cry of help from the Restes. In an effort to get ahead, she’d turned her nose up at people being snatched from the streets, refused to acknowledge the harsh Counseil rule needed to change, and used a disgust for violence as a reason to not even try.
When she’d spat those words at the Counseil, she’d let out all thethings the Objet d’Art had brought to light: the reservation of education for the rich, the duplicity of violence across the river while Souverains worried about the greenery of their lawns, and the use of dreams to inspire false hope and obedience.
Elara didn’t want to be Souverain. She wasn’t a politician.
But what the hell else was she supposed to do now?
There was only one person she trusted to answer that.
Elara snatched some baskets from the cabinets and began packing away all the failed pastries.
“Where are you headed?” Chantal asked from the doorway. “Wait!”
