She heaved a sigh and turned to the window, shutting him out for a moment.
While Galerie was standard for luxury, Belleplace was what Elara dreamed a new life could be. A humble living in one of the apartments or houses buttressed against the streets. They were crammed together in long lines, their ancient stone browned from time. An architect years ago had chiseled beautiful, living designs into the stonework archways above each door. Flowers crawled up and down balconies, raining endless petals upon the streets below.
And there was lifeeverywhere. From the cafés to the restaurants where people could sit down and experience real food? A haven. And what she wouldn’t give to be one of the people dancing down the streets too narrow for carriages, streets filled with music and market stalls.
“If you don’t want to be Souverain, why are you here?”
The dream faded behind a dark building, forcing her back to the carriage and the surly boy in front of her.
He didn’t deserve to know that. Not yet. Not ever.
“The same reason you joined Arts Humains, I suppose,” she said. “How did a boy from the Restes end up here?”
“The same way a girl from the Restes did, I suppose.”
She laughed. “Fair enough.”
The carriage twisted down another street, the horse’s pace slowing. Without the abundance of streetlights, her situation became alarmingly clear.
“I can’t back out, can I?”
“Would you really want to?”
They both knew her answer. Despite his discomfort at breathing the same air as her, he’d seen her tonight.Reallyseen her. From the scars to her passion for a good meal, he’d noticed it all. Maybe it was for his own gain, but it came at the cost of tying his name, however fake it was,to hers. For the rest of the summer, all the city would talk about was Nikolas Dupont and Eloise Auclair, two Restes Aspirants daring to do the impossible.
And while Fernand had gotten her foot in the door, each burn of the tattoo and echo of his voice screaming in her head drove her further out of his clutches. Toward Nikolas.
Don’t! They’ll figure out who you are, and they’ll use you to get to me.
You won’t make it.
They don’t want someone like you!
“I don’t plan on winning,” she said.
The carriage halted before a nondescript Belleplace home.
“Try,” he said. “That’s all I ask.”
A small price to pay.
“Fine.” She waved the knife. “No more need for this, I guess.”
His brow perked. “You couldn’t do anything with it.”
“Because you don’t think I can fight?”
“Because it’s a butter knife.”
She smirked. “You should see what I can do with a spoon.”
10ELARA
The sun crept through an unfamiliar window and onto the rumpled sheets of an unfamiliar bed. Elara bolted upright. This was not her apartment. There was no cracked plaster or stains upon the ceiling. The air didn’t smell somehow stale and moldy all at once.
Because she was in Nikolas Dupont’s spare room, and she was one of the seven Favored in the Objet d’Art.
She flopped back.
