She bowed.
“Hector Vidal of Galerie.”
He blew kisses.
“And Elara Rousseau of the Restes.”
Her plan began now.
Elara turned her back on the Counseil to face the crowd. In one swift move, she tore the chef’s coat away and dropped it onto the filthy cobblestones. The weight off her chest was instant. It was as if she hadn’t been allowed to breathe right for the past few weeks and now she was free.
Beneath, she wore a dress of the richest material she’d made Lafontaine waste his soms on. The folds of the skirt caught the summer breeze, shimmering in the lamplight. Every thread was alive, ready to shift to her will. It was made of delicate, beige lace, a magied material that flexed to her body and screamed aristocratic fashion.
Or it would have… if she hadn’t ruined it.
The servant, on Lafontaine’s orders, had gotten her everything she needed for the contest… including a sack of lye. Elara had spent most of the afternoon dunking the fabric in the bath, breaking the magied material down until it finally bleached.
She’d been delighted to destroy one more beautiful thing.
She wasn’t Arts Culinaires’ or Lafontaine’s puppet. Not tonight.
She was a Reste from the Restes.
The crowd broke their silence and roared their approval. The police held the line. Chants followed her as she spun a circle back to the Counseil. She didnotbow.
This washerhome.
Lafontaine turned an ugly shade of red, unable to speak.
Faucher took over for him. “Honored guests, we welcome you this evening to witness the crowning achievement of Anespérer’s greatest chefs. These are the most brilliant culinary minds of our time—talented with flavors, techniques, and magie to tantalize the very soul.”
Cormier addressed them next. “Chefs, this is your final attempt to dazzle us. Creativity, artistic prowess, and above all, potential must be seen tonight. You will design three courses to prove, without a shadow of doubt,youare worthy of the title Souverain. First, your dishes will be served to those who matter most: the people.”
Ah. That’s why the stations took up so much space. Two ovens, eight burners, and an icebox each meant they needed to feed an army.
“One hundred portions each,” Gabriel added. “So we may feedeveryguest present.”
“We understand this is a monumental task, so we’ve provided each of you with two randomly selected assistants.” Lafontaine motioned.
Through the crowd six figures in beige coats appeared, dispersing evenly to the stations.
“You have six hours,” Perrault said. “Begin.”
Elara calmly laid her mother’s—her—book on the table and opened it to the recipes she’d created this afternoon.
“I’m most comfortable with dessert,” she said, “so I’ll take lead onthat. I’ll also need to swing between the dishes to ensure the magie is perfect.”
“Rousseau.”
“I won’t be doing a traditional plating experience tonight, which means all these individual components need to be ready and on the pass at the same time. Tonight is about precision.” She tapped her pen for effect.
“Rousseau!”
She whirled on the familiar voice, heart fracturing when she was met by an unrecognizable face. Was this her fate? To look for him everywhere? It’d be a lie to say she hadn’t scanned the crowd, desperate to find his unruly hair, sharp nose, and…
She shook her head. “We have work to do.”
“I know.” The assistant grabbed her hand, but only for a moment. It was enough to have Elara glaring him down at the impertinence—only to find bright blue eyes begging for forgiveness.
