“I’m getting ahead of myself! Let’s recap the wondrous Exposé of talent witnessed at Souverain Lafontaine’s château. First, a Professionnelle from Belleplace dazzled with…”
Despite the urge to wait around for what the crone had to say about Elouise, Nik refocused on the task at hand.
Gaetan’s Boulangerie was half the size of the others and twice as dingy, but it had the longest line, which stretched around the block. Mothers hugged their children to their hips, workers rubbed grime from their faces, and a few Aspirants from Arts Nécessaire or Arts Manufacturiers stayed quietly to themselves. Even if their uniforms were as faded as the Restes’s bleached clothes, they were different. Better off.
Nik excused himself up the line and into the building. People parted for his fresh cream chef’s coat and squared shoulders.
“Hey!” a wiry man behind the counter snapped. “These people have been waiting half the morning. Get to the back like the rest.”
Nik offered an apologetic smile. “I’m not here for a purchase. I wish to speak to the head baker.”
“We’re a bit busy for that.”
“I understand, but it’s about business in Le Cœur.”
That caught the grouch’s attention. His eyes narrowed before he shuffled away to the back.
The people exploded with complaints.
“My apologies,” Nik said. “It’ll take just a moment.”
The boulangerie was barely more than a place to make and sell bread. There were chairs and tables, but very few customers sat to read their papers or gnaw on their baguettes. The lighting was too dim for that. Itwasn’t for lack of windows. It was because one was covered in ash, the wood around the glass charred and sooty.
“You wanted to see me?” a gruff voice said.
“Yes, I’m looking for—”
Before him was the largest man he’d ever seen, both in height and muscle. Nik would have laid money he was a blacksmith if it weren’t for his dingy beige apron. The man’s fingers were gnarled with calluses and covered in burns, and scars stretched along his muscles, which bulged against his coat.
His mouth folded into a miserable frown beneath his graying ginger beard.
“I’m here as a reference call,” Nik continued, “for an applicant I’ve had to my bakery.”
“I’ve had the same employees for years now. You got the wrong place.”
He turned to go back to work.
“That’s strange,” Nik said, following, “because they claimed to know you. Elouise Auclair.”
It was a gamble. One that paid off.
The hitch in the man’s step would’ve been imperceptible to most. Weakness showed many signs: shifty eyes, pale cheeks, or… a softening of the shoulders in a very large, very guarded man.
“Auclair. Elouise Auclair?”
“The very same.”
The man turned back, and the change almost made Nik retreat a step. The aloof, drunken veneer had sharpened into something lethal, and he had a feeling those muscles could do much more than knead bread.
Those beady eyes searched Nik up and down before he said, “Come on.”
Nik followed through to the back and into a small broom closet. No, an office. The shelves were lined with recipe books, extra ingredients,and spare uniforms. Papers crowded the desk, many spilling over with blaring red ink:UNPAIDandOVERDUE. It made sense why the man had a collection of empty wine bottles spilling out from every corner.
“Gaetan Arnaud.” He offered his paw of a hand.
“Jean Escoffier.” Gaetan’s fist swallowed Nik’s, but it was gentle despite the calluses.
“Elouise never formally worked here. Happy to see she’s done well enough to end up in the Objet d’Art. Plouffe keeps babbling about her changing-faces act.”
