Gaetan was the first step to climbing her way up.
In a pan she combined milk, sugar, and butter.
She rushed back to the pantry, scanning and skimming. Choux pastrywasn’t enough. It had to sing. It had to pop. It had to… aha! She found a small vial tucked near the back, almost hidden except for the scant pinch of shimmering embers. Blister bark was one of the rarest ingredients, and this was a measly portion, but she could draw the magie out.
The granules dissipated into the steaming liquid. To this, she added flour and stirred with a wooden spoon until it came together into a thick dough.
Upon adding the eggs, she began to work her magie.
As an Aspirant, she shouldn’t be able to create anything worthwhile, but she’d had a great teacher. The key, her mother had taught her, was to imagine what you wanted that first bite to feel like. Powerful intention mixed with powerful emotions yielded powerful magie.
Mama had been more than some baker working the line. She’d accomplished what few Restes ever could: Professionnelle status—the middle tier of Arts Culinaires. Where Aspirants, like Elara, followed recipes for months on end, Professionnelles could create. Mama had been able to imbue tarts with memories, and infuse truth-telling magie into pillowy madeleines. Elara’s mother had the ability to carry people away from their troubles.
And there were plenty of troubles in the Restes.
Once the dough was cool enough, she poured it into a paper cone and squeezed even dollops onto a tray. With another sprinkle of sugar, she tossed the tray into the oven and started piping another set.
For the first time in two weeks, she felt perfectly at ease.
Until Lisette Plouffe started her speech again.
“The time has come to host…”
Except this time Elara’s thoughts snagged on the words glimmering at the bottom of the poster.
OBJETD’ARTCONTEST
Across Anespérer, twenty chefs will be invited to Maison de Guérison, where they will have one chance to impress the Counseil des Sept and earn a coveted spot as one of the seven finalists in Objet d’Art. Through three rigorous trials, finalists will have to display awe-inspiring talent, cutting-edge magie, and unshakable nerve if they want a chance at becoming the next Souverain des Arts Culinaires.
Invitations arriving soon.
Will you be one of the Favored?
Elara knew the truth: No Reste would ever be chosen.
But her previous boss… Had he thought, even for a moment, that she might have a chance of receiving one of those chef coats? Of being whisked away across the river to dine with the upper class and compete for a position the Counseil had no intention of giving to a Reste?
The rapid pulse of her heart doubled, not with the joy of creation but the fury of injustice. The timing was too perfect to be coincidence. Plouffe had died, she’d been kicked out the door, and the flyers had gone up. You couldn’t be a Favored if you weren’t working for Arts Culinaires, and you couldn’t maintain your status in a Société if you couldn’t keep a job.
Elara snorted.
Had she really been fired because her boss was threatened by her? What a fool.
When the dough ran out, she made a new batch. This one nearlyburned in the pot, and she beat it too hard against the sides of the bowl. She couldn’t stop glowering at the late Souverain’s prim face as she winked and smiled, as she mouthed those same damn words again and again and again…
The choux buns were done.
The first batch was perfect.
The second was lumpy and too crisp.
It might not be worthy of the Favored, but it’d do just fine for a forgotten bakery in the Restes.
She piled the buns into a basket, tossed her hair back, and put on her best smile for Gaetan. “There. The perfect little bite to spice things up around here. Quick. Simple. Brimming with magie.”
Gaetan eyed them. “We can’t afford those ingredients.”
“You will after people demand to have them.” She waltzed through the door to the front of house with her basket. “Specialty free pastries! One per customer.”
