Elara’s cheeks flamed. That was meant for her and her alone, and she wasn’t supposed to be in a carriage explaining it to some smug Arts Humains boy.
He leaned in, pressing his elbows upon his knees. “It’s addicting, isn’t it?”
The truth didn’t dare leave her lips.
But there was no denying how it had felt to have untethered access to all those ingredients. To indulge in the freedom to create her mother’s recipes in their greatest forms with rich flavors and powerful magie.
Moreover, the Counseil had actually enjoyed her food. It didn’t matter if they only thought of her as entertainment; they’d seen something in her. Lafontaine had called her magie powerful.
No one had ever used that word for her before.
“That is why I offered to be your Patron,” Dupont added.
“Out of the goodness of your heart?” she shot back.
“Certainly not.” He crossed his long legs, tapping the envelope against his knee. “You’ve made it this far, so you know that no one does anything in this city for free.”
“Then what do you get?” she asked.
“Influence.” His fingers stroked the lettering on the envelope, long digits sticking to the curling font of his name, avoiding anything that crossed with hers. “I will win a place in Souverain Lafontaine’s inner circle. I will move from a lowly Aspirant to one of his most trusted.”
“Is that all the Patrons get? A seat at the dinner table with their Souverain?”
“And a seat at their chef’s table when they become Souverain.”
Elara smirked. “Ladder climbing at its finest.”
“Galerie knows nothing else.”
Elara laughed, and his expression melted like warm icing.
“I get it,” she said between gasps. “You’re delusional.”
A muscle in his jaw pulsed, a first glimpse at the truth of who Nikolas Dupont really was.
“There are a few flaws with your plan.” She uncrossed her legs and leaned forward, motioning her rationale with the knife. “One, being elevated to someinner circle—whatever that means—doesn’t ensure Lafontaine will listen to you.”
Aha. There was the real crack she’d been looking for. It began with the tightening of his brows and fled down to the grinding of his teeth. Nikolas Dupont wasn’t just another bored aristocrat. She’d seenhow he hid his shaking hands with practiced motions. And from the moment they’d entered the carriage, he’d been buzzy—jostling his legs, scratching the material of his trousers, fiddling with the envelope. He was just another anxious Reste boy pretending to be something he wasn’t.
“And two,” she continued, “they’ll never let anyone like us win.”
It took him a second to breathe through whatever nerve she’d struck, but he managed to reply, “I’ll determine the worth of a new title on my own. As for your second issue, people from the Restes have won other Objet d’Arts before. If you look back a century—”
“A lot has happened in a century. I. Won’t. Win.”
“Strange,” he said, brow perking for once. “I didn’t take you as someone who sells herself short.”
“I don’t!”
The carriage jolted, sending her up and out of her seat. Nikolas met her in the air, bodies colliding, foreheads cracking together. She hissed and he cursed. Through it all, his hands at her sides were the only things keeping her from hitting the floor. For being a slip of a boy, he was strong, and his hands were firmly clasped into the soft curves of her skin, fingers spread and pressing deep enough to make her heart flutter.
When he realized how close they were, he shoved her backward and flopped into his own seat. This time, he tucked his knees to the side of the carriage as if he were sharing the car with a wild animal.
Outside, Galerie’s theatres were releasing their audiences, who flocked to the cafés.
“I just don’t want to be played by a system that will never truly consider me,” she muttered as the brilliance of Galerie gave way to the subtle charm of Belleplace. “Besides, can you really see me as Souverain?”
He skimmed her form like an appraisal of an antique. She added “literal” to her information about Nikolas Dupont.
