For Elara, it had been truth-telling tarts, a cake that changed your mood with each layer, and eclairs that increased luck. It had been the most difficult test of her life, not only as a test of her skill, but a test of her patience. The Directeurs had recognized her name and immediately thrown her out.
She’d returned.
Again.
Again.
Again.
Until she’d broken down and begged them. She only wanted to bake. They only needed to make her an Aspirant, and she’d be happy.
Elara had left with a title and sore pride.
She hadn’t known they’d take her offer literally. In the last year, she’d gone before the Directeurs to try and rank up with no luck.
Elara touched the front pocket of her apron, where her mother’s recipe book had lived all morning. The cover was stained and the edges soft from age and use. Her mother had spent years crafting everything from mood-lightening custards to muscle-strengthening baguettes.
But her direction changed after ranking up.
She couldn’t overlook droves of hungry children begging at her door, so she collected like-minded fools.
The rebels had met in places like this: cafés and bistros where they could recklessly shout declarations over wine and forge plans for a new tomorrow. Elara had met Gaetan during those meetings. Too young to help the rebels, she was relegated to the kitchen, where Gaetan prepared meals for their gathering crew.
It’s weak, he’d told her once as she fumbled with a dough ball.Stretch it like this, until it’s thin enough to see light through.
It’ll break, she’d protested.
Then it’s not strong enough yet.
He’d walked away before the bombing and spared himself the murderer’s knife. He’d supported the people—not some impulsive decision made by a bunch of drunk fools with far-fetched dreams of rebellion.
She removed a square paper from the back of her mother’s recipe book. The edges were soft from years of being folded and refolded, and the page itself stained with coffee rings, oil, and charcoal smears.
Elara smoothed it open against her chest.
Her mother had sketched the building with a clumsy hand and a keen eye on the possibilities. New pillars, clean glass, enough tables for artists to gather. When Elara had found it at five, she’d added the purple coloring and gold trim. She’d even added ideas for new desserts.
Her mother hadn’t been angry. Instead, she’d placed Elara on the counter with a fresh stick of charcoal, and they dreamed of the rest together.
The largest mark on the blueprint ruined everything. Elara stroked the ruddy splotch, which had once been bright red. Corinne had carried this dream with her, even on the night she’d died.
This hadn’t been the end for Elara.
And losing her job wouldn’t be the end now.
If Gaetan didn’t want to risk his dingy shop to help her, she would find another way.
And as if summoned, that way appeared.
A prickling sensation—dormant for months now—scraped at her collarbone. What started as a pin scratch turned into the spark of kindling embers, and it would only continue to blister until she answered.
I don’t call often.The words echoed, smooth as a song, in her head. A voice only she could hear. A voice she knew too well.
Elara ripped open the top buttons of her dress and pressed against the matchstick tattoo. A flame had devoured the top, flickering in tune with Fernand’s call.
And Elara was finally ready to answer.
Elara found herself in a tailor shop on the westernmost end of the Restes, an area that bled into the Fumée Quarter. The shelves were lined with coveralls, the lower racks filled with working boots. In the back, there were displays of ugly, bleached clothing for those not in a Société.
