“Free bread?”
A woman with black hair plaited in a neat braid down her back canted her sharp chin. The golden rings pierced up her ears shimmered, matching the same gold on all their Favored chef coats. Berina Savi, her name tag read.
“You’re in the running to lead our Société, and your first act would be… bread?” She sneered.
“Berina.” A man Elara’s height, which was astonishingly short, stepped into the circle. She knew him immediately. “Let’s not be rude.”
Hector Vidal, one of the greatest chefs Anespérer had ever seen, was defending her. Elara remembered the first time her mother had sneaked home a slice of galette from his shop. They’d shared it together, picking each flavor and texture apart to find out what made it perfect.
He was older now than on the poster in her bedroom. His deep brown skin was still bright, but it bore heavy wrinkles—mostly around his mouth, which matched the smile that seemed to come so easily. His hair was cut close and mostly gray, and his hands—still strong—tremored a bit at his sides.
“None of this is a joke,” Berina snarled, turning on Elara again. “People wouldkillto take your place.”
The others were staring at her now.
She hadn’t expected to be backed into a corner before the competition even started.
“Many across the riverkillfor a loaf of bread,” she said, “and maybe I didn’t ask for this.”
She regretted the words immediately.
Berina scoffed, face twisted in disgust. “What a waste.”
Hector pressed a hand on Elara’s shoulder. “Forgive Chef Berina. I think it’s fair to say she’s our most ambitious competitor this year.”
“It’s not a bad thing,” Berina argued.
“No one’s saying it is.”
Berina considered him as if she might fight back, but she decided against it, instead offering a curt, respectful nod to Hector before spinning on her heel. Three other chefs followed after her.
Elara exhaled. “What the hell was that?”
Hector rubbed his smooth chin. “Berina has had to fight more than most. I think you know this already, but Anespérer is slow to adapt tonew cultures. For example, Vasomarian cuisine can now be found only because a few chefs crawled out of their own egos to try paella and realized the wonder of flavors that exist beyond our shallow city. Now imagine someone with roots from Taravol trying to do the same.”
Elara had never tasted either of the cuisines, but she knew it had taken a while for the city to accept the bold flavors and spices of Vasomar. She’dneverheard of a place serving Taravol’s food.
“Berina pushed for years to make Souverain Lisette Plouffe see the value of her ingredients and flavors.” Hector smiled at the woman now standing apart from the others, fingers twiddling anxiously.
“She could do that as Souverain,” Elara said.
“And open up trade with Taravol, which Anespérer has sorely neglected.”
Elara closed her eyes. “And I’m the ass who said free bread.”
Hector patted her shoulder again. “People wouldn’t mind that decree either. Hector Vidal.”
Elara stared at his extended hand before taking it, cursing her sweaty palms.
“I know. I stole a magied poster advertising your newest restaurant when I was a kid.”
He laughed, warm and rich. “I’m honored. Us old guard don’t get much respect these days.”
“Nonsense,” a lilting voice called out from the refreshments table. “You’re the fan favorite this year, I think.”
“Ah. Chef Fiona. Another rising star in Arts Culinaires.”
Fiona was young, maybe a few years older than Chantal, but she carried herself with the poise of royalty. Her red hair was braided into a crown, and her pale skin would easily burn if today’s competition was outdoors as the current setup suggested.
