“Watch out!” a kid screamed, racing past.
Others followed, sloshing paint from their buckets.
Paint. Fellowship. Hope. In the Restes.
“This is what I want for Arts Spectacle,” Chantal said, watching the children with bright eyes. “I want a place where dancers come in every shape, size, and color. Where painters might bake, and doctors are free to play music.” She turned back to Elara. “I don’t want to live in a city ruled by the whims of seven people who’ve forgotten what art is really about.”
Because where the children gathered, they weren’t just dancing. They were braiding their ribbons together, ducking and weaving their bodies over and under until the colors formed an intricate pattern.
Elara was here for herself.
But she was here for these children too.
She needed to get her shit together. In two days, her convictions had to be strong enough to survive the Counseil’s interrogation of an interview.
“I have to meet someone,” Elara said, taking off before Chantal could call out.
The windows inside Gaetan’s Boulangerie were dim, the chairs upturned early for the night. Hand-painted signs of congratulations hung in the windows and emptied wine bottles towered from the garbage cans.
The Restes had reason to celebrate. Gaetan, one of the quarter’s most treasured artisans, had achieved Directeur status barely a week ago, a feat no one had managed in over a hundred years. And maybe… just maybe… they were celebrating her story too. Orphaned at fourteen and brazen enough at eighteen to face the Counseil, she was nothing short of a Restes miracle.
The knob turned, the bell above the door chimed, and no one came to greet her.
Her stomach twisted.
“Gaetan?”
No answer.
She went to the darkened kitchen.
“Gaetan?”
She turned and found a thin spear of light slicing across the floor from Gaetan’s office.
“There you are,” she said. “I was worried you’d…”
He was slumped over his desk, an empty bottle in his grip. If it weren’t for the quiet snores rumbling from inside his folded arms, she would’ve panicked.
The room was messier than when she’d left. There were more wine bottles—hadn’t he quit drinking?—by his wastebasket, which was filled with papers, books, and his old Professionnelle uniforms.
“Ellie?”
Gaetan stared at her through glossy eyes. It had been a week since she’d last seen him, but he looked shattered. His new Directeur uniform was lighter in color, but it was as threadbare as an old rag and not at all the pristine coat Directeurs wore across the river. His cheeks were blistered from drink, and his mustache had grown shabby.
Beneath his elbow was the cause of his grief: a piece of paper with alarmingly red writing.
Immediate Action Required: Foreclosure.
“This was your Directeur’s responsibility.” Elara shook the papers.
“I’m Directeur of this shop now,” he said, words slurring. “I inherited the building… and the bills.”
He went to wipe his face, only to remember the bottle in his hand. He upturned it, draining the last drops.
“You’re just going to drink?” she snapped. “You have to fight this.”
“I tried.” He leaned forward and nearly teetered out of his seat. “I appealed to the bank, but they refused. They said… said I was in charge now. It was my bakery, after all. Had my name on it and everything.”
