Elara took it as a sign not to pry.
“You said Nikolas keeps a bed open,” she said instead. “It sounds like an inn.”
“An inn for those who might need an escape. Nik was the assistant to our onsite doctor, and he was there when I fell.” She tapped her cane. “And he was there when my parents rejected me for being broken.”
“Oh.” That didn’t sound like the same boy from the carriage.
“Anyway,” Chantal continued, “Nik asked me to help you prepare for the trickier parts of upper-class Anespérerian society.”
“Like how to resist attacking anyone who looks at me like shit stuck to their boots?”
She laughed and shook her head. “Where’s the fun in that? No, I’ll teach you how to redirect the conversation so you can insult them in front of all their friends without them knowing.”
“Perfect.” Elara grinned.
The timer rang on the oven.
“Though Nik told me your performance last night will have you in the spotlight for some time.” Chantal plucked a turnover from Elara’s passing tray.
“I still can’t tell if they loved it or hated it.”
“Tell me about it. I once put them to sleep with a solo. Now, why do you want to become the next Souverain of Arts Culinaires?”
Elara returned to slicing shallots for the tarts. “That won’t be happening.”
“Because you don’t believe it will?”
“Because I don’t want it.”
Chantal was quiet. “Then why in the world are you here?”
Elara arranged the vegetables in even layers: potatoes, onions, and mushrooms. “I want someone to pick me for an apprenticeship so I can become a Directeur and go back to the Restes and open a shop. That’s it.”
Chantal sucked jam from her finger. “You have an opportunity tobecome one of the most powerful artists in the city, a leader who could dictate new laws for the Restes and all of Arts Culinaires. A woman who could open doors that were previously closed, and all you want is… a bakery?”
It sounded silly when she put it like that. But it was the best she could hope for. It wasmorethan she’d thought possible a week ago.
Besides, she was a baker, not a leader.
“A sensible choice if you ask me,” a new voice called from the doorway.
Again, it was not Nikolas but another beautiful member of Arts Spectacle.
“You were there last night,” she said.
“Indeed I was.” They held out an artfully manicured hand. “Blai Lozano. Costume designer and makeup artist. You may have heard of me?”
Elara had not.
They scoffed. “For a native of a city built on art, you severely lack culture.”
“I’m sorry,” Elara sniped. “I must have confused you for all the other costume designers in the Restes. My bad.”
They sneered and clutched the frills of their yellow robe tighter against their throat as they took in the wretched mess across the counters.
“Are you feeding an army?” they asked.
Chantal strode between them to sit at the table near the window. “Forgive Blai. Vasomarians don’t quite understand how prickly we Anespérerians can be.”
