Weeks ago, she would’ve taken her chances by hitting him with the kettle and running.
But what was the point?
There was nowhere else for her to go. At least she had a chance of helping the Restes if she had some shred of power, even if it was a sham.
Nik was a broken, horrible child.
Elara was no different.
They were fools to believe they could defeat the Counseil.
Without looking back, she took Lafontaine’s arm and left.
35ELARA
Her new prison was lavish. The best Anespérer’s money could buy.
A massive bed sat in the center of a room made of white marble walls inlaid with ruby filigree. A massive window overlooked the city. The first thing she’d tried as soon as the officer dumped her and left was to chuck an expensive-looking vase at the glass.
The vase shattered.
The glass did not.
She tried again with a chair.
Nothing.
No way out.
Elara had made her choice. She wasn’t a fighter like Fernand. She wasn’t a sneaky, lying little rat like Nik.
She chose to survive by playing the game.
Life under Lafontaine’s thumb was hardly a life at all, but it would allow her a chance to protect the Restes better than if she were dead. At least as Souverain of Arts Culinaires, she could push for better nutrition and access to food. She might even be able to offer education to those who wanted to learn how to cook.
It kept them safe.
It kept Chantal and Blai safe.
The sun crested the rooftops. She didn’t need the Objet d’Art letter to know how much time she had. Less than a day. By sunset tomorrow, she would be performing a farce of a finale in front of the Restes.
She curled her fingers into her sleeves for comfort, sinking into thesmell of flour, sweat, and… lavender. Nik. He was everywhere. In her hair and on her skin. His phantom touches chased her into the private bathroom, where she shed her clothes and plunged her body in the hottest bath she could draw.
Then she scrubbed and scrubbed as if she might be able to pry him out of her memories by shedding her skin.
Bright pink and tingling, Elara floated, eyes losing focus on the garishly decorated white ceiling. With a deep exhale, she let the water swallow her up. When she emerged, she hoped it would be into a different life, one she hadn’t ruined so thoroughly.
It wasn’t until her lungs burned that she broke the surface with a gasp. Nothing had changed because wishes did not contain magie. This was her life now, and she had no choice but to see it through.
The water was frigid by the time she crawled out.
She found a bathrobe and a new dress laid out on the bed. A shiver chased through her at the idea of someone being in here, so she shoved a chair under the door handle for good measure.
She could deny the gifts, but putting on the old dress that so thoroughly reminded her of Nik wasn’t an option. New dress on, she stood in the center of the room. What the hell was she supposed to do now? There wasn’t a reason to demand time to practice. She could burn every dish tomorrow, and Lafontaine would still find a way to assure her victory.
Souverain Elara Rousseau.
What a fraud.
