“I can find a replacement in Objet d’Art,” Lafontaine answered. “Find me the perfect Favored.”
A gullible, willing pawn. They didn’t need an expert baker with a flair for powerful flavors or inventive recipes. They needed someone who could slide or cheat through a brutal contest—with a bit of help from bribery—to nestle perfectly in Lafontaine’s pocket.
“I’ll find someone,” Nik promised. He shouldn’t press it. Lafontaine had offered him so much already tonight that it was foolish to ask for more. But he couldn’t help himself. “And your plans for the Restes?”
Stillness answered him.
Then Lafontaine opened his arm. “Come here.”
Nik inwardly chided the flutter in his stomach as he stepped into Lafontaine’s one-armed embrace. The sure squeeze at his neck was an anchor to this moment.
“You’ve done so much to prove yourself, and loyalty is rewarded. But you, more than most, have much to repent for. Much to overcome.”
It was true, but it didn’t make it hurt any less.
“What must I do?” he asked.
“I will be hosting the initial Exposé of talent. Disguise yourself as a Patron, and select us the perfect puppet. With their vote, we’ll be able to end the violence, hunger, and turmoil for good.” His grip tightened enough to make Nik’s bones creak. “Then you will be mytrueson. Not only in blood, but by name.”
Nik started.
True son.
Lafontaine had pulled him from the wreckage after his mother’s death, and Nik had tried to take his father’s name. Lafontaine had refused. That, he’d said, needed to be earned.
So Nik had adopted the name Dupont, a blank space he could write over when he was finally worthy to become Nikolas Lafontaine.
This was his opportunity. All he had to do was manipulate some gullible chef through a rigged contest, and deliver them into Lafontaine’s control.
He flashed a smile.
“Consider it done.”
5ELARA
It wasn’t until Elara stood face-to-face with one of the grumpiest-looking members of Anespérer’s official police that she realized this was a colossal mistake.
“Name?” the officer droned.
This was Elara’s first time seeing one of them across the river. The woman was on guard, her uniform as crisp as her attention to detail. Fernand swore the papers would work, that they were as legit as fraudulent documents could be, but what if it was another one of his boasts? He wouldn’t hesitate to let her go to jail to save whatever inane mission he was on.
No one else had looked at her twice. All evening, she’d stood with the other Favored in the back gardens of Souverain Baptiste Lafontaine’s grand estate. During the arduous process of waiting their turn, they were allowed to stroll the illuminated paths or sit near the fountains. Elara had never seen this much grass in all her life. The urge to flop down and roll hadalmostovertaken her.
She’d been good, though, and waited with the others near the kitchen door. Blending in like all the other chefs who belonged here.
“Favored Seventeen?” the woman droned again.
The collar tightened only when her mind wavered to memories belonging to Elara Rousseau—her mother’s face, the time she’d taught Elara how to roll dough, the early mornings when Elara sat on a stool to watch her work. If she so much as slipped tonight, she’d be dead.
The guard’s eyes narrowed. “Get her out—”
“Elouise Auclair.”
They both waited for her face to turn blue, but the golden thread of her new name glimmered, content.
Sweat collected in her collar as the woman glared, flipping the chart at an agonizingly slow pace.
“Elouise Auclair?”
