Because you had to be working in your discipline in order to be considered for the Objet d’Art.
As if on cue, Souverain Lisette Plouffe’s voice filled the bakery. The three baking assistants stopped their work to gawk at the poster above the prep station.
“The time has come to host the Objet d’Art Contest! With my unfortunate passing, a successor must be chosen, and it could be you!”
“Please,” Elara huffed. “In the history of Objet d’Arts, no one from the Restes has ever become Souverain. Ever.”
One assistant shushed her.
Plouffe went on, “Right now, magied chef coats are making their way to twenty lucky chefs who’ve been chosen to compete for a place as one of seven finalists in Objet d’Art. Three grueling trials will help the Counseil des Sept choose the next Souverain of Arts Culinaires.”
“Don’t they only choose the upper ranks?” the greasy head chef asked.
“Aspirants have competed before!” piped up the girl returning to her baguettes. “Souverain Lafontaine was an Aspirant during the last Objet d’Art.”
“Sixty years ago.” Elara rolled her eyes. “This right here is what they want from us. Witless hope.”
It was the most dangerous weapon the Counseil des Sept used against the Restes. Some people held on to hope that they could fix the Sociétés by following the rules and earning their place of power. When hope died, they turned to violence, which never worked. Elara’s mother might agree if she hadn’t bled out on the cobblestones years ago.
The Objet d’Art was just another way to dangle that hope. Whenever one of their self-serving Souverains finally croaked, a contest was held rather than a funeral. Through celebration and unhealthy, cutthroat competition, they decided the replacement Souverain.Anyonecould rise, they said. Lies.
Gaetan clapped her shoulder. “If you’re done sucking all the joy out of the air, I think you owe me a demonstration.”
“Gaetan,” the head baker said. “We don’t have—”
“No harm in seeing what talent is out there.”
Given the looks between them, Elara felt a prickle of guilt. Gaetan wasn’t giving her a chance because he wanted to test her talent. He was giving her a chance because of their history. Beyond her mother, he was the first person who took her interest in the kitchen seriously, and when her mother became preoccupied, he’d stepped up to guide her education.
When everything blew apart, they’d gone their separate directions.
This was an apology.
“Right.” She whipped an apron from the hook. “Can I have a look at your pantry?”
His eyes darkened.
She swept past him. “I don’t need much. Besides, I know my way around. That should make it easy for me to start work sooner.”
The barren shelves brought her to a halt.
In a pantry large enough to feed the whole quarter, the shelves were bare. Two sacks of stale flour, a few vials of half-used spices, and a dozen eggs. The icebox wasn’t much better. Butter, milk, and cheese, but not enough to last the week.
She could work with it.
“I can whip something up that youandyour customers will love.”
“Ellie…” Gaetan rubbed his mustache.
She dismissed him with a wave. “I won’t take much, and I guarantee it’ll be the thing you need to turn this place around.”
“Mybakery is doing just fine,” he grumbled.
It wasn’t his. Not really. It might have his name on it, but as a Professionnelle, Gaetan—like everyone else in a Société—was beholden to a superior. Across the Joyaux River, some Directeur owned this bakery and at least half a dozen others. Those Directeurs operated under the observation of supreme power: the Souverains.
Gaetan was nothing more than a glorified manager. He baked the bread, repaired the roof, and paid the bills, but the Directeur could replace him, at any moment, with some other Professionnelle and send him packing.
Elara had no interest in claiming power, but becoming a Directeur meant she could open her own bakery. She wouldn’t have to scrape for a job, because her last name wouldn’t matter. Owning her own business would give her the tools to be happy. For once.
