This hadnotbeen the plan.
But… the silk pillow pressed to her cheek and the quiet morning was almost enough to convince her it was a good one. Sun filtered through the lace curtains, warming the sage walls decorated in barely visible flowers. It wasn’t wallpaper. Someone had painstakingly painted each petal in gentle strokes, creating a wall of nature.
Elara got up and pulled aside the curtain, finding high stalks of lavender blooming in the window box. Nature was everywhere, which warred against her previous impressions of Nikolas Dupont. He was Arts Humains. His world was medicines, surgeries, and bones—not flowers and fine materials.
It was thinking of her Patron that pulled her from the warm sheets into last night’s dress and downstairs.
The kitchen is down the hall on the right, Nikolas had told her.I’ll see you there tomorrow.
Except he wasn’t there yet.
Rather than wait, she began opening cupboards. It would’ve beenirresponsible of her to not take stock of the tools and ingredients she’d be practicing with. If she just so happened to learn something more about Dupont in the meantime, well, that was a coincidence.
It didn’t take much snooping to realize Nikolas didnotascribe to the belief that the kitchen was the heart of a home. It was beautiful, sure, with painted tiles and shining pots and pans. But only the teakettle was burnt from use, and the cupboards held basic staples that she could work with today, but after? They’d need to go shopping.
For ready-to-eat foods, Nikolas had stale bread, cheese, and cured meats. If he ate at home, he did so like a mouse.
Never again. Not while she was here.
Elara dug for an apron that fit, washed her hands, and began her work.
The morning slipped by as she folded dough and butter into pillowy sheets, then cut them into neat triangles for croissants. Pastry wasn’t something she’d had much experience with, as it required tons of butter and an icebox.
Now she could do whatever she liked.
So she shaped and reshaped croissants and turnovers. When the oven was ready, she pulled a batch from the icebox and got started on the next thing—savory tarts. This morning was just as much about proving her worth to Nikolas as it was about practicing.
“Oh,” a voice said from the doorway.
“Good morning!” Elara spun with a tray of flaky croissants. “I hope you don’t mind, but I made some—”
It wasn’t Nikolas.
A tall girl barely older than Elara smiled back at her. Her dark skin glowed in the morning sunshine, and she radiated joy as brilliant as her honey-colored dress. She was a Professionnelle in Arts Spectacle. And oddly familiar, though Elara knew she’d never met anyone as beautiful or elegant before.
The girl leaned upon an intricately formed cane, tipping her pointed nose into the air. “It smells divine.”
“Thank you.” Elara set the tray on the counter. “I didn’t think anyone else would be here.”
“I didn’t know I’d be here until a very persistent boy wouldn’t leave my doorstep last night.” Her eyes settled on the fresh pastries. “May I?”
“Of course.” Elara turned, searching the cupboards for plates. “I’m practicing a new recipe, and I—”
The girl was already sinking into a steaming croissant. Her lithe form melted against the counter, eyes rolled back. “You made these? This morning?” She took another bite, crumbs speckling her beautiful dress. “If the whole Souverain thing doesn’t work out, you can come cook for me anytime.”
Elara laughed. “I’ll hold you to it when I lose.”
“Nonsense. These are better than Boulangerie Pascal!” She went directly to a cupboard and removed a mug for the café Elara had brewed earlier.
“Do you live here?” Elara asked.
“From time to time. Nik keeps a bedroom open for me.” She took a deep sip. “Forgive my manners. Chantal Maran.”
It was the name that made it all click. Elara had seen this girl on posters that had made their way into the Restes, contraband from little thieves longing for a taste of life across the river. Except in those posters, Chantal had been dressed in a tutu that shimmered like starlight as her likeness swirled upon her toes.
“You’retheChantal Maran. The city’s prima ballerina.”
“I was. Yes.” She didn’t elaborate, choosing to take another drag of café.
